Embers of Black, Part 1

by Teraven

The first part in a work under construction. It is a story about a growing evil in the wild northlands of Faerun. It's a little messed up since I had to convert it from a *.doc file to html.

Chapter 1

The wind came howling across the frozen plains, sounding like a beast possessed as it tore at the man's clothing, trying to rip his cloak from around his body and pierce him with its needle-thin blades of ice. Muttering to himself, the green-eyed man drew the hood of his cloak lower, hunkering down to seek a little bit more warmth from his horse as he rode. Shifting in his saddle slightly, he turned to peer at his companion.

Sitting upright in her saddle, the woman seemed little affected by the blistering cold. Her only concession was a scarf wrapped around her head, leaving only her eyes uncovered. The light brown eyes flicked across the man's and then resumed searching the tundra, keeping alert for any signs of danger.

As if any sane creature would be out in weather like this, the man thought to himself. Still, he had to admit that his companion's careful attentiveness had saved their skin more than once on the long trek from Waterdeep. He shifted in his saddle again, trying to ignore the screaming wind. The clink of mail came faintly in the air before the sound was ripped away.

Suddenly, the woman blazed into motion, rolling off her startled horse and snagging her short bow from its case hanging from the saddle. She drew an arrow from the quiver hanging beside the case, nocking it but not drawing.
"What is it?" the man asked, sliding off his own horse. He moved nearer the woman, reaching over his shoulder and drawing a massive two-handed blade from its scabbard. Holding the gleaming steel weapon in front of his with both hands, he turned his head, eyes and ears trying to pick up whatever it was that had alerted his companion.

For a long moment, the woman was silent, her eyes scanning the area. In a flash, she had her bow up and loosed an arrow straight into the wind. The man tracked its flight and saw it lodge in an oddly-shaped snowdrift.

All at once, it seemed the snow erupted around the two. The snowdrift the woman had hit sprang up, catching her second arrow and tumbling back to the frozen ground, its shriek carrying even over the roar of the wind. The man got a glimpse of a pale blue emaciated body, overlarge limbs, and a pair of squat wings. His eyes widened.

"Ice mephits!" the woman hissed, naming the demons that were closing in on them.

The man smile with grim humor. "It must mean we're getting close, then," he roared over the gale. He hefted his blade, turning in a full circle to survey the fiends closing in. "Torm guide me true!" he yelled to the heavens, his blade swinging down to meet the closest ice mephit.

As five feet of steel clove through the first creatue, the woman leaped into motion, dropping her short bow and drawing a pair of long knives from her belt. She rolled away from one mephit, its claws raking at her. She recovered quickly, lunging forward and gutting the creature with her left knife, her right flicking out to open up another imp's throat, sending it over backwards with a strangled gurgle.

With one flank opened up, the two took the opening, darting through the hole in the trap so that the rest of the ice mephits were coming at them from the front instead of having them surrounded.

With another roar to Torm, God of Duty, the man charged the imps, his blade cleaving in a mighty arc that split two of the beasts in half before lodging in the ribs of a third.

Following at his heels, the woman dove between two of the mephits, her blades striking back and down, each one finding a kidney. She jerked the knives loose, turning to the last two demons.

Having seen their fellows dispatched so easily, the two remaining fiends turned to run. One got five strides before a dagger found its back, the other got eight.

Stropping the icy blue fiend blood from his massive blade with a scrap of fabric, the man stepped beside the woman, leaning down so she could hear him. "Nice dagger work, there."

The corners of the woman's eyes crinkled, whether from a smile or a scowl, he couldn't tell. "Yes," she replied, walking over to retrieve her daggers from the dead imps. Grumbling, the man sheathed his blade, pulling his cloak tight around his as the wind, forgotten in the heat of battle, seemed to redouble its efforts to freeze him solid where he stood.

The woman brushed past him on her way back to the horses. For just a moment, the smell of lavender soap came to him on the wind. Where did she find time to bathe in the last weeks? the man wondered. Shrugging, he turned and strode back to his horse, but the woman stopped him from mounting.

"This way. I saw someplace we can stay tonight. We won't make it before nightfall, and there may be more mephits out here…or worse." She held his gaze a moment before turning and leading her mare in a path perpendicular to the one they had been taking all day. Scanning the area one last time, the man stifled a yawn. The cold was making him sleepy and he did indeed want to get in before it got dark.

Taking the reins of his bay, he followed the woman's black mare, trying to fill his mind with prayers to Torm as he tried not to watch the sway of the woman's hips as she walked ahead of him.

The shelter was a lean-to that had been built up against a large mound of rock. The space it provided was easily large enough for the both of them and their horses, though it was a bit cozy.

The man spread his horse blanket on the ground, near the small fire they had built from a store of branches they had found in the back. It seemed as though the shelter was used quite often, though it hadn't seen use in the past year or two from what he would see. He dropped his saddle down, using it as a pillow as he stretch out, trying to get comfortable in his mail shirt as he waited for the fire to warm his chilled body. Stripping off his heavy leather gloves and tucking them behind his belt, he stretch his hands out towards the fire. Slowly, feeling began to return to his numbed fingertips.

Across the fire from him, the woman sat cross-legged on her own saddle blanket, unwinding the cloth from her head. Rich brown hair spilled over her shoulders, framing her angular face. Her eyes brushed his as she reached into her belt pouch, pulling out a small strap of leather to tie her hair back. "Food?" she asked.

Rolling over, the man opened his saddlebags, drawing out his last skin of water and a package of oiled paper. He tossed the icy water to the woman as he unfolded the paper, drawing out a length of hard sausage and a bit of cheese. Sighing, he tossed the empty package onto the fire, causing a billowing black cloud of smoke to waft up through the hole in the ceiling as the paper burned.

"This is the last of it." He handed the cheese to her. Drawing a heavy dagger from his belt, he cut the sausage in half, giving her the larger portion. If she noticed his smaller portion or the fact that he gave her all the cheese, she made no comment as she wolfed her food down like a half-starved jackal.

Frowning slightly at the woman, he ate his bit of sausage slowly, savoring it. If they were right and their destination was only a few hours' ride, they would be eating well tomorrow night. If not…

He stared at the gnawed hunk of meat in his hand. If not, this may be the last bit of anything I ever eat again. Grunting to himself, the man finished off the end of sausage. He caught the woman's eyes and nodded slightly as he rolled over to sleep, letting her deal with taking the first watch. That'll show her for not even giving thanks for her meal. The simple selfishness brought a short pang of guilt. He quickly said a prayer of forgiveness to Torm, hoping his god hadn't been slighted by his actions. When no ravening horde of plague-bearing rodents appeared out of thin air to gnaw on his toes, he relaxed.

With one final thought of their destination and the fire filling his body with a pleasant warmth, the man drifted off into slumber.

Sometime later, the man awoke. The light from the fire against the back wall of the shelter was quite a bit dimmer, showing that he had been asleep for a few hours. He was about to sit up and relieve his companion when he heard a soft sound, the whisper of wool on leather. The faint smell of lavender came to him.

He rolled over, facing the fire, his mail clinking lightly as he moved. The sound stopped. Keeping his eyes closed, he waited for it to return, thinking he was caught between the waking world and the dream world. After a few moments, the noise resumed. Opening one eye, he looked across the fire from him.

The woman was sitting with her back to him, clad in only a simple linen shift. She seemed to be running a piece of fabric over her leathers and clothing. Ah! the man thought. That's why she always smells like lavender…she rubs her clothes down every night.

He shifted slightly, his mail making a faint noise. Holding his breath, the man waited. But this time, the woman didn't cease her work.

"Is it time for your watch?" she asked without looking up, catching him completely offguard.

"Ah, y-y-yes," he stammered. There was a soft sound that almost reminded him of a chuckle.

The woman finished up her task and set her things aside, laying on her back beside the fire. Folding her hands behind her head, she stretch, arching her back up from the blanket. The man's eyes popped wide before he shifted his gaze from either her breasts straining against the fabric of her shift or where the hem of the garment rode up her thighs. The fire seemed a safe bet.

After a moment, he sensed her move again and he raised his eyes from the fitfully flickering flames, trying to blink away the spots that swam in front of his eyes. When his vision finally cleared, he saw the woman was staring him in the eyes, a faint smile on her lips.

"You shouldn't stare into the fire like that. Next, I will have to remind you not to watch the sun through a spyglass, either." There was just a touch of amusement in her silky voice.

The man blushed deeply, hoping she wouldn't notice with his windburned skin or the dim light of the fire. "It is not proper for a man to stare," he stated, trying to hold onto a shred of his dignity.

There was an amused snort from across the fire. "No one can tell you at what you can or cannot look, only yourself, paladin." With that, the woman rolled over, the chill in the air seeming not to bother her as she fell asleep, her back to the fire.

Sighing softly, the man moved into a kneeling position. He quietly uttered a prayer to Torm to watch over the woman's sleep and to help him watch over her during the night. With that finished, he stood, moving his way to the rock wall, where he could stand fully and stretch. He pushed his fists into the small of his back as he strained, trying to work out the kinks he had gotten from sleeping in his armor.

As he stood there, he studied the stone. It looked to even to be natural, and, as he looked closer, he caught sight of faint markings on the wall. Leaning in close, he furrowed his brow, studying the markings more fully.

Tracing one blocky rune with his finger, the man let loose a soft whistle. Dwarven, it looks like. And very, very old. He knew there hadn't been dwarves up here, near the glacier, in hundreds or even thousands of years. Something from the older times…

Tracing the lines of the runic script, he saw that they seemed to outline a rectangle in the stone, almost like a door. Except, try as he might, he could find no joining, no edge, no crack that would tell of a hidden doorway. Giving a mental shrug, he turned away from the wall.

Catching sight of the woman stretched out beside the dying fire, clad in only her shift, the man bent down, picking up his blanket. He carefully edged around the fire, draping the heavy wool over her as she slumbered. She shifted slightly, coming partially awake. Turning slightly, she looked up at him, her face relaxed into a sincere and thankful smile before sleep took her again.

You have a knack for picking odd companions, old boy, he told himself. Which wasn't exactly true, since it was she who had originally approached him and insisted to come with him as he was preparing to leave the Temple of Torm in Waterdeep. Why anyone would want to go to Reghed Glacier was beyond him. He was being sent to look into rumors of gathering evil. She…he didn't know. She was a puzzle that he could not figure out. Distant, aloof, and quiet. The smile that night was the first true smile he had seen from her in the weeks they had journeyed.

She had rolled onto her back again, enabling the man to study her profile. She's young, the man thought to himself. Twenty-two or twenty-three winters. Which put her about his own age.

The light from the floundering fire softened the angles of her face, making her otherwise cold and distant features warm and inviting. She is beautiful, he thought to himself, mentally tracing the bridge of her thin nose with a fingertip.

He reached up, his fingers brushing his stubbled chin. And what a sight I must be. Chuckling softly, he drew up a mental picture of himself, his fine features and normal light coloring at odds with the harsh red of the windburn and the three days' worth of stubble.

Running his fingers through his shoulder-length brown hair, he settled back against his saddle, humming quietly as he let his mind drift, waiting for the coming of dawn so they could resume their trek.

The wind was gone when they set out the next morning leaving a frozen silence that seemed as if any sound would case it to shatter. Breathing a prayer of thanks, the man stifled a yawn behind his gloves fist, still a bit groggy from the hour nap he had snatched after the woman had awakened and began preparing her things.

He stepped into the stirrup, throwing a leg over his horse. He slipped as he muscles didn't work quite as they should, barely managing to keep from plunging over the other side of the horse and onto the frozen ground below.

"You should pay more attention and sleep less," the woman chided as she rode past him, the scarf wound once more around her head. Grumbling, the man kicked his bay to follow her mare, letting her lead.

She pulled a map from her saddlebag, spreading it in front of her and making a mark with a piece of charcoal. "This is where we are now." She traced her fingertip an inch or so to the northeast. "And this is Develor. We should be there by noon."

Develor…It seemed to be ages ago that he had left Waterdeep for this icy hell, travelling across plains and swamps, through forests and mountains. And now he was almost there. He couldn't contain a grin of eagerness for the path ahead, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head that kept reminded him that so far, all he had done was managed to get where he was supposed to go, nevermind his task and the return trip.

With spirits high, he rode behind the woman, whistling an old marching tune as his horse plodded across the tundra.

Chapter 2

"I dun care iff'n yer mother was a priestess o'Tymora! Y'can't win tha' many hands inna row, Ix!" The one-eyed man across the table snarled, scraping his chair back and getting unsteadily to his feet as he slapped his cards down onto the table.

The one he had addressed stood also, not showing the slightest tremor despite drinking as much as the other man. Cold silver eyes stared out from a pale face framed in white hair, watching One Eye warily. He shifted slightly, his combat leathers creaking as he rested his right hand on the pommel of the sheathed longsword at his left hip.

Silver eyes narrowed. "My friend, you would call me a cheater, yes?" the one named Ix said quietly, his accent odd and strong in his soft voice. One Eye staggered around the table, leaning in to push the one named Ix roughly, knocking him back a pace.

"A cheater an' a coward!" the drunk crooned.

The harsh planes of the Ix's face hardening to steel. "A coward, am I?" His hand slipping around the hilt of the sword at his waist.

One Eye swayed a bit but his answer was loud and coherent enough to draw the attention of everyone else in the makeshift tavern. "Aye! A coward an' a cheat! An' y'know wha' we do t'cheats!" The man's hand slipped to the dagger at his belt, but was met halfway by something cold and hard. Blinking, the man looked down, befuddled by the length of metal protruding from his gut. His eyes followed the steel to a hand, up an arm, and then to a pair of silver eyes. Gasping silently, One Eye tumbled backwards, the blade pulling from his stomach as he fell, still not fully comprehending what had happened. Then he died.

Silver eyes roamed the crowd of onlookers, every gaze flinching away. No one could meet the eyes of the pale-skinned man with metal for eyes and snow for hair. He seemed even more foreign and alien in the midnight black leathers he wore, odd runes the color of blood eteched across his cuirass.

Without a word, the man named Ix bent down, cleaning his blade on the dead man's shirt before sheathing it. With one last, lingering look at the others crowded in the tent-turned-tavern, he turned on his heel and strode out into the harsh daylight.

A spike of cold air, a blessing compared to the gale of the day before, stabbed at him as he stood on the street, blinking his silver eyes, trying to clear away the gloom from the makeshift tavern. After his vision had grown accustomed to the light, Ix swept his gaze left and right, taking in the area around him.

The tent town that had sprung up around the trading outpost of Develor was filled for the most part with mercenaries, rowdies, and camp followers. The clang of a smiths hammer on anvil came from behind a nearby wagon. A ways down the trodden path, a group of women, probably soldiers' wives, washed laundry in a frigid stream. Drunken singing from the other way drew a look, three swaying mercenaries bawling a marching tune at the top of their lungs.

Ix's eyes took in all of these sights and focused to the north, towards the gate of the city of Develor itself. Today wasn't the first time he had to kill someone since he had arrived; it probably wouldn't be his last. Turning, he stroke purposefully to the city, moving like a stalking panther.

He was tired of sleeping on the ground like all of these…people. Tonight, he would sleep in a real bed, in one of the inns in the city. Though the rooms were sure to be full, he was certain he could find some way to free up a bed.

The tavern was bright, late morning sunlight streaming in through the open windows, bringing with it a chill that was only partially beaten back by the fire roaring in the hearth. Silver eyes studied the others in the taproom as Ix leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the table as he sipped now and again from his mug of warm ale.

This wasn't a high-class drinking pit, more a place for working men and day laborers. Men who could ill-afford to lose coin in a game of chance or skill. Still, the ale was good and the fire warm enough for him, so Ix stayed, lounging in the bright sunlight, shining eyes staring hard at any who tried to share his table.

Tomorrow was the day when the expedition would be moving out. Lord Ithad's couriers and clerks had been busy filling out the lists of those would were joining the expedition. The old man is a fool, Ix thought. Every man or woman who had signed up was paid one-half month's wage on the spot. He expected that many of those who signed up would simply skip out, taking their front pay and disappearing before the expedition left. The thought hadn't occurred to Ix himself, as he had never broken a contract once taken.

His mind slipped from the present, going back over the campaigns in which he had fought, the many battles, the foes slain in combat. He drifted over battlefields where men had killed men for money, for gods, for land, and for glory. Though he knew he wasn't one of the best, Ix knew he was one of the most dependable. Once bought, his sword swung only one way and couldn't be turned by money or anything else.

As it always did whenever he lost himself in thought, his mind drifted back to that night, the night his clan had been butchered by a band of superstitious elves. Elves, he thought with venom.

Stifled giggling drew him back to the present, his eyes flicking over a table where a group of stoneworkers had been sitting earlier. Now, there were two women, looking at him. One, pale as an ivory carving with hair as dark as night, leaned to the other, a woman with chestnut hair and dark, nearly black eyes, and whispered something. Another fit of giggles took them as they watched Ix.

Not women; girls, he thought to himself. He scowled at them, which only made them giggle harder. The black-haired one turned her face to her companion to say something to her, revealing a pointed ear sticking through her hair. Elves! His scowl deepened, his eyes flashing murderously.

Slowly, Ix dropped his feet to the floor, his hand clenching the mug. The creak of tormented wood came to his ears as the mug threatened to break in his grip. Slamming the mug onto the table, ale sloshing over the side, he got to his feet, heading for the doorway after flashing a knife-sharp glower at the two girls.

As he passed their table, the dark-eyed girl caught his hand in her. "Please, sir, don't take offense at my friend and I." She smiled up at him, her eyes full of good humor.

Slitted silver eyes returned her look. Ix's lips twisted into a scowl again. Then, suddenly, his face went blank. "As you wish," he said, his voice barely carrying to the two. He went back to his seat, thought for a moment, then dragged it to the table where the two girls sat. Despite all the blood on his hands, he had never killed a woman, but tormenting these two would at least bring some small amount of satisfaction.

The dark-eyed girl blinked at him as he sat across from them while the one with raven hair simply smiled at him. She extended a pale, slim hand to him.

"I am Illandra," she said, her voice musical. When he didn't take her proferred hand, she gestured at her companion with it. "And this lump is Corenne. Called Corenne the Dark by some." The one named Corenne snorted softly at the last, then turned a radiant smile to him.

His gaze taking in both of them, Ix leaned forward slightly. "I am Ixdaeliovadi of clan Insudramata, last blood of a dead people, slayer of elves, and mercenary." Both the girls' eyes widened at the 'slayer of elves' part. He had thrown that in for good measure to keep them off balance. "Now," he continued, "perhaps you would care to tell me of that which you were speaking, yes?"

The pale one, Illandra, recovered the quickest. "We were merely wondering where someone of such a color as you were from, good Ix. We meant no disrespect."

A white eyebrow arched. "That is humorous?"

"No, I suppose it isn't." Illandra swallowed then took a deep breath to calm herself. "Please, we meant no disrespect."

Ix thought a moment. "You two, you have a room here in the city, yes?"

Corenne spoke then. "No, good sir. We had planned to camp in the outskirts. We have little coin left to us." Illandra frowned slightly at her before turning to smile slightly at him.

Drawing the long knife from his belt, Ix toyed idly with it, the girls' eyes following it. "You will come with me, then, tonight." He grinned evilly at them. "In recompense for your actions." Illandra opened her mouth, about to protest. The knife slammed into the table, burying itself deep into the seasoned wood. "It would not do for this incident to get…messy, yes?"

Illandra gulped and nodded. Corenne merely stared at him, her eyes filling with fire.

Bracing his boots against the floor, Ix stood, using his upward momentum to pull the knife loose from the table. "Then come. The room, I will take you there now. See that you are…settled." The girls' unease was palpable, bringing a twisted smile to his lips.

The room was walled in oak panneling and was furnished sparingly, with only a bed pushed against one wall and a small writing table against the other. A brick fireplace rested in the back, which was a mere five paces from the door. A tiny window let in a stream of sunlight, throwing a rectangle of radiance on the bare wood floor.

Checking to make sure the room was empty, Ix gestured to the foot of the bed. "Set your things there." The girls entered behind him, setting their saddlebags and packs on the floor.

Ix motioned for them to move to the center of the room without speaking. Quickly, he patted them down, looking for weapons. He tucked Corenne's belt knife into his own satchel, as well as Illandra's. Discovering a hidden throwing dagger strapped to her forearm, he pushed up her sleeve and removed the sheath, tossing that into his satchel, as well.

Moving over to the bed, Ix stripped the bedding from it, piling the girls' things in the middle. They watched him curiously.

Turning back to them, he smiled wickedly. "Now," he murmured, his voice soft and deadly. "I want you to remove everything you are wearing and put it there." He gestured to the pile of belongings.

Corenne gasped and looked ready to faint. Illandra's eyes widened. For the first time, Ix noticed their coloring, deep blue like the ocean.

Silently, her face flushed crimson, Corenne began stripping, first pulling off her boots and tossing them onto the pile, then, after a quick glance at him, pulled off the pale yellow tunic she had been wearing. Ix let his eyes linger on bare torso, causing her to blush even more furiously as she removed her black leggings, setting them down and moving back, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt at modesty.

Illanda, on the other hand, was a model of regal coolness as she removed her shoes and slipped out of her simple white gown. Her only reaction was a slight shiver at the feel of the cold air on her exposed skin. She stepped back, joining Corenne and making no attempt to cover herself, her arms hanging at her sides.

Letting his eyes roam over the two for several long moments, Ix smiled slightly, then nodded. He bent down, tying the bedding in a knot and slinging the bundle over his shoulder. He opened the door, which caused Corenne to squeal as she tried to hide behind the table, in case anyone had been in the hall. It was empty.

With one last glance over his shoulder, he left the room, locking the door behind him with the key, which he slipping into his belt pouch.

In the common room, he left the bundle with the innkeeper, a smiling, bald man who resembled a scarecrow. "Take this to my room in the morning," Ix said, patting the bundle. He slipped the man an extra gold coin, which caused the innkeeper's eyes to widen. "And make sure it is your wife that takes it, yes? I will be back tomorrow to see that you carried out my instructions." With a smile and a look that chilled the innkeeper's blood, the silver-eyed man stalked out of the inn, curious stares following him out.

Even more stares followed him as he strode back in a moment later to have a quick word with the confused innkeeper.

"I can't believe he did this to us!" Corenne fumed, pacing back and forth in the room, rubbing her hands over her body to try to stay warm. Sunset had brought a rising chill that the small fire was having little luck driving away.

Illandra, sitting on the bed which had been stripped to its simple mattress, replied, "It could have been worse." Her eyes caught her friend's, who nodded.

"Yes, but still…!" She didn't finish that statement. With a sigh, she sat beside her friend, wrapping her arm around the other girl's shoulders and leaning against her for warmth. "He could have at least left a blanket," she muttered.

A knock at the door sounded, causing both of them to jump. "Wh-who is it?" Illandra hesitantly called. The only reply was the click of the lock on the door. Both girls watched as the doorknob slowly turned. With agonizing slowness, the door crept open halfway, then stopped.

There was a sharp thump as a booted foot struck the door, knocking it open, bouncing it off the wall. A familiar white-haired figure stumbled through, the blanket-wrapped bundle of their belongings in his arms.

Dropping the bundle to the floor, Ix turned and closed the door, locking it again. He faced the girls, studying them, which caused them both to blush this time. "I hope you learned your lesson," he whispered quietly, his voice rustling like silk on steel.

Corenne nodded, wide-eyed. A disdainful sniff was Illandra's answer, which prompted an elbow in the ribs from her companion. Ix nodded, satisfied. Bending down, he untied the blanket, revealing more than just the things the two had placed in there earlier.

"Your clothes, you did not seem to have more than just one change each, yes? I took the liberty of purchasing more clothes for each of you. He handed two small bundles to Corenne and a larger one to Illandra.

Untying hers, Corenne drew out two pairs of leggings, one tan and one white, of a similar cut as her others, though of fine linen instead of wool. The other bundle held a purple silk tunic and a long-sleeved white silk blouse.

Illandra, meanwhile, had drawn forth a hooded cloak of crimson velvet, the lining trimmed in soft white rabbit fur. Also, a black wool dress with divided skirts for riding lay in her bundle, of a very fine cut and with elegant silver embroidery along the hems and around the neckline. She looked up, her eyes meeting Ix's. "Thank you," she said softly.

Smiling, his eyes softening a bit, Ix explained, "I thought I was a bit harsh on you, yes? These are no full apology, but a recompense, in part, for my mistreatment of you." He knelt down beside the pile of items still on the blanket and dug around a moment. "I saw that each of your carried a spellbook, but there was no many spells, so I took the liberty of purchasing these." He dug out two books, one bound with crimson leather, which he handed to Corenne, and the other bound with black-lacquered wood, which he handed to Illandra.

Flipping through the books, the two friends exchanged a wide-eyed look. Each of them held a small fortune in her hands. Shaking her head, Illandra turned to face the silver-eyed man again. "No matter what you did, we most certainly do not deserve this."

Ix replied with a smile as he pulled an object from the bottom of the pile, narrow and roughly four feet long, wrapping in cloth. He handed this to Corenne. "I saw your hands and noticed they beat the calluses of a swordsman, yet I did not see you had a sword, yes? I figured that would serve you well."

Gingerly unwrapping the object, Corenne's jaw dropped at the sight of the item. A fine wooden scabbard, lacquered crimson to match the spellbook that lay in her palms. She ran her fingers over the hilt of the blade, steel wrapped in soft, supple leather. Drawing it a hand's length, she gazed at the silvery steel, running her thumb lightly over the razored edge. Wincing slightly, shed sucked on her thumb, using the cloth to wipe away a droplet of blood from the blade. "I do not deserve such a weapon." Her eyes met Ix's.

The smile not leaving his features, Ix bent and retrieved one last item from the pile, a small, unadorned box. He opened it, revealing a brass ring seated there. This, he offered to Illandra. "This is a ring that will enable you to draw deeper on your magic reserves, yes? To let you call forth more magic than which you would normally be able."

The elf maiden took the ring, slipping it onto her finger. A jolt ran from her stomach upwards, though from emotion or the ring, she couldn't tell. The man had spent a fortune on her and her companion, of that she had no doubt.

Deep blue eyes locked with bright silver eyes. "Please, sir…" She trailed off, at a loss for words.

Reaching out, Ix stroked her cheek gently with his fingertips, a smile playing over his lips. "You must be cold." He stood, his fingers trailing over her cheek, brushing lightly against her lips as he moved to the fireplace, tossed a small log onto the crackling flames.

For a long moment, he stood, staring into the dancing flames. "Get some rest," he finally murmured. "Tomorrow, you both ride with me."

Chapter 3

The man slipped through the eastward-facing doorway of the small stone church quietly, making sure not to disturb the figure clad in a pale rose-colored robe who kneeling in front of the icon of the Morninglord. It was just barely sunrise and there was just the two of them in the building.

He knew a temple to Lathander Morninglord, God of Renewal and Rebirth, wasn't the place to pray to Torm, yet he felt comforted somewhat by the gentle nature of the deity. He approached the altar, trying to avoid drawing notice from the person a few paces in front of him.

Kneeling brought a slight jingle of mail and creak of leather. Holding his breath, the man waited to see if he had broken the praying figure's concentration. Deciding finally that he hadn't, he bowed his head, offering first a prayer to the God of Loyalty before giving thanks to the Morninglord, as well. After a moment, he said a short prayer to Tempus, God of War, and Tymora, Goddess of Luck. Having a few more gods on my side wouldn't be a bad thing, he thought.

As he rose to leave, the figure in front of him rose as well. Blinking, the man began to apologize. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb your meditations."

The robed figure turned and the man found himself staring down into a pair of sky blue eyes. "Do not worry, traveller. All are welcome in the House of the Morninglord." A soft smile arched a pair of full lips. Shoulder-length blonde hair framed a soft face. A thin, pert nose, combined with the set of her eyes and her expressive lips, gave her a tender, if somewhat mischevious, quality. "I am Ashera, Cleric of Lathander." She offered her hand to him.

Stripping off his leather gauntlets, the man took her small hand in his larger, bowing low and brushing his lips against the back of her hand. Straightening, a faint blush in his cheeks, his eyes held hers as he replied, "I am Talomanes Indurian, Paladin of Torm." His mind began babbling about the beauty of the woman before him and it was all he could do to clench his jaw and keep from making a complete idiot out of himself to her by doing something so foolish as giving his mouth over to his mind.

The cleric mistook the clenching of his jaw, pulling away from his slightly. "I am afraid I cannot stay long," she explained softly. "My duty is to accompany the priest of this church. He travels with Lord Ithad's expedition."

The man named Talomanes' face lit up, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "I am also to accompany the expedition. The Temple felt my blade might be needed and asked me to report back when the expedition returned." He paused, an idea flashing through his mind. "Perhaps you would care to accompany myself and my companion?" He tried to keep the hope from showing too much in his voice.

Ashera smiled again. "I would like that, I believe. Let me gather my things." She turned from the paladin, calling softly. "Yerik? I'm leaving now. Bring me my things?"

After a moment, a dark-haired boy came through a doorway at the back, carrying a pack and a set of saddlebags. He struggled under the weight so Talomanes stepped forward, bending down to lift the saddlebags and sling them over his shoulder, pausing to heft the journey pack from the lad as well. From closer up, he guess the boy was perhaps twelve or thirteen, but he couldn't say for sure. "How do you do?" he asked as he smiled down at the boy.

"Fine, sir!" A smile lit up his face and his eyes widened as he caught sight of the paladin's mail and the hilt of the sword poking over his left shoulder. "Wow! You must be a knight!" He stepped in, poking Talomanes in the ribs and watched the mail move under his finger. "Wait until Jerral hears about this!" Laughing, the boy began to run for the door.

As he passed Ashera, a slim hand caught him by the arm. "Take care of the churck while I'm gone," she warned him, her voice full of mock sterness and her lips pressed into a frown that curved curiously upward at the ends.

Yerik merely snorted, leaning in to poke the cleric. "You take care of my knight, too! Don't let a dragon eat him before I can show him to Jerral!" He broke free from her grasp, throwing one last beaming smile at the paladin before slipping out the doorway and disappearing into the street.

Ashera stood staring after him for a moment before turning back to Talomanes. "This way, Sir Knight." She motioned for him to follow her, a slight smile on her lips. Outside and around the side of the church she led him. Underneath a small overhang was a bay gelding, nosing idly in a trough of oats. "This is Courage," she said, patting the horse on the rump affectionately.

"Courage?" the paladin asked with a smile.

She nodded. "Because I have to work up my courage every time I try to mount him. He used to be an unruly beast before I got him." The horse responded by flicking his tail at her lazily, which caused her to laugh happily.

The paladin chuckled softly, moving to the opposite side of the horse. He set down Ashera's pack and saddlebags so he could strok the horse's nose, letting it get to know his smell before he slipped the saddle on. Cinching the belly strap, he slung the saddlebags over the gelding, then moved around to stand beside the cleric. Blushing furiously, he bent down, taking hold of her waist and lifting her onto the horse, grunting a bit from unexpected strain. She's heavier than a thing that small ought to be! he marvelled.

Reading his expression, Ashera grinned at him, parting her robes briefly to give him a glimpse of a finely-crafted mail shirt. He laughed a moment then retrieved her pack, handing it up to her.

She drew a sturdy iron-headed mace from the pack before wedging it in front of her. Looping the thong at the end of the haft of the mace around her saddlehorn, she let it dangle, slapping against her leg.

"If you'll allow me, m'lady?" Talomanes asked, taking Courage's reigns in his hand. A smile and a nod to him and he was moving, leading the horse and rider a short distance to the stable where he had left his own bay chewing contentedly. After slipping the stablehand a silver mark, he mounted, leading the lady cleric through the waking streets of Develor.

Standing in the common room of the inn called the Singing Weasel, Talomanes stretched, working his muscles under the mail shirt. The night before had been the first time he had slept without his shirt, and not having to stand watch for half the night had been wonderful, as well. Even if that blasted woman took the bed without a word of thanks! he thought glumly.

Ashera stirred beside him, her gaze sweeping around the room, taking in the workers sharing breakfast and a warm fire before heading off to whatever errands they had that day.

From the top of the stairs came the sound of a door opening and then closing a moment later. The paladin's companion appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing her customary leather armor, though today she hadn't bothered to hide her face. Her daggers hung from her belt and from over her shoulder poked her quiver of arrows and her short bow. Her eyes swept across the paladin as if she didn't see him, instead resting on the cleric. She looked at her for a long moment before descending the stairs.

"It's about time you were ready," Talomanes playfully goaded her, earning him a cold look.

"At least I don't snore like a troll." With that, she brushed past him, heading outside. Talomanes and Ashera followed her with their eyes then turned to look at each other.

Blushing slightly, the cleric lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" She couldn't seem to find the words.

Blinking, Talomanes didn't understand her meaning. "Her? Oh, she's just-" His eyes widened as her finally caught her meaning. "Oh, no! No no no!" He chuckled. "If she heard you say that, she'd probably whip you right here and now." Smiling, he turned to look out the door. "No, she approached me before I left Waterdeep, asking to accompany me here, though she's never mentioned why."

Ashera nodded, her eyes coming up again to study the paladin's face. He can't be more than a year or two older than I, she thought to herself. Yet he seems to at home in the world despite being raised in a temple. She envied him for his world-wise attitude, though she didn't regret her own upbringing. Her father had done all he could for her, eventually sending her off to the bustling trade city of Suzail to get a better education than she would had she stayed with him.

After a few minutes, Talomanes' companion returned. She glanced at him, her eyes ice. Then, she nodded to the other woman. "If he did not tell you, I am Naestra dar'Segra, formerly of Waterdeep." She turned to look at the paladin. "My horse is ready if you wish to begin this foray." So saying, she turned on her heel and strode out of the inn.

Grumbling to himself, Talomanes gesture for Ashera to follow the other before bringing up the rear. I have the feeling it's going to be one of those days, he thought to no one in particular.

Outside, the three mounted. "We should pick up a few more things at the bazaar before we head to the muster," Ashera suggested. After getting a nod from her two companions, she led the way deeper into Develor.

Frustrated, Talomanes swore under his breath, hastily saying a prayer of forgiveness to Torm right after. He turned his attention back to haggling with the crone he was haggling with over a vial of what she claimed to be an antidote that was proof against any kind of venom. After a bit more arguing, they agreed on ten cold crowns which the paladin parted with reluctantly. His stockpile of coins was dwindling, fast.

He tucked the vial into a small, velvet-lined case, where three other vials already rested, healing potions that he had procured from a gnomish priest of Gond, the Wonderbringer. The four draughts had cost nearly his entire supply of money.

Slipping the case into its place in his pack, he ran through his list one last time, pulling up whatever else he might need on a protracted journey. Another whetstone, oil for my mail, a needle and a spool of thread… He trailed off, trying to remember anything else he might need.

A quick stop at an armorer got him the whetstone and oil, leaving his purse only a few silvers lighter. The needle and thread he purchased from a clothier, who let them go for only a single silver mark. Slipping these items into his belt pouch, Talomanes tried to think of anything else that might be of use during the expedition.

His attention was drawn to an inn across the street from the clothier's shop, from which the smell of baking bread wafted. It's still nearly an hour until I'm to meet Naestra and Ashera…a little something to eat wouldn't be bad while I wait. With his mind made up, he headed to the inn, whose sign proclaimed it the Wandering Shepherd.

Inside, he seated himself, ordering a glass of cool milk and a slab of hot bread, slathered in butter from the pretty, golden-haired serving maid. The room was rather empty, as it was still several hours before noon. Only a few travelers like himself were there, including a party of halflings, discussing something over heaping plates of fried eggs, bacon, and toasted bread.

He thanked the serving maid as she brought him his meal, handing her the coins for the food as well as a gold crown for a tip, which caused her eyes to widen. The paladin waved away her stammered thanks with a good-natured smile on his lips. "Just make sure my cup stays full, hon," he told her. Nodding and laughing happily, she bent down, kissing him on the cheek before swaying back to the kitchen.

Turning back to his meal, he caught sight of one of the halflings giving him a huge grin and a wink, which he returned. Chuckling to himself, he took a sip of the milk, wetting his mouth before tearing a chunk of steaming bread loose with his teeth.

As he ate, a well-dressed man came in, asking to share Talomanes' table. Waving the fellow to a chair opposite him, the paladin offered to buy the man something to eat. Chuckling, the man said, "I'm fine, friend. Just too many hours out and about this morning."

Nodding, Talomanes asked, "What do you do, if I might ask?" He took another bite of buttery bread.

"Oh, I trade in this and that. I just got done bringing in a load of metal stock for a smith. From Waterdeep."

"Waterdeep? I've come from there, too!"

The merchant smiled. "Yes?"

Nodding, Talomanes explained, "Aye, my companion and I journeyed up through Longsaddle and Mirabar before crossing over the Spine."

"Ah, I struck out to Luskan, caravaning a load of pottery for shipping across the sea. Then I ventured through Icewind Dale, unloading some of my metal before heading this way."

Drawing the merchant into a conversation about the City of Splendors was easy enough, as the man seemed to enjoy having someone with whom to talk about his home. Talomanes likewise enjoyed the conversation, his attention only wandering once, when a pale, white-haired man clad in black leathers came from upstairs, following by two women, a black-haired maiden wearing a crimson cloak and black riding dress and a fairer-haired lass wearing a white blouse and black leggings with a scabbarded sword hanging from her belt. The two exhanged some words with the man in black and then all three left the inn, carrying saddlebags and travel packs.

The paladin turned his attention back to the merchant, who was cheerily relating a tale about a visit to the Moonshae Isles where he was supposedly accosted by a group of rather bawdy mermaids.

After sharing more laughs and tales with the man, whose named he learned was Edrick, Talomanes excused himself, gulping the last of his milk and giving the serving maid a smile before slipping out the doorway. The wind had picked up again while he had been inside.

Drawing his cloak around him, he hurried down the street, towards the stable that held the three horses. Behind him, three mounted figures left the stable of the Wandering Shepherd, heading towards the city gates to the south.

Chapter 4

As the sun passed well into midday, a column of riders several hundred strong wormed its way out of Develor, bearing southeast. A breeze whistle across the frozen plains, snapping pennants and flags, no two alike. The expedition of Lord Ithad had begun its ride.

The relentless plodding of the horse sent flashes up pain lancing up and down Corenne's back with every step. She stretched again, knuckling her back to try to ease her stiff and aching muscles. First I put up with that girl kneeing me in the back all night, and now this! she thought indignantly, flashing a look of veiled contempt at Illandra.

The recipient of that stare, meanwhile, was busy studying the man who rode ahead and to her left, their erstwhile captor. He had tied back his curly white hair, the tail bobbing against the back of his leathers. Perhaps sensing her eyes on him, Ix turned, silver eyes meeting deep blue, holding them for a moment before going back to scanning the frozen plains around them.

Nudging her horse closer to his, she leaned in, whispering, "What is it?"

The silver-eyed man shook his head. "There is something about today," he responded, his gaze never ceasing its watchful roaming. "Something…it does not feel right, yes? Be wary."

Hunkering down in her cloak, Illandra puller her hood farther up. He's right, she thought. Even though it's midday, it almost feels like it should be pitch black out here. She guided her horse closer to Corenne's, intent on warning her companion to stay alert.

After a brief, worried exchange with the other woman, she heeled her horse back a back, leaning down to adjust her stirrup in case she had to ride hard. Something rustled softly against the hood of her cloak, tugging slightly, followed by a scream of pain in front of her.

Her head whipped up, catching sight of a black-fletched arrow jutting from Corenne's shoulder. "Corenne!" She kicked her horse beside her companion as other arrows rained down, finding marks in the column of riders.

An arrow flashed down, nicking her face as it buried into her horse's neck. The horse shrieked and fell, throwing Illandra from the saddle. She leaped to her feet, managing to grab Corenne's belt and hoisting herself up behind her friend, kicking the horse into a gallop.

Corenne rode clumbsily, trying to manage the reigns with her good hand, all the while clutching her wounded shoulder, blood leaking from between her fingers and staining her silk blouse, groaning from every stride the horse took.

In a flash, Ix was beside them, his own horse panting hard, his sword naked in his hand. "This way!" he shouted over the thundering of panicking horses and the screams of dying men. He turned, kicking his horse to push through the press of the column, towards a stand of rocks. Corenne gripped the reigns of her horse with her left hand, urging her mount to follow Ix's as Illandra held onto her waist, trying to keep from being jolted off the back of the horse.

As the panting mount burst from the column, Illandra got a good look at the forces that had ambushed the riders. Orcs wearing white wolf pelts to camoflauge them in the scattered snow drifts surrounded the party, loosing arrows from evil-looking bows, many tufted with feathers or dangling bones.

Her eyes were drawn to an orc to her right who seemed to see her just as she caught sight of it. Cracked black lips pulled back into an evil grin as it raised its wicked bow, black-fletched arrow nocked, drawing in one smooth motion. Sighting along the shaft, it aimed at her and Corenne, one eye closed and the other narrowing.

Out of nowhere, a great, gleaming blade slashed in, splitting bow, arrow, and orc in one fluid arc. Black blood stained the pristine snow as the creature fell in two different places.

Saying a silent prayer for her savior, a muscled warrior wearing a chain shirt and a dark cloak whipping behind him that bore the Gauntlet of Torm, Illandra rested her head against Corenne's back, closing her eyes against the cacophany of dying and combat crashing behind her.

Roaring a battle cry, Talomanes leapt aside, the orcish arrow streaking past him. His great blade lashed out, ripping through crude iron mail to tear into the beast's stomach and out its back. The orc screamed weakly as it fell behind the paladin, who had already moved onto another enemy.

Hot blood trickled down his left arm from the broken-off shaft in his shoulder, but the blood one warmed him, stoking the fires of the righteous wrath that burned in his heart. Again and again he came upon orcish archers who were unprepared for the flashing death that stalked among them, their bows turned towards the killing ground in front of them.

A group of five orcish infantry caught sight of the raging paladin, and began closing in on him. Talomanes caught sight of them as the first sent a wickedly-hooked axe arcing towards him. Deflecting the attack to his right, he moved in close, sinking the edge of his two-handed blade into the orc's gut and drawing it forward and up, spilling a heap of steaming entrails on the ground as he slit the orc open, parrying the sword of the second orc as the momentum of his movement carried his blade upward.

Swinging his gauntleted left fist, he struck the orc hard in the face, dazing it and knocking it backwards, then taking a step to his left and spinning, gripping his blade with both hands and bringing his whistling sword crashing onto the beast's spine, hacking through flesh and bone, hewing the orc in half.

Seeing the paladin down two of their comrades in a matter of moments, the remaining three spread out, trying to outflank him. The one in the middle came at him, jabbing his broadsword at the holy warrior. Deflecting the thrust, Talomanes lashed out, but the orc caught the blade on a stout wooden shield, the two-handed sword sinking into the wood and sticking for a moment, long enough for the orc to his right to howl in victory as it lunged forward, seeking to drive its short spear through his ribs.

A white-fletched arrow struck the orc square in the chest, knocking it off balance as it crunched through breastbone, lodging deeply into the beast.

Talomanes kicked the first orc in the gut, knocking it backwards. His sword came free just in time to parry the axe of the orc on his left. He pressed the beast but it caught every one of his fierce assaults, deflecting them with a skill the paladin hadn't counted on.

Looking behind Talomanes, the orc grinned evilly. It was the orc's companion that saved him as it tried to attack the paladin from behind. Talomanes easily avoided the clumsy attack from his rear, spinning in a feint at the orc which had attacked him from behind then lashing out, beheaded the skilled axeman with a backstroke. Letting the momentum of his swing carry him full circle, he lashed out again, his blade smashing the wooden shield raised against it and cutting through orcish armor and flesh, sinking deep into the creature's chest.

Kicking the corpse from his blade, the paladin turned in a slow circle, surveying the area around him. The orcs on this side of the ambush had either fled or been defeated as the column of riders began to fight back against the assault.

Planting his blade in the ground, Talomanes leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. The thudding of horses drew up behind him and he spun around, his two-handed sword raised defensively in front of him.

Naestra reigned up in front of him, her cloak tattered here and there but she looked otherwise to be in good health. "You can thank me later," she told him, gestured to an orc with her bow. His eyes caught the white fletching on the arrow that had killed it, which matched the fletching of the arrow nocked in her short bow.

"You're hurt!" Ashera exclaimed, dropping from her horse to move beside the paladin. She clutched the arrow, about to yank it out, which brought a grunt of pain from Talomanes.

"Later," he told her as he brushed away her hands. "When we've got more time. For now, let's get out of here."

Elsewhere, a dance was under way. Black flowed and shifted against black, silver flashing and the singing of metal filling the air.

Again and again the man named Ix lashed out at the black-clad orc in front of him, his keen steel blade being met with a black iron blade that the beast wielded with two hands.

"Gruumsh take you, hoo-man!" the tusked humanoid spat as it counter-attacked, pressing Ix back, making him give ground before the berserk orc.

Leaping back from a slash, the warrior miscalculated the length of the orc's swing. Black iron cut through leather and flesh, drawing a burning line of blood across Ix's stomach.

Grunting in pain, Ix double over, barely able to ward off the next two slashes. The orc raised its blade behind its head and then sent it in a downward diagonal at the silver-eyed man in a double-fisted strike. Black iron met shining steel with tremendous force, the shock stunning Ix, tearing his sword from his grasp and sending it spinning off to the side.

His foe raised its blade to strike down the wounded man in front of it but stopped, its head cocked to one side. With widened eyes, the creature turned and ran, leaving a puzzled yet thankful Ix kneeling in the snow.

With monumental effort, he got to his feet, walking over to retrieve his blade from where it had stuck in the ground. Pulling the sword free, he made his way over the dozen or so orcish corpses that littered the ground in front of the crevice that sheltered the two women.

The group had come across them quite by accident, and Ix, aided by the little magic Illandra possessed, had felled the beasts and then taken on their commander, who had been a better warrior than he had imagined.

Yet the orc, why did it flee so? Ix couldn't puzzle that out. After wiping the black orcish blood from his sword with a bit of tattered cloth torn from a humanoid's shirt, he sheathed his blade, entering the cramped passage where the two elf women hid.

Illandra had stripped off Corenne's blouse to work the arrow free and then bound the wound with strips torn from the garment. Shrugging out of his black cloak, Ix draped it over the wounded girl's shoulders.

Smiling up at him, her eyes clouded by pain, she said simply, "Thank you."

Nodding, Ix knelt before them, his ears listening for the sound of another orcish war party. "How is she?" he asked Illandra.

The raven-haired woman stroked Corenne's cheek lightly before replying. "She's fine. I cleaned the wound with water and then used snow to stop the bleeding before bandaging her. She'll need a healer for the bones in her shoulder, but other than that…" Letting the assessment trail off, she turned back to studying her friend.

Ix placed his hand on Corenne's good shoulder. "You'll be fine soon enough. The orcs, you are tougher than they, yes?" He smiled at the wounded elf maiden. Taking Illandra's hand in his, he stood, grimacing at the pain it caused in his stomach. Waving off her concerned look, he drew her to the mouth of the tunnel and spoke with her briefly. Reluctantly, she nodded, pacing back to her friend.

Kneeling beside Corenne, Illandra smiled at her. Hugging her gently, being careful not to jostle the other woman's wounded shoulder, she uttered arcane words. Corenne went slack as the magical sleep overtook her.

Walking over, Ix knelt beside the comatose girl. Helping to ease her to the ground, he said, "It is better if she is not awake if the orcs find her. They are more likely to think her dead, yes? And, if they find she is still alive…much better for her to not be awake." The raven-haired elf nodded in grim agreement.

A deep vibration filled the small space, causing the ground to tremble beneath Ix's boots. "What is that?" Illandra asked. Ix waved her to silence.

Standing, he made his way to the mouth of the tiny cave, drawing his blade as he moved. He swept his eyes over the tableau before him.

The members of the expedition had began to dig in, piling up snow and using corpses to build crude fieldworks. They seemed just as confused by the faint rumbling as was the silver-eyed man.

The vibration grew in strength, turning into a deep rumbling that caused dust and tiny rocks to cascade from the ceiling. Fearful that the stone shelter would collapse from the rumbling, crushing them inside, Ix turned, yelling for Illandra to get Corenne out of the cave. Then the shockwave hit him, hurling him onto the two elves as the world went black.

As the trembling in the ground reached a defeaning roar, Talomanes turned back to the expedition's camp, some five hundred yards distant. He felt the warmth of Ashera's body as she pressed herself to him. Naestra stood at his other side as all three together watched what happened next.

Huge rents in the ground tore open, tumbling men and horses to their death. Shards of stone dozens of feet high speared from the ground, impaling others. The snow began to ripple outward from a point a hundred feet from the camp. With a tremendous boom and a blast the trio could feel from where they were, the snow exploded outward, burying everying around the center and baring a large swath of rocky soul.

With a hideous tearing sound, something began to emerge from the exposed ground.

Rocky arms pulled loose from the dirt, flexing fingers as long as a man. Bracing titanic hands against the ground, the stone horror pushed itself free, the vaguely man-shaped creature towering above the hundreds of men huddled below it. Slits in the dirt face opened, revealing eyes that blazed like molten steel. With a terrible slowness, those burning eyes focused on the men below.

A huge slash opened below the eyes, revealing a gaping maw filled with rocky teeth. The creature's chest swelled slightly as it drew in a deep breath. The scream that tore from that infernal throat knocked Talomanes and his companions to the ground, defeaning them with the sheer volume of sound.

In the ringing aftermath of that titanic blast, the beast struck. Massive hands clenched, raising above the stony head. With a motion almost too fast to be believed, those hands slammed into the middle of the camp, brutally crushing scores of men. The rest of the earthen body followed behind, burying the entire encampment under a small mountain of rubble.

Chapter 5

Cold and dark pervaded everything. Each movement brought agonizing pain in a stomach that felt strangely warm. Probing fingers came away hot and sticky, sending shooting pains up and down a body that felt battered beyond belief. Rocks dug into skin from above as well as below.

"Ix!" someone nearby hissed. "Wake up! I think Illandra's dying!"

Ix? Blind eyes blinked rapidly, trying to clear away the fog from a mind that had gone numb long before the body. Ix…yes. I am Ix.

Grunt from exertion and pain, Ix pushed a slab of stone from his chest. Bracing his hands against the rubble burying the rest of him, he pushed hard, slowly and painfully pulling his legs free. A small cascade of rocks and pebbles tumbled down, the whole cave groaning ominously.

A slim hand grasped his. "Ix! Illandra…help her…" The voice in the darkness was little more than a pleading whisper.

"I cannot see," he whispered back. The hand holding his guided his own hand to a face that was colder than it should be. Moving his fingertips to her neck, he felt for a pulse. After several long moments, he said quietly, "She is dying. I think the rockfall, it broke something inside of her."

A plaintive wail met his grim statement, Corenne reaching out and embracing him fiercely. "Don't let her die, Ix! You have to save her!"

Numbed mind thawing slowly, Ix reached into his belt pouch. Shard of broken glass from broken vials cut his fingers, but he finally found one vial that was intact. Pulling it from his hip pouch, he unstoppered it, smelling to make sure it was what he wanted. Satisfied with the vaguely cinnamon-like scent, he shifted slightly, pillowing Illandra's head in his lap.

Being careful to spill as little as he could in the absolute darkness, he placed the vial against Illandra's lips, upending it and pouring the healing potion into the elf woman's mouth. He massaged her throat, getting her to swallow the liquid.

Something rustled in the darkness beside him and he felt Corenne's left shoulder brush his right. "What did you give her?"

Grunting slightly, the silver-eyed man replied, "A healing solution. The last. It will not mend what is broken, but it should keep her alive a while."

"That's it? We've got to find a way out of here, then!" Soft thumping said that she was trying to bash her way through the rock walls.

"I would stop that unless you wish to bring the whole thing down on all of us and kill us all, yes?" His fingers found her wrist, holding it tightly. He was about to say something further when he noticed that something was glowing on the far wall. "What is that?" he asked, pointing.

Corenne's elven eyes had no trouble following the line of his finger. A rustle and the blue light disappearing from his view told Ix that she had moved in close to study it, blocking his view.

"It looks like some kind of writing…now that I know what to look for, there's a line of runes here…and here…and here…." She paused for a moment. "It almost looks like a doorway. I wonder what happens if-"

Trying to act before it was too late, Ix called out, "No! Touch nothing!" But it was too late.

"Oops." Corenne's fingers brush the glowing rune. Nothing seemed to happen except that the rune winked out. "This is odd."

Ix's eyes caught sight of another wan flicker of light. "There, to your left," he whispered. Touching the second rune caused it to dim and a third to glow. Touching the third ignited a fourth…

As Corenne touched the fourth, it flickered out, but no other runes came to life. "Odd, indeed," she remarked. "I wonder…Hey!" The last came through as nearly a shout, ringing in Ix's ears as it caused dust to rain from the ceiling.

"Would you be quiet!" he hissed at her.

"Sorry," she apologized. "It's just…here, help me lift Illandra." Together, the two of them got the unconscious elf woman between then, easing her towards the wall.

"Look," Corenne said. Ix had no idea what she did as nothing seemed to happen. His expression must have said as much. "Ah, the wall looks solid, but…" Again there was nothing. "Well, I guess you can't see it. Come on, take a step forward. Keep up with me. There you are."

Ix felt himself pass through something as he walked, felt something slithering through him as well, and then he was clear, blinking his eyes in the sudden light.

A pale glow suffused the air, dim as twilight but bright as noon to his dark-blinded eyes. He standing at the far wall of a massive cavern, the size of the space impossible to determine in the gloomy illumination. In front of him there was a raised dais with columns along the edges. As he and Corenne staggered towards it, Illandra draped between them, he saw that the dais looked to be some kind of temple and was roughly a hundred feet to a side.

They reached the temple, laying Illandra on the raised stone floor. Closer up, Ix saw a rectangular pool stretching lengthwise through the middle of the temple. Leaving Corenne with the other woman, he approached the pool cautiously, alert for any danger and wishing he had his sword with him. You served me well, he thought, bidding a silent farewell the blade he had carried for so long, which would probably rust away under a pile of rock.

The pool was pilled with crystal clear water. As he peered over the edge, Ix saw that the bottom glowed slightly. Cupping a hand and dipping it into the pool, he brought a handful of water to his lips. It was clean, cool, and left him feeling invigorated.

Wondering if the pool had magical healing abilities, he cupped both his hands, filling them with water and slowly making his way to the two girls, trying to keep from spilling too much. He knelt beside the stricken elf maiden, and, with Corenne's help, got her to drink the remaining water.

He stood again. "Keep giving her more water whenever you think she will drink. It seems to be quite good, yes? Myself, I will take a better look at this place." His silver eyes held Corenne's brown for a long moment, then he turned on his heel and stalked away.

The temple seemed to have been hewn from the granite of the cavern. Try as hard as he might, Ix could find no joinings, to cracks, no mark on the stone to tell who or what had created it. It is as if this entire place was formed through magic.

The nature of the temple itself was somewhat mysterious, as it was completely empty aside from the pool. There was no symbol to one deity or another, no raised platform for a priest to exhort to his following, nothing. Perhaps it was not finished?

Trailing a hand along one of the smooth columns, Ix was struck by something he hadn't noticed before. This cavern is too large to be simply through that doorway! It must have been a gate to somewhere else… Turning back and heading the way they had come, he thought, But where? Where are we?

Reaching the area they had arrived from, he spotted the runes outlining the door. Pushing against the rock in the doorway itself proved that it was solid once more. Very odd, as Corenne would say, he thought to himself. Walked a few paces to his right, he saw another door outlined. And another.

As he walked along the wall, he saw that there were too many doorways to count. There must be hundreds of gateways here! Or thousands! And they all lead somewhere… His mind flooded with questions. Did they all lead to somewhere near Develor? Did they all lead to somewhere on Faerun? Or even to Toril? Where did each lead?

Turning his attention from the wall, Ix studied the rest of the cavern. The walls that met the smooth wall that held the gateways were both rough, natural cave walls, stretch off into the darkness. Perhaps there is another wall of gateways over there, as well, he thought wonderingly to himself.

As he was staring into the darkness across the temple from him, his eyes picked up a faint glimmer of light. Curiosity won out over caution as he began to slowly make his way toward that pinpoint of light.

Creeping through the oppressive gloom, the scuffing of his boots on the stone floor seemed to thunder in the silence. He drew nearer the source of the light. As he got closer, he saw that it was coming from a round orb the size of his fist. Around the orb was wrapped a skeletal hand.

Jerking back when he spotted the skeleton, Ix turned his eyes left and right. To his horror, he saw he was surrounded by dessicated corpses and ancient bones. Turned, he saw that he had been creeping through the open graveyard without realizing it. A skull stared mockingly up at him nearly from under his feet!

Calming himself, the silver-eyed man focused, drawing his attention back to the orb. It seemed to be a simple sphere, probably of glass, that had been enchanted to shine with a permanent light. Taking a deep breath, he readied himself in case the orb was a trap, then bent down, tearing the object from its skeletal cradle.

Nothing happened.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Ix studied his find. It did indeed seem to be a smooth glass sphere, cool to the touch. A soft, even radiance spilling out of it.

Switching the orb to his left hand, he knelt down, rooting through the skeletons to find some kind of weapon. He spotted a fine sword clutched in the hand of a long-dead warrior. Smiling to himself, he reached down, his fingers brushing the hilt as he prepared to take it from the skeletal hand holding it.

The orb flashed with sudden heat in his hand, nearly causing Ix to drop it.

Muttering to himself, he grabbed the hilt of the longsword, standing and drawing the blade upward with him, waiting for the bony hand to fall back.

It didn't.

With a sinister slowness, the skeleton rose up to stand firmly, facing Ix. All around him he heard clattering and shifting as more of the dead began to move.

Clenching the light orb in his left hand, he lashed out, smashing it into the skeleton's skull, shattering orb and skull both. Jerking the longsword free from the corpse as it fell, he turned, lashing out and cutting down another skeleton that had risen fully.

As he broke into a run, empty sockets followed him and bony feet began shuffling towards him. All around him, scores of the dead had come hauntingly back to life, menacing him with gnarled claws and ancient weapons. His newfound blade licked out to his left and right, slashing any undead that ventured too close as he fled towards the temple.

"Corenne! To arms!" he yelled, his voice ringing in the cavern, echoing and coming back and again and again.

He reached the edge of the temple and spun, his eyes taking in the coming horde of skeletons. Though the closest was still a good fifty feet from him, he was awed by the sheer number of them. There must be thousands of them…Stretching off into the darkness, twitching figures of bone milled towards him aimlessly.

From uncounted gaping mouths a howling battle cry rang out as the skeletons shifted, turning from clumsy constructs into a shadow of their former selves, gaining a grace they hadn't possessed before. Ix was no longer facing a horde of shambling bones but an army of undead killers.

Holding his sword before him in both hands, the man named Ixdaeliovadi breathed a prayer to Tempus, God of War, that he might die in combat instead of becoming one of the unliving he now faced.

With a feral scream, he leapt at the onrushing mass of skeletal warriors, spinning and slashing, his blade biting through bone and rotted leather. He twisted, dodged, parried, and rolled, fighting like a man possessed. He drew strength from both his Clan battle cries and the knowledge that he was going to die. With nothing to lose, he pressed himself harder than he ever had before.

Better to die a warrior than live as one of these! The thought skittered across his consciousness before disappearing in the red haze that seemed to cloud his vision.

He lashed out, cutting a skeleton in half, his swing carrying him forward as he swept his left foot behind him in an arcing kick, sending another crashing to the ground. Again and again his blade flickered, cutting through bone, sending weapon arms and skulls careening through the air.

But as he fought, more and more ancient weapons began to find their mark. A blackened axe tore a line of fire across his back. A rusted mace smacked him in the side, cracking ribs. A wickedly-barbed dagger sank into his left arm above his elbow, lodging in bone.

The blood flowing over him seemed to drive the skeletons into a frenzy, causing them to get more careless. A leap backwards and a flail flashed through where he had been, crashing into another skeleton and sending it spinning across the floor. A deflected axe stroke split the skull of a skeleton, who lashed out in its second death, burying its spear in the ribs of still another skeleton.

Risking a look over his shoulder, Ix saw that the undead horrors were concentrating on him with single-minded intensity, ignoring the two wounded elf maidens.

Slash and parry, feint and dodge. Each flash of his blade left either a wounded skeleton twitching feebly or one lashing about in the throes of its second death. With grim determination, he worked his way through the undead army, his longsword warding a circle of deadly steel around him.

Without warning, a powerful blow smashed into his back, sending Ix sprawling forward, tumbling and rolling, crashing into a handful of skeletons. Pain blossomed in his right shoulder as he tried to stand, nearly causing him to lose consciousness. The red haze of his berserker fury was gone, replaced by an encompassing darkness that threatened to swallow him.

Slowly, with every motion bringing new levels of agony, he got to his feet, turning to face the foe that had felled him. Towering above the skeletons at its feet stood the massive form of a giant's skeleton, hefting a monstrous club the size of a stout oak sapling. A fiendish red glow shone from the eye sockets of the brutish skull.

Without thinking, the silver-eyed man did the only thing he could. He turned and ran into the darkness that engulfed the far end of the cavern.

Chapter 6

As the sun touched the western horizon, the wind had picked up again, howling fitfully across the tundra. It pulled and tugged at the trailing tatters of Talomanes' cloak, threatening to tear away what little protection the ragged fabric gave. The gale was like a living thing, seeking to drive its icy fingers into his heart.

"How much farther?" he yelling into the wind.

Faintly, Naestra's voice floated back to him. "Not long. Perhaps a mile." He grumbled to himself, shivering and trying to draw his ruined cloak tighter around him.

It was Naestra who had suggested they spend the night in the shelter that they had shared that last night before reaching Develor. From studying her map, she said that it was closer by a few miles. If they pressed for the town, they would be riding in pitch blackness. And with the orcs around, still, and whatever it was that had destroyed the expedition, Talomanes hadn't wanted to take that chance.

Turning his thoughts from death and orcs and foul magicks, he allowed his eyes to wander over the horizon.

The sun, burning a fitful orange color, was already halfway buried in the ground. The sky was rich with oranges and yellows and pinks, giving way to a deep, velvety purple overhead and fading nearly to black to the east. The surround landscape had picked up the color of the sunset, the normally pristine white snow now matching the countless hues of the sunset. The beauty of the scene was at odds with the terrible memories of a few hours ago, but it still brought a bit of warmth to the paladin's heart.

A soft rustle, barely carrying over the wind, and a warm presence at his side told him Ashera had quickened her pace to walk beside him. Silently, they walked together for a while, two pairs of booted feet making tracks in the thin crust of snow.

A violent shiver rocked the cleric as a sudden gust of wind found its way beneath her clothes. Without hesitation, Talomanes stripped off the remnants of his own cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. She was nearly a foot shorter than he and the cloak protected her more than it did him. The frigid air bit at the exposed skin of his forearms and forced what little warmth was left out of the steel mail he wore, biting fiercely at the rent in his armor where the broken arrow shaft still protruded.

Turning crystal blue eyes up at him, Ashera smiled gently, huddling up against him. Ignoring the numbing pain from the arrow and the blistering cold, he wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to him so that his body might warm hers. Together, to made their way across the wind-scorched tundra, eyes downcast and following the footprints Naestra had left in the snow.

As he walked he turned his mind to the woman walking beside him. So gentle and frail, yet… He had seen her smash an orc down with her mace as it had tried to pull her from her horse in a skirmish with a small scouting party. And again, after a black-fletched arrow had felled her mount, she sent another beast to Gruumsh's realm. He rubbed her shoulder with his hand, feeling the finely crafted mail rippling under his touch. Soft in appearance and hard as steel underneath, he thought. That thought brought a smile to his lips.

Abruptly, Naestra was in front of him, catching him by surprised so that he almost stumbled into the leather-clad woman's back. "We're here," she said simply, pointing. Sure enough, the lean-to was only a dozen paces ahead. So wrapped up had the paladin been in his contemplation of the woman on his arm that he hadn't even noticed.

As Naestra slipped into the shelter, he squeezed Ashera affectionately and was rewarded with a shy smile, her eyes shimmering in the fading sunlight. She turned towards him, her face lifting up so she could gaze into his eyes. A stray gust of wind tugged at the hood of her cloak, stirring her hair. Her full lips pursed, parting slightly, her eyes closing halfway.

Kiss her, fool! part of his mind screamed. No, don't! She'll think you're just some uncouth barbarian, another part warned. Caught between those two warring parts of himself, he froze. Finally, something in his thoughts seemed to backfire and he made a sound partway between a snort, a cough, and a nervous laugh as his brain failed completely.

Ashera's eyes popped open, her face blushing crimson, visible even in the dim twilight. Her lips tightened into a thin line as her eyes filled with confusion.

Having gained some control over his actions again, Talomanes reached up, timidly brushing her cheek with his gloved fingers. She smiled shyly at him again before slipping into the shelter with Naestra.

Cursing himself, the paladin gave in to the sudden rush that overtook him and flailed about blindly with his arms, lashing out with his feet and kicking at whatever offending clump of snow caught his eyes. Fool! You should have kissed her when you had the chance! his mind scolded him. Now she probably thinks you're some half-wit from a backcountry who doesn't even know how to kiss a girl! the other part of his mind howled at him. Still a third part of him replied, Well, it's true! Admit it, you don't know what to do with a girl, do you?

With that, the sudden rush of embarassment, nervousness, fear, and a host of other emotions died down to a muted buzz. Grumbling to himself, Talomanes crossed over to the entrance of the shelter and slipped inside.

The three of them sat around the fitful fire, eating their meager supper as if it were a banquet. To Talomanes, the fresh-baked bread and milk he had eaten that morning seemed almost a lifetime away. The hard travel bread and tough, leathery jerky tasted better than he had thought was possible.

After washing down his meal with a bit water made from snow they had melted in a small pot over the fireplace, the paladin got up and turned, making his way to the entrace of the lean-to.

Lifting aside the cracked, weathered curtain that served as a door, he surveyed the surrounding plains, trying to keep as little light from leaking out as possible. There was no sign of movement in the faint moonlight, so he stepped back, letting the curtain fall back into place.

By that time, the two woman had finished up their own food. Ashera was busy using the light of the fire to read something from a small, unmarked book, her lips moving slightly. Probably a prayer book, Talomanes thought.

Naestra, meanwhile, was busy checking the condition of the score or so arrows remaining in her quiver. With a practiced eye, she checked the fletching for any imperfections, then the shaft for any nicks or scrapes that would have to be smoothed out, lest they through off her aim. Finally, she checked the arrowhead itself, using a small whetstone on any she thought was the least bit dull.

Sitting across the fire from them, Talomanes took his two-handed sword from where it leaned against the smooth stone wall that served as one side of the shelter. With a smooth motion, he unsheathed it, laying the leather-covered wooden scabbard aside.

Opening his hip pouch, he pulled out a whetstone, dabbing a bit of honing oil on it from a small iron flask. With strong, even motions he worked the whetstone along the blade, evening out the nicks from steel and bone and bringing a razored edge back where the metal had dulled.

When he was finished, he resheathed his sword and leaned it back against the stone wall. Grimacing from the pain from the arrow in his shoulder, he slowly eased out of his mail shirt, working the inch or so of the wooden shaft so that the mail didn't catch it and tear anything more inside of him.

With his armor off, he got a good look at the wound and breathed a silent prayer to Torm that the arrow hadn't been a few inches down and to his right. A shadow fell across him and he raised his eyes, looking up into Ashera's face as she bent over him, concern and worry in her expression.

"Here, let me," she whispered as she knelt beside him. Taking the broken stub of the arrow in her small hand, she looked at him, her eyes meeting his. His face hardened and then he nodded slightly.

With a yank that brought a strangled yell of pain from the paladin, she ripped the wickedly barbed arrow from his shoulder. Fresh blood spilled down his shoulder, dripping onto the floor of the shelter.

Already she was moving, speaking softly, beseeching Lathander for his aid as she moved closer to paladin. Her right hand was limned briefly in a pale blue light as she grasped his shoulder. A warmth seemed to spread through Talomanes, moving outward from her touch. The agonizing pain from his shoulder dulled into a muted ache, the flow of blood from his wound slowing and finally stopping all together.

"There," she said softly, her breath warm against his cheek. "It will be tender, but I'll have another look at it tomorrow, after I've had a chance to pray to the Morninglord for more of his healing power."

Talomanes turned his face to hers, no more than a few inches away. His eyes drank in the softness of her face, the wonderful color of her eyes, like a warm spring day. She pursed her lips slightly, the corners turning upward. The firelight reflected in the liquid pools of her eyes. Slowly, the paladin leaned forward, his mind quiet and his actions his own.

Ashera's eyes closed slowly, her head tilting slightly as her lips moving to meet his kiss. His lips stopped a hair's breadth from hers as the fire suddenly went out. Shocked, the paladin sat stock still, confusion immobilizing him.

From across the firepit came the sounds of Naestra slipping out of her armor, tossing it loudly onto the ground piece by piece. The sounds of her bedding down beside the embers of the fire were interspersed with dark mutterings about the idiocy of men and the stupidity of women.

Talomanes turned back to Ashera, only to find her gone. The soft sounds of her getting ready for sleep came from somewhere in the darkness. Feeling more alone now than ever, the paladin stretch out on the cold ground, using his mail shirt as a lumpy pillow, the shreds of his cloak thrown over it to make the cold metal not quite as uncomfortable.

Staring into the darkness overhead, he swore that he'd stay away from women, wine, wealth, and anything else that would confound his faith, confuse his mind, and generally make an idiot out of him.

There was a soft whisper of motion beside him and he felt a hand slip into his. Squeezing it gently, he smiled into the darkness as he laced his fingers with hers, his recent oath forgotten.

Closing his eyes, Talomanes was soon fast asleep.

Beside the sleeping paladin, Naestra stirred fitfully. Her good hand was held in his, so she held the long dagger in her left hand, counting on her training and a bit of luck to strike a swift, killing blow.

Chapter 7

The dim light that suffused the air didn't do much to help the silver-eyed man see in the dark tunnel he found himself in. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the skeletons were still milling about at the entrance to the passageway, prevented by some force from entering.

Slowly, the man named Ix made his way deeper into the corridor, leaning heavily on the longsword he held in his left hand. His right arm dangled at his side, every little movement bringing shooting pain throughout his whole body. Still he pressed on, knowing that to turn back was to face the undead hordes that hungered for his blood.

I have left them enough of my blood as it is, he thought to himself. Warm liquid still dripped down his left arm from the wound the dagger had made as he had pulled it loose. After divesting himself of his leathers, he had torn his shirt apart, using the strips to bind his arm, his stomach, and his back as best he could.

With the way behind him blocked, he could only go forward, towards wherever the hewn stone tunnel led.

As he crept through the murky gloom, he spotted a light ahead. Picking up his pace, Ix saw that the passageway turned to the right. Light was spilling around the bend ahead.

As stealthily as he could, the he edged neared the corner, pressing himself against the wall. A quick glance around the edge revealed a small chamber a score of paces down the hall from the bend. The room was well lighted, revealed what seemed to be a chest on a raised pedestal.

Slipping around the corner, Ix made his way to the room cautiously, wary of any traps or hidden dangers. As he neared the chamber, he saw that it was roughly squarish, lit by flames from four braziers places in the corners of the room. His wonderment at the flames fell away as his eyes came to rest upon the chest seated on the pedestal.

Wrought from what appeared to be solid silver, it was engraved with images of men and women in various states of suffering and torment. Demons cavorted among the people, laying into the tortured souls with whips and clubs, delighting in the pain and misery they were causing.

Wresting his eyes from the horrific nature of the chest, Ix spied a banner on the wall above the pedestal. A horned crimson skull was emblazoned on a field of deepest black. Eldritch sigils circled the skull, written in a language that the silver-eyed man had never seen before.

Hesitantly, he approached the chest. It was bigger that it had first seemed, nearly four feet long and half as wide and it was as tall as it was wide. A quick inspection showed no sign of any traps or wards on the box. Another brief search turned up the switch that Ix thought should open here.

Getting a hold on his fear, Ix thought, If I turn back, I have to face those skeletal monsters. This chest, it may hold something I can use against them, yes. Setting his blade on the pedestal in front of the chest, he held his breath. Reaching out with his left hand, he pressed the catch, causing a slight click within the chest. The lid lifted a bit and then slowly swung upright.

Peering inside the box, the silver-eyed man felt his throat catch.

At the top lay a scabbarded longsword. The scabbard was made from solid silver, panels of onyx with silver settings running down the sides. The guard was simple yet elegant, the handle wrapped in a reddish leather. A small ruby capped the pommel. For a moment, Ix almost thought he saw something flicker in the crimson depths of the gem. It is probalby just the firelight, yes, he thought, casting a glance at the braziers.

Reaching in, he lifted the sheathed sword out, setting it crosswise on top of the chest. He pulled a hand's length of the blade free from scabbard, noting the exquisite craftsmanship. The silvery steel bespoke elven forging, as did the line of flowing glyphs down the center of the blade.

Seating the sword back in its scabbard, he slipped it through his belt, bending back over the chest to peer inside once more.

Inside lay a folded cloth, the color of fresh blood. Gingerly, he lifted it from the chest and shook it out. It was a cloak, made of a type of woven mesh Ix had never seen before. Some parts of it seemed to reflect the flickering light of the braziers while other parts absorbed it. Along the hem were vivid black sigils, stitched of the same kind of mesh of which the cloak was made. In the middle of the back of the cloak was a single symbol, one the silver-eyed man recognized as being the elvish mark for death.

"It is a good thing I am not one for superstitions, yes?" Ix murmured softly as he set the cloak aside. Still, he shivered slightly, as the cloak seemed to exude an aura of grim malevolence.

Under the cloak lay a set of blackened armor. As his fingers brushed the black steel of the armor, he felt a tingle in his fingertips, telling him that there was heavy magic wrapped into the mail.

Ignoring the burning agony in his shoulder and back, Ix slipped into the mail shirt. The blackened mail was surprisingly light and it seemed to draw some of the pain from his shoulder, letting him stand a bit straighter.

Beneath the mail shirt lay armor plates to match the mail and a set of black steel gauntlets. He finished donning the armor, affixing blackened steel plates to his shoulders, forearms, thighs, and shins. The mail shirt itself reached to mid-thigh.

With his armor secured, he reached for the gauntlets. They were of a designed identical to the mail, suggested they'd been forged as a set. He slipped them onto his hands and marveled at how they seemed to have been tooled just for him. Flexing his fingers, he watched the flow of the overlapping plates and nodded, satisfied with their fit.

Lastly, Ix draped the flowing cloak from his shoulders. As the woven mesh settled around his shoulder, a bolt of pain and agony suffused his being, shattering his consciousness. The last thing his eyes saw was the skull on the banner. It seemed to be laughing at him.

For a long time, there was nothing. A great void of darkness that was all-encompassing. Worlds turned endlessly, ground to dust beneath the ceaseless turning of the seasons.

After an endless epoch, all the worlds had been crushed into dust, scattered onto the blackness of eternity to form a soft blanket of stars. Briefly, one of the stars shone brighter. Again it pulsed. It began beating with a slow, steady rhythm.

Like a heart…

The star began to grow, only it wasn't the star growing so much as getting closer, approaching at a speed that boggled the mind.

With a sudden lurch, the man named Ix vomited on the floor as consciousness returned. A dark, flowing taint seemed to writhe in his gut, causing him to heave again and again, even after he'd emptied his stomach.

Feebly, he pulled the gauntlet from his right hand, fetching a cloth from his hip pouch to wipe his mouth. That's when he noticed that the pain was gone from his body. Startled, he worked his right arm in a full circle, noticing that aside from a few twinges, he was completely healed. But at what price? he wondered.

Standing, his head spun for a moment. He braced himself against the pedestal, trying to steady himself. After a moment, the world stopped whirling around him and he was able to regain his balance.

Adjusting the sword so he could draw it easily, Ix turned, checking the room one last time. Aside from the braziers in each of the corners and the pedestal with the chest, the stone chamber was completely empty. There was something else here, yes? For some reason, he couldn't quite remember exactly what was missing.

As he turned and left the chamber, the man named Ix didn't see the pair of glowing red eyes that flickered briefly over the empty chest.

Upon reaching the entrance to the tunnel, Ix saw that the skeletal warriors hadn't budged. They still milled about, screaming their infernal cries. Towering over them, the giant skeleton hefted its massive club menacingly.

Steeling himself, the white-haired mercenary drew his sword. The eldritch runes along the shining elven blade seemed to catch the dim white glow that hung in the air, gathering it in and radiating it as a pale, unholy aura.

Crouching, Ix leapt, his blade arcing out and shearing through a skeletons ribs and backbone, splitting the creature in half. A gutteral roar ripped from his throat as he lunged forward, his sword leading him onward. Ancient steel split bone and iron alike, hewing through the undead horde as he slowly made his way back through them once again.

If a skeletal horror got past his blade, his black-gauntleted fist found it, crushing with the weight of a war hammer, smashing skulls and fracturing ribs, sending fragments of bones flying through the air.

Suddenly, the press of bones lifted and Ix found himself in a circle of undead warriors, facing the hulking form of the giant's skeleton. Knowing that he couldn't face such a creature in a fair fight, the man cast about for something to use against the monstrosity, some trick or tactic he could turn to his advantage.

Nothing presenting itself to his roving eyes. There was just him, the undead giant, and a circle of steel caging him in.

Thinking quickly, Ix spied Corenne standing on the raised floor of the temple, watching him. If we can open another gate, we can escape from here. But how to get past these fiends?

At that moment, the massive club came crashing at him. Leaping aside nimble, he brought his blade arcing down to strike the giant skeleton's wrist. Enchanted or not, his blade did little damage to the massive wrist bones, sending only a few bone chips flying.

Dodging the backhand strike of the giant, Ix thought up a daring plan. Nimbly leaping onto the giant's wrist, he vault upwards, catching the fiend's massive collar bone with his hand. Hauling himself up onto the beast's shoulder, he fought to keep his balance as the creature turned its burning sockets towards him.

Letting loose a Clan war cry, the silver-eyed man drove his keen blade home, sinking it between the skeleton's eyes and pushing deep into the skull. A deafening roar erupted from the gaping jaws of the horror, rocking him backward. The crimson glow in of the thing's eyes winked out and the whole bony frame began to topple over backwards.

Using the momentum of the undead creature, Ix leapt towards the temple, sailing over the massed skeletal warriors and hitting the ground with a grunt, rolling and tumbling end over end until he crashed against the raised section that was the floor of the shrine.

He lie there, dazed, the impact against both the ground and the temple fogging his mind with pain. A sharp scream brought some focus back. The elves, he thought grimly. Getting shakily to his feet, he saw what had caused Corenne's distress.

The undead were coming for them.

At the head of the horde was a figure clad in scorched plate armor, blood red runes embossed on the gauntlets and breastplate. In its hands it carried a massive greatsword, as long as Ix was tall and a hand wide at the base of the blade. Black as night, the sword burned with a malevolent crimson flame.

Harsh, gutteral chanting filled the air. The black-armored figure gestured, an unholy hammer of power flickering into being in its gauntleted left hand. With a deft flick of its wrist, the black warrior sent the hammer spinning towards Ix.

The white-haired man tried to dodge the whirling hammer but failed. It struck him full in the chest, sending him flying through the air to crash in a heap on the far edge of the pool.

Huddled on the cold stone, the taste of blood in his mouth, Ix knew he was hurt bad. Dying, perhaps, if he didn't get assistance. Rising slowly to his feet, he looked across the pool. His armored foe was standing there, no more than a dozen feet from him. The wan light in the cavern seemed to darken even more around the figure, shadows wrapping around it like a cloak.

Risking a look behind him, he has that Corenne had the raven-haired elf woman in her arms, half carrying and half dragging her as she backed away, towards the portal wall.

"Corenne!" he called to her, pain shooting through his lungs at the effort. "The portals, see if you can get one open, yes?" The girl nodded grimly, backing up to the wall and laying Illandra on the ground. As she turned her attention to the wall, Ix turned his back to the black-clad warrior across the shimmering pool from him.

His eyes fell back to the faintly-glowing pool. Hitting on a plan, he lashed out at the water with the flat of his blade, sending a spray of the glowing liquid at the armored figure.

As the droplets struck the shadowy figure, a sizzling hiss filled the air, along with a roar of fury as the armored warrior fell to the ground, rolling as the water burned it like acid. After the hissing died down, the figure clambered to its feat, wisps of shadow leaking from the holes in its armor where it had been burned by the water.

With a snarl that was unmistakable, the figure began uttering more harsh syllables, its gauntleted left hand twitchting through the gestures of a spell. Turning, the silver-eyed man ran as fast as he could towards Corenne, who was busy lifting Illandra again. His insides burned like fire and a trickle of blood leaked from his mouth. But I am going to die, I will not let these fiends take the pleasure of it for themselves! his mind howled in fury.

Corenne slipped through the solid-seeming wall as he closed to within a dozen paces, Illandra's arm draped over her shoulder as she carried/dragged her. Suddenly, the chanting ceased, a dark sense of foreboding filling Ix.

Out of the shadows in front of him stepped the black-armored warrior, the bloody symbols etched on its armor glowing evilly in the gloom.

Ix dodged around the shadowy fiend, but he knew he hadn't moved far or fast enough as that massive eldritch blade of black steel spun in an arc, smashing into his left shoulder. Luckily, the magicks in his mail turned the blade, though it did little to stop the sheer force of the huge sword.

The man named Ix felt his left shoulder shatter like it was made of glass as he stumbled through the portal, blood filling his mouth as his own scream of pain and rage filled his ears. With a thundering crash, he was through the portal, pulled into the blackest depths of oblivion.

Chapter 8

The sounds a scuffle woke Talomanes from his dozing slumber. An unknown feminine voice swore loudly, which caused a stir in the dozing woman beside the paladin. Something cold and metal brushed past his arm, causing him to recoil. A blade? His hazy mind was still trying to anchor itself firmly back in reality.

Crouching, he began to make his way towards the unknown voice just as it called out, "Hold! We need help! We've got someone who's injured bad, she'll die without aid!"

Talomanes was turning that over in his mind as something large and heavy crashed into him. Reaching out to grappled with whatever it was that had hit him, he felt a mailed body and armor limbs. His grasping fingers were cut on a razored blade. About to strike at his attacker, he paused, feeling the dead weight of the person and realizing they were unconscious, at best.

"I have your wounded friend here, I think," he called to the patch of darkness where the female voice had come from.

"What? No, I have Illandra right…" The voice trailed off, giving way to a panicked gasp. "Oh, no! Ix! Not him, too!" The weight on the paladin lifted and the sound of an armored body hitting ground came from beside him. "Someone, you have to help them!" The voice sounded almost in tears.

A soft radiance lit the air suddenly, coming from a glowing ball of magic that floated above the ashes of the fire. The light reveal a woman wearing boots, trousers, and the tattered remnants of a cloak with nothing underneath. Blushing slightly as he averted his eyes, Talomanes studied the two people she was fussing over. One was another woman, wearing a fine black riding dress and a deep crimson cloak. For some reason, she seemed familiar…

The third new arrival was a man laying face-down on the floor. A shock of white hair and a flowing cloak nearly the same color as the wounded woman's but made differently were all the paladin could make out. Carefully, he turned the man over, revealing a body armored in blackened mail and with black steel plates protecting the more vulnerable parts of his limbs. His skin was pale, but Talomanes didn't know if that was the natural coloring or from loss of blood, as a trickle of sticky crimson leaked from a corned of the man's mouth.

"Ashera," he called. "This one is hurt bad. He's bleeding on the inside, I think." The cleric approached him timidly from where she had bedded down near the far wall, her eyes taking in the three strangers and himself.

"I don't have much healing power left," she whispered. "I haven't had time to ask Lathander to grace me with more of his divine gifts." Still, she knelt beside the wounded man, beseeching the God of Rebirth and Renewal for his aid. Her hands flickered with a brief blue glow, though nothing seemed to happen to her patient.

Putting his fingers to the man's neck, Talomanes felt for his pulse. Faint…but it's stable…he'll live if he can hold on long enough for Ashera to regain her spells. As he rose from the man, he saw that the gentle cleric had moved on to the women. Approaching slowly, he caught part of the conversation between Ashera and the woman wearing the tattered cloak.

"And she'll be alright?" Flowing brown hair framed a face that was filled with concern. The set of her face and the slight points to her ears bespoke elven blood, perhaps half-elven.

"Yes, she'll be fine. And so will you. The best you can do now is sleep." Ashera guided the woman to a place beside the fire, which she rekindled, letting the magical light die away.

Talomanes bent over the other woman, a raven-haired elf with a regalness that was evident even while she was unconscious. Quickly, he drew her cloak around her body, doing what he could to help keep her warm. He turned and paid the same attention to the man, the one the brown-haired lady had called Ix.

A man named Ix who possess a look I've never seen before and two elvish women, all of whom appear out of nowhere and quite literally trip on us. Wonderingly, the paladin shook his head, casting his eyes around the small shelter for Naestra.

The woman was standing near the curtain outside, clad only in her thin shift. Her right arm was wrapped tightly across her chest as her left dangled by her side. Oddly enough, she was holding one of her long daggers with her left hand, the point brushing the bare skin of her thigh.

Dagger…Something seemed to be hanging right in front of the paladin, but for the life of him, he couldn't put the pieces together.

As she caught sight of him studying her, Naestra regained her composure, straightening up and pulling her shoulders back, which caused her breasts to strain against the thin fabric of her shift.

Coughing to cover his blush, Talomanes knelt beside the fire, smiling as he watched Ashera administer to the brown-haired elven maiden, who also seemed to have been wounded.

Leaning against the flat, solid stone of the wall, the paladin let his head fall back against the cold rock, his eyes closing. Within a span of moments, he was asleep.

A stir of cold brought the paladin to his senses some hours later. Stretching, he knuckled his eyes, working away the sleep that still lingered in his mind.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers while he slept, providing just enough light to see the cracked leather curtain over the entrance swaying gently, as if someone had just left.

Rising from his place by the wall, Talomanes stooped down to pick up his chain shirt and his shredded cloak. It won't do much to protect against the wind, but it's better than nothing, he thought as he worked into the chill metal shirt.

Being careful not to jostle the sleeping form of the brown-haired elf who was sprawled on the ground, he made his way to the curtain, pausing to slip the baldric the held his massive sword over his shoulder. With that, he slipping out into the frigid air of the tundra.

The wind had ceased, leave the plains eerily quiet. The moon bathed the icy ground with a pale light, the snow catching and throwing back the radiance, giving the whole area a vaguely dreamlike quality. The vague grayness at the eastern horizon hinted at a dawn not too far off.

Casting about for whoever had slipped from the shelter, the paladin spotted a shadow that was moving silently away, heading north, towards the city of Develor.

Easing his blade in its scabbard and keeping a wary eye out for orcs or other enemies, Talomanes crept after the shadow, trying to make as little noise as he could. Bending his head to study the tracks in the crust of snow, a sense of danger quickly fell over him. Looking up, he saw that the shadow had disappeared.

He spun, his two-handed sword arcing out of is scabbard to ward off a knife strike aimed at his back, opening a hole in his defense that allow a second blade to dart in nicking, his right forearm where his mail provided no protection.

The moonlight revealed a person in dark leathers, head wrapped in cloth so that only the glint of eyes showed, twin long knives gripped tightly in hands that were as steady as steel.

"Naestra?" Talomanes called quietly.

A snarl was his answer as the figure lunged at him, twin blades flashing in a rapid succession of strikes. The two-handed sword the paladin wielded was excellent for fighting most adversaries, but against the wicked blades he faced now, he saw he was overmatched.

Stinging from a half dozen shallow cuts on his arms, he called again. "Naestra? It's me, Talomanes. What's going on?"

"You were supposed to be dead, fool!" the woman hissed at him. She came at him again, whirling around his blade, her left-hand dagger flicking out at him, barely missing his left eye and scoring a deep gash across his cheek.

Roaring in pain and rage, Talomanes stopped holding back. He threw his weight into a lightning-fast strike at rang against the woman's dagger, knocking her back slightly. Stepping in, he let go of the hilt of his sword with his right hand, drawing back and smashing his gloved fist into the woman's head. Dazed, she stumbled backwards, her guard dropping as the paladin swung again, his fist hitting her hard, sending her sprawling on the snow.

Kicking the daggers out of hands gone limp, he circled her, prodding her lightly with the tip of his blade. Satisfied that she was out of the fight, he resheathed his blade. Tearing a strip of cloth from his tattered cloak, he wiped the blood from his face, pressing the cloth against the tear in his cheek to suppress the bleeding.

His mind spun at a furious pace. Why, after all this time, did she try to kill me? A few pieces clicked in his mind. Was it Ashera? Thinking further, a few more solutions came up. Maybe it was the arrival of those three tonight? Still, he didn't know for sure that the answer was. "Why?" he asked the motionless form.

"Because," the sprawled woman answered, surprising the paladin and causing him to draw his blade again. When she made no move other than to unwind the cloth from her head, he finally lowered his blade. "My guild wanted you dead as a message to your temple to keep their noses out of places they didn't belong."

"Which guild do you belong to?" he asked her, though he already had a hunch.

A brief pause follow by something that sounded like a soft sigh. "I guess it doesn't matter anymore. If you don't kill me, they will. I'm a member of the Blacksword Alliance."

Talomanes nodded to himself. Before he left, rumors had reached the ears of the elders of the Temple of Torm about a rival thieves' guild that had cropped up, leading to warfare both above and under the streets with the "official" thieves' guild of Waterdeep, the Xanathar's Guild.

Naestra continued, "I came to Waterdeep a few months back. They sent me because the Alliance felt they needed someone of my talents there."

"Just what are you talents," the paladin asked quietly.

"I'm an assassin. You were to be my first mark."

Gripping his sword tight, confused and angry, he asked, "Why did you travel all this way with me? Why not simply have stuck a dagger in my back within the first week of our travel?" He held his sword stiffly, his vows as a Paladin of Torm holding him back from killing the woman who had sought to kill him.

"I don't know," she answered softly. "I couldn't do it. There was no reason for you to die. After those first days, I stopped caring about fulfilling my task and just enjoyed travelling. Until tonight, I had been content to ride with you, wherever it was you were headed."

Until tonight…Ashera…With that, the tension went out of him, his sword's tip falling to the snow. He dropped the blade, falling to his knees beside the female assassin. "Naestra…" he said softly.

For a long moment, she didn't stir. Then, ever so slowly, she turned her face towards him, tears plain on her cheeks. "All my life…" she trailed off, shaking her head slightly. Her face hardened as she flashed into motion, drawing her knees up and kicking into herself into the air, twisting to land on the balls of her feet. Snatching up her long knives, she held them before her, gazing at Talomanes with contempt.

The paladin remained kneeling as the assassin closed in, the first glint of sunlight cresting the horizon reflecting off the blades in her hands. Her face was a mask of cold ruthlessness as she neared him, almost within striking distance. Suddenly, she jerked, blinking in confusion. Her brows drew together in puzzlement as she dropped to her knees, the knives tumbling from fingers gone numb. She fell face down into the snow, a black-fletched arrow buried in her back.

"Nooooo!" His mind filled with rage and vengeance, the paladin sprang to his feet, snatching up his sword as he rushed headlong towards the party of orcs that had snuck up on them, heedless of the arrows falling around him.

Sprinting across the distance with a speed borne of fury, he closed rapidly with the dark-clothed humanoids. With a scream of pure berserker fury, his blade flashed in an overhead arc, crashed through skull and splitting the nearest orc from crown to crotch, the two halves of the creature falling in opposite directions.

With blinding speed he lashed out again, gutting a second orc as it dropped its bow, catching it with its sword halfdrawn. The remaining two orcs turns to run.

With two quick steps, a third of the evil humanoids joined its other two companions on the ground, its head still rolling along the snow. The fourth orc thought it had escaped death when a whistling whoosh came to its ears a split second before a massive blade crashed into its back, hurling the beast forward as the momentum of the throw carried it onward.

Retrieving the blade, Talomanes surveyed his grim handiwork. Four orcs dead in a score of heartbeats. Feeling no pride in this butchery, only a sense of loss, the paladin cleaned his blade and resheathed it as he broke into a ragged run towards the fallen Naestra.

As he reached her, he saw that blood had formed a dark stain on the snow around her. Kneeling beside her, he checked her wound, saw that the arrow had sunk deep into her back, nearly reaching her heart. With a grimace, he jerked the shaft loose, tossing it aside. Gingerly, he rolled her over, lifting her so she was off the ground.

Gazing down at the small woman in his arms, he was struck by how innocent she seemed, her face serene. Her eyes were closed, a bit of snow flecking her eyelashes. Stripping the glove from his hand, Talomanes brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. As he did, he felt a slight warmth on his thumb.

Frowning, he pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse. For a long moment, he felt nothing. Then, ever so slightly, he felt a fitful thrum beneath his fingers. She's dying…nearly dead already…and there's nothing I can do…Ashera is spent, there's no healer from here to Develor…Bleakness pressed in on him as he watched the dying woman he cradled. Assassin though you may be, he told her silently, you are still my comrade and my companion, someone with whom I've shared much these past weeks. He reached up, wipinga stray tear from his cheek before letting his hand fall to his waist, his fingertips brushing his belt pouch.

His belt pouch…Of course! Hope filled him as he tore open his pouch, digging out the small leather case. Tossing it to the ground beside him, he worked it open with one hand, hurriedly pulling out a small vial of golden liquid. Working the stopped out with his teeth, he brought the vial to Naestra's lips.

"Drink this," he urged her quietly as he poured the healing potion into her mouth, praying to Torm for his aid even as a slight worm of fear squirmed in his gut. If it's too late… Tossing the empty vial aside, he massaged her throat with his fingertips, trying to get her to swallow the liquid. It ended up spilling out of her mouth, dripping down her chin and spilling onto the snow.

Pain and anguish coursed through the paladin."Torm! Help me!" he called to his god. For a moment, nothing happened.

With a rush, a sense of peace blossomed in him as he gave himself fully to his god, opening to the divine power in a way he had never done before. His eyes seemed to swim with a golden aura as he felt a surge of energy roar through him, filling his body with a warm tingling. After a moment, the warmth flowed to his hands, which seemed to glow with a holy golden aura. He could feel everything beneath his fingers with astounding clarity, the fabric of her cloak, the imperfections in her leathers, the cool smoothness of her skin.

With a silent urging, the power in his hands seeped into Naestra, hesitant at first, as if the divine light was fighting against some unknown darkness. Then, the barrier broke and Talomanes felt the radiant warmth flow into the assassin, could see the golden glow suffuse her body. Slowly, the light faded, leaving the paladin with a feeling of joy and wonder.

Moaning softly, Naestra stirred in his arms. Her eyelids flickered briefly and then Talomanes found himself staring into her eyes, confusion and the memory of pain clouding them briefly. The tension seemed to go out of her then as she relaxed in his arms, her eyes filling with a look of resignation.

She coughed, briefly. "I suppose you'll kill me now, or take me as your prison-" Whatever else she was going to say was lost against the paladin's lips. She tried to pull back from him for a moment, then gave up her struggle, returning his kiss passionately.

He moved his lips from hers after a long moment, staring deeply into her eyes. She smiled up at him, a slight blush on her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer to her.

There, with the sun casting its first light upon the new day, the paladin smiled back at the assassin, drawing his lips to hers for another tender kiss.

Chapter 9

The kiss seemed to stretch on for an eternity before Naestra finally moved her lips from his. Touching the tear that trailed down Talomanes' cheek, she whispered, "Why?"

The paladin chuckled softly. "Well, I couldn't let you die on me after we've come so far together."

"But…" Her head turned slightly, her eyes falling one of her long knives. "I don't understand."

Slipping a hand down the neck of his mail shirt, he pulled out a thin disc that was bound on a soft leather thong around his neck. Onto the front of the disc was carved the image of a gauntlet, the symbol of Torm.

"Loyalty to those who journey with me, duty to see they come to no harm while in my care," he said gently. Lifting the holy symbol over his head, he set it in the assassin's hands, closing her fingers around it.

Naestra was speechless, turning her eyes from the circle of steel in her hands to the paladin's face and back again. Finally, her lips curved in a slight smile as she sat up, moving out of his arms. "Come on," she said softly. "We wouldn't want the others to worry." She slipped the thong around her neck and tucked the holy symbol under her leathers, then bent to retrieve her knives, slipping them back into their sheaths.

After helping the still-shaky woman to her feet, Talomanes walked over to the dead orcs, bending down to inspect the bodies. The assassin joined him, both of them searching the corpses for anything that might give them a clue as to whom their enemy was.

Most orcs carried some badge that identified their clan, but these four seemed to be all from different clans. The only common thread that linked all of them was that each of them carried a small coin-like marker of silver, engraved with a horned skull on one side and a pair of crossed maces on the other.

Talomanes collected the four markers, dropping them into his belt pouch for safekeeping. As he straightened, he stepped close to Naestra, slipping an arm around her waist to steady her. Smiling at her, he pressed his fingertips first to his lips and then to hers.

Returning his smile, she squeezed his arm. Then, together, they made their way back to the entrance to the lean-to, neither one of them sensing the pair of malevolent eyes that watched them from afar, having been stirred by their touch upon the markers.

Talomanes held the curtain open for Naestra, his eyes sweeping the inside of the shelter. Ashera was talking to both the elven women, the raven-haired one who had been wounded the night before looking rather more healthy. His eyes found the white-haired man, noting that though his eyes were open, he still lay stretch out on the ground, following the conversation going on without adding to it. His eyes, the color of burnished silver, touched the paladin briefly before going back to the three women talking around the fire.

As a blast of cold air announced Naestra's arrival, Ashera turned, her expression concerned. "What happened?" she asked softly.

Blushing slightly, he answered, "An orcish scouting party. Naestra heard them and I followed her out. We got all of them, though, so I don't think we have much to worry about for now. Soon, though, their leader is going to wonder what happened and send another patrol, so we'd better get ready to head out."

Ashera and the brown-haired elf maiden nodded while the raven-haired woman looked a bit confused, pain still tightening her features slightly. The three of them set about gathering up their belongings. The pale man rose to his feet, approaching Talomanes.

"You are Talomanes, yes?" he asked, his voice oddly accented. The paladin nodded. "Your…friend…was telling us about you, yes. And this one, as well." He gestured at Naestra. "Myself, I am Ixdaeliovadi Insudramata. Or Ix, if you prefer," he added with a slight smile. "These are my companions. Corenne," he gestured to the brown-haired woman, "and Illandra." This was to the one wearing the elegant black riding dress.

"Well met, Ix." Talomanes clasped the man's mailed forearm in a warrior's greeting. "As you know, I'm Talomanes Indurian, Paladin of Torm. This is Naestra, my companion and an excellent shot with a bow." The silver-eyed man nodded to the assassin, who returned his nod.

The paladin ran his eyes over the group, nothing that Ashera and the two elves were readied, watching him. "Alright," he said, taking charge of the group. "Let's head back to Develor. Once we get there, we'll see what everyone wants to do and go from there." He turned his eyes to each in turn, finally turning around to gaze at Naestra for a moment. Smiling at her, he winked, then ducked out the curtain.

The assassin followed a few moments later, adjusting her quiver and short bow, both of which were slung over her shoulder. On her heels came the black-armored Ix, his hand resting on the ruby-capped longsword he wore at his hip. Corenne and Illandra, the elves talking quietly in their own language, emerged next, with Ashera bringing up the rear.

Remember the way he had set out only a couple days before, the paladin took the lead, keen-eyed Naestra falling in beside him. Her hair just long enough for a ponytail, she had tied it back with a strip of rawhide, holding it out of her eyes so she could keep a keen watch out for enemies.

As they walked, the paladin and the assassin side by side, the other four following behind, Talomanes noticed that Naestra's soft brown eyes kept flicking his way. She even turned her head slightly once or twice to study him while she thought his attention was focused elsewhere. Why does she keep doing that? he wondered silent, then caught himself, as he was doing much the same to her. That kiss…Was it just something from the heat of the moment? Two companions who had come so far together and needed an affirmation of life after a brush with death? Or…? He didn't know. She probably didn't know, either, and that gave him some measure of comfort.

This first couple of hours of their journey left Talomanes with a building sense of menace, as if something was watching them with a dark purpose. He saw that his companions noticed it, too, as more than one clutched a hilt tightly or firmed their mouth in a grim expression. As they drew closer to Develor, the feeling only grew stronger.

The first attack came around noon, a patrol of a dozen heavily-armed orcs wearing glittering steel hauberks and wielding black iron swords and leather-bound wooden shields.

Shrieking like a falcon, the man named Ix rushed headlong at the humanoids, his shining steel blade held firm, seemingly eager for black orcish blood.

Talomanes followed the warrior, more cautiously both to protect the silver-eyed man's rear and to point out one of the orcs to the assassin. It had held back from the others, its mail hauberk covered by a black shirt bearing the unblinking eye of Gruumsh. In a gutteral voice, it began to chant, raising its arms to the heavens as it called upon the unholy might of the Orc God.

A white-fletched arrow shot in, catching the shaman in the shoulder and throwing off the spell it had been invoking.. After that, Talomanes lost track of the orcish priest, as he and Ix were swept up into a melee with the warriors.

Two-handed sword lashed out to be turned by stout shield. Black iron slashed in to meet nothing by air. The orc lost its balance, stumbling forward and into the paladin's second stroke, slicing diagonally down where neck met shoulder and shearing through mail, felling the beast.

Meanwhile, Ix faced off against two of the humanoids, his keen elvish blade keeping both his opponents back. Dipping, he scooped up a handful of snow, clenching it into a ball and heaving it at one orc, who flinched away from the missile, dropping his guard slightly as the human warrior let the momentum of his throw carry him in a full circle, his blade leaping out to cleave the humanoid's head from its shoulders. As the corpse was falling he struck again, thrusting at the other orc. His blow was met by the creature's shield, so Ix shifted his attack, stepping in close as he deflected his foe's counterstrike. He smashed the ruby-capped pommel of his blade into the orc's face, bringing his knee up into the beast's gut, doubling it over as it tried to catch its breath. Taking a step back, the silver-eyed man brought his blade arcing down, beheading the orc in one swift move.

The paladin kicked the writhing body of the humanoid he had just speared with his two-handed blade, sending it sprawing as he turned to see three orcs charging him at once. Two glowing darts of energy, one blue and one pink, each struck a target, sending them reeling, howling in pain. As the third beast paused, confused, Talomanes stepped forward, his sword cleaving an arc that split mail, flesh, and breastbone, sending the orc tumbling over backwards as a fountain of black blood stained the snow. With two quick strokes, he finished the orcs that had been hit by the pulses of magic.

Panting slightly in the cold air, his breath wisping in front of him, the paladin surveyed the area. Ix was just finishing up his own opponent, the corpses of the two he had already killing sprawled behind him. Two more lay before the women, felled by Ashera's mace and Naestra's knives. Two more orcs had white-fletched arrows sticking from them, one of which was the priest. With the five the paladin had killed, two with the aid of the elves, that accounted for the whole lot.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Talomanes turned to join his companions when a shout from Ashera caused him to spin about, his blade held at the ready.

An elongated circle of some black, glistening substance sprang into being fifty yards behind Talomanes, growing rapidly. Soon, it was taller than the paladin by a good foot. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the surface rippled like oil as a twistied, fiendish creature emerged. It may had once been a man, but the great tear in its stomach and the gray, corpselike pallor of its skin marked it as being undead. As it shambled forward, more and more walked corpses emerged from the shimmering portal, until more than a score of the bloated, rotting undead milled about.

A moment later, the portal disgorged a mass of skeletons, wielding ancient weapons, some still covered with tattered and rusted bits of armor. Foul shadowy creatures also spilled forth, black as night with burning red eyes dancing with dark desire.

The wraiths took up a keening wail as a vicious cry tore from the ranks of the other undead, voiced by spirits consigned to an unlife of eternal damnation. The mass began to move towards the companions, intent on drawing all life from their bodies. Behind the horde of undead, the portal flickered and vanished.

Talomanes backed up until he felt the warmth of Naestra's body behind him. "Take the others and go," he said over his shoulder.

"But-"

"Ix!" the paladin bellowed. "Take the women and get them out of here. Circle around and head to Develor. Go! Do it!" He held the silver-eyed man's gaze for a moment, then the other man nodded.

A faint touch on the back of his neck was followed by Naestra's voice whispering in his ear, "Come back to us." With that, she was gone. Turning, the paladin caught Ashera looking after the assassin, then turned her eyes back to him, her face blank. Ix went last, his blade still in his hand. He gave the paladin one last, grim nod before turning and joining the others in a quick jog.

Turning back to face the oncoming horde, his gleaming two-handed sword held at the ready, Talomanes pushed everything out of his mind save for the image of Naestra, cradled in his arms, her eyes closed as she lay so near death. Then that was pushed aside by the feeling of her lips on his, the smell of her as he kissed her.

A bleak smile on his face, the paladin raised his blade high. "Torm!" he cried. "Guide my blade true on this, my dying day!" With a wordless roar, he charged forward, he blade trailing behind him. As he closed with the undead, his mighty blade swept out, cleaving a shining arc through rotting bone and decaying flesh.

Again and again the Paladin of Torm roared, sometimes in triumph and sometimes in pain, his blade flashing in the light of the sun.

Chapter 10

Head turning left and right, looking for any possible danger, Naestra sprinted across the tundra. The war cries of the paladin had cut off abruptly, though she didn't want to think what that must mean.

Her mind was whirling with what had happened. She didn't know how the paladin fit into anything anymore, but to have to abandon him when… No time for that now, girl, the voice of her instructor thundered in her brain. Keep your eyes sharp and your wits sharper or you'll end up a corpse. Shivering, she ran onward. A brush with death once in a lifetime was close enough for her.

The assassin stopped and spun around, dropping into a crouch as she brought her bow to the ready position. The two elves had been close behind her, only a dozen or so yards away. Ashera and the white-haired man, both burdened by armor, were nearly a hundred yards further back. The cloak of the man named Ix billowed behind him like a flag, snapping in the wind as he ran.

Naestra signalled for the two elves to halt so they could let the cleric and silver-eyed warrior catch up. As she stood there, her mind turned back to dawn, when she had been so intent upon killing the man in front of her that she had failed to hear the orcs sneaking up behind her. She could still feel the bite of the arrow as it sank into her back and the terrible lurch that followed, the pull of something dark and eternal upon her soul.

Then there had been that golden light that snatched her from the blackness, holding her in gentle arms. When she had opened her eyes and seen Talomanes gazing down at her, she knew that it was his arms that had brought her back, and she knew that if she belonged anywhere, it was there, with him.

Shifting uneasily, a slight blush on her cheeks, she watched the pair of stragglers as they approached, Ix running easily in his armor while Ashera panted and gasped for breath.

The white-haired man glanced at the women, then said, "We take one minute to rest, then we move. Stay together, yes. Let us give meaning to that man's sacrifice." Nods met his orders.

Ashera was bent over, her hands on her knees as she tried to get her wind back. Illandra and Corenne were talking quietly amongst themselves, Ix listening to them without their notice. After a moment, he made a quiet statement to them, causing them both to jerk around and stare at him, blushing profusely.

Boots crunching through snow, Ashera joined the assassin. Though the fair-haired cleric was nearly a hand shorter than she, the woman possessed a demeanor that made her seem taller, somehow.

Placing a mailed hand on Naestra's shoulder, the cleric whispered, "Whatever happened between you and Talomanes was for the best." Naestra's head whipped around, catching the oddly blank expression on the other woman's face. Before she could say anything, though, the cleric had moved away, towards the other three.

Nothing happened, the assassin thought. And if it did, it doesn't matter now. He's dead. She turned her eyes back to the east, her fingers touching her leathers where they hid Talomanes' holy symbol. You can't be dead. You just can't…

"Come! We go now." The silver-eyed man took the lead, taking a steady, rolling pace that wasn't quite a jog and covered ground quickly. The others fell in behind him, Naestra taking up the rear, her short bow held at the ready, an arrow nocked in case there was trouble.

As the day drew on and the shadows lengthened, the five companions closed on the town of Develor. All of them noticed a dark smudge on the horizon, like a dark haze hanging in the sky. Concern and fear urged them onward, running as fast as they could towards the town.

At sunset, they reached Develor.

The tent city that had risen outside the town's gate was nothing but a black scar on the ground. The timbers of the wall that had surrounded the town were scorched and shattered, most of the barrier rising no more than a few feet above the ground. The twin stone towers that had stood watch over the gate itself were nothing more than piles of rubble. Oddly enough, there were no bodies among the wreckage of the gate, either from townsman or invader.

Picking their way through the destruction and entering the town itself, the companions saw that the destruction was complete. No building remained standing within the town. It was as if a great sword of fire had simply swept in, cutting down everything in its path.

As they neared the center of the ravaged town, they began to find bodies. One or two, here and there, at first, then giving way to heaps of corpses of a score or more. Men, women, and children had been put to the sword. Though many of the dead showed signs of ash and soot, none of them were burned.

"These people, they were killed after their city was destroyed," Ix observed quietly. "Whoever attack, they herded the people away from town, razed it, then butchered the entirety of the people, yes."

The brown-haired elf woman, Corenne, was weeping softly, Illandra holding her gently in her arms, trying to comfort her, even though she herself was crying silently. Ashera was moving from body to body, laying a hand on each and saying a brief benediction to the Morninglord for a promise of redemption in the Kingdom of the Dead.

The assassin and the mercenary, however, were busy examining the area and keeping an eye out for returning marauders. The silver-eyed man had seen carnage on this scale before and death was a part of the assassin's trade, so the horrors of the town affected them little, though Naestra only touched the bodies briefly with her eyes, especially avoided the twisted corpses of the children.

After she made a full circuit of the area, Naestra approached Ix. "The orcs?" she asked softly.

Nodding slowly, the white-haired man replied, "Yes…but not only. Here, look." He knelt beside the body of a girl who looked no more than sixteen or seventeen winters. Pointing to the gaping wound that had ripped open her throat, nearly severing her head, he said, "This was no orc, though. And this," he pulled a crude arrow with green fletching and the image of a snake burned into the shaft, "bears the mark of a gnoll tribe from the lands to the south."

"Orcs, gnolls, and more horrible things besides… Someone has built themselves quite an army," the assassin observed quietly, her soft brown eyes examining the nearby bodies for more signs.

"And whatever destroyed the city, it was not something natural, yes." The man was turning his head, looking at the blasted wreckage around them.

Naestra's brows drew together. "Magic? Like what destroyed the expedition?"

Nodding, Ix said, "Though I did not see what exactly had happened, I would think it was something similar, yes?" Standing, he said, "Let us get the others. I do not wish to be around here when the sun goes down. Perhaps some of these dead, they do not sleep so restfully. There is a small village, Gemyn's Rest, a dozen or so miles southeast of here. We will press on to there, yes?"

The white-haired mercenary and the brown-haired assassin got the others together and the five remaining companions left the blasted town of Develor as the shadows of night began to gather around the ruined buildings and mounds of dead. Without looking back, they plodded along, following the frozen dirt of the road that led to the hamlet of Gemyn's Rest.

Full darkness surrounded the group, the two elves keeping watch with their keen heat-sensitive eyes. All of them saved for the man named Ix and the assassin stumbled along, fatigue and a jumble of emotions draining the energy from their bodies.

Her thoughts turning over the events of her life, Naestra's eyes swept continually over the moonlit plains. The emptiness of the tundra was a stark contrast to the confusing array of images that danced through her mind. She saw herself with her parents when she was a child growing up on the streets of Iriaebor, plying her skills at begging and pickpocketing among the towers of the merchant city.

She remembered the day her parents had told her she was to marry the son of one of the higher ranking thieves in the guild and the argument that followed. It was then at the age of sixteen winters that she had struck out on her own, eventually falling in with the Blacksword Alliance and ending up being sent to Waterdeep, to be trained as an assassin and a soldier of the shadows in their war with the established thieves' guild, the Xanathar's Guild.

Four years of wandering and training and now she was here. The bleakness of the landscape fit the dark turn her mind had taken. Twenty years, and I have nothing to show for it except what I'm wearing. Her fingers found their way downt he neck of her leathers, pulling out the cold steel disc hanging from her neck. Clenching it in her fist, she thought, Oh, how I wish I had your convinctions, Paladin of Torm. She loosened her hold on the holy symbol, rubbing it gently with her thumb.

Amazingly, for a moment, she felt those strong arms around her once more, the warm golden glow filling her. The strength of the feeling caused her to trip and fall to her knees. Bowing her head, she prayed silently for the soul of the paladin who had given himself to buy them time. Torm, guide your champion safely to your side, that he might serve you in death as he served you in life.

Her ears caught the sound of someone approaching from behind. Naestra got quickly to her feet, ignoring both Ashera's quietly-voiced questions and the tears streaming down her own cheeks.

The bleakness was still there, but it was bearable, as the memory of arms cradling her in a tender embrace lifted her heart and gave her strength.

From the darkness, a pair of glowing red eyes watching the five companions, waiting for the Call. Soon, the guardian would call the creature and its companions to do their duty once more, to draw the life from these mortals bodies and drink their souls as they died.

Hidden by the darkness, the creature was safe, being made from shadowstuff and given a will and a desire to consume life. The shining one's blood had tasted wonderfully sweet, but it had ended too soon, leaving the wraith's thirst unslaked.

Shifting restlessly, the vaguely manlike shape turned its attention to its half score of brethren, each of them eagerly awaiting the time to strike. Soon, the creature thought, the guardian will Call us and we will taste the life of these mortals, revel in their screams of terror and pain. With a chuckle that sounded like rough leather brushing against bone, the wraith looked forward to the coming attack with a malignant relish.

A cold breath of wind brushed Naestra's neck, causing her to shiver and wrap her arms around herself. The wind seemed to sap her strength, making her look forward to the comforts of Gemyn's Rest ahead.

"How much farther?" she called softly, turning to look at Ix.

The assassin found herself staring into a pair of crimson eyes that seemed to float in midair. With a startled exclamation, she jumped backwards, drawing her knives in one smooth motion and lashing out, but the blades passed harmlessly through the creature. With a laugh that sounded like it came from the depths of a tomb, the shadowy beast struck at her, its claws passing through her leathers and sinking into her chest, filling her with a terrible numbness.

Grunting in pain, she stumbling back, falling into the frigid embrace of another of the shadowy creatures. She cried out as pain and a terrifying coldness filled her body, chilling her to her very soul. A streak of silver flashed overhead and abruptly the horrible chill was gone, leaving Naestra filled with fatigue and a dull emptiness.

More of the shafts of silvery light lanced out of the darkness, some passing overhead to land beyond the companions, others seemingly lodging in the air, sinking into the shadow beasts that were attacking the party.

The assassin's keen eyes caught sight of a circle of blackness springing into existence against the moonlit plains. There was a sense of movement and then the arrows that were hanging in the air began to head towards the dark opening as the wraiths in which they were embedded retreated. After a moment, the black portal closed, shrinking to a pinpoint and then vanishing completely.

Lying there, dazed still, she looked to her companions, still trying to piece together what had just happened. Dark forms showed that the others had collapsed, as well, though soft moans indicated that most of them were alive, if injured.

Softly, the sound of stealthy feet on snow carried to Naestra's ears. She looked around, spotting a handful of dark figures creeping towards the felled companions. Gathering her remaining strength, the assassin sprang into a fighting crouch, snatching up her fallen knives and bringing them into a defensive stance.

"Hold!" a soft voice hissed. "We mean you no harm."

Dubious, the assassin didn't relax, yet made no motion towards the figures. The dim shapes likewise made no further moves towards her. After a moment, she relaxed, realizing that in the condition she and the others were in, whoever these people were could kill them all fairly easily. "My friends are hurt," she said simply.

"Yes," the figure facing her murmured. It moved its hand in an intricate series of gestures and one of the other shadows moved forward, towards Naestra's companions. It murmured softly, its hands glowing with a soft silvery aura. Placing its glowing hands on the still form in front of it, the light seemed to seep into the the unconscious person.

As the shadow moved to the next stricken shape, the figure in front of the assassin spoke again. "Be at ease, human. We are here to help you." There was another complex set of motions with its hand and then a softly glowing ball of light winked into being overhead.

Naestra found herself looking at the delicate features and ebon-hued skin of a female dark elf.

Chapter 11

Overcoming her surprised quickly, Naestra asked, "Who are you?" She knew the reputation of the drow and had even dealt with one or two during some of her darker moments in the Alliance. They were bloodthirsty, vicious warriors who raiding anyone who wasn't drow and killed anyone who was that wasn't an ally. Friends were unknown and love was reviled.

The dark elf woman whispered, "I am Anluriel Shandraeya, a follower of Eilistraee, the Dark Maiden."

"Eilistraee?" So far as the she knew, all drow worshipped Lolth, the Spider Queen that had brought the dark elves to their fall from grace millennia before.

Anluriel smiled. "You have nothing to fear from us. Come, let our healer see to you, as well." The drow woman stood, extending her hand to Naestra.

The assassin hesitating a moment before sheathing her knives, taking the proferred hand. Letting the dark elf draw her to her feet, she fell in step with the woman, the two of them heading towards the healer.

In the soft radiance of the glowing ball of light, Naestra looked to the sprawled forms of her companions. Her count showed only three. Frowning, she caught sight of Ashera, who was trying weakly to sit up. Corenne was being treated by the drow priestess and Illandra was moaning softly, showing signs of coming back to consciousness.

"Where's Ix?" she asked.

The drow beside her drew her brow together in a delicate furrow. "Who?"

"A man, another of our companions. He was wearing a red cloak, black armor. I don't see him and I didn't see those creatures carry him off…"

Turning, the dark elf signed something to one of the other dark elves that had taken up a position in a circle, guarding the group. The other elf slipping into the shadows outside the circle of dim light cast by the glowing orb.

"My scouts will look to see if he is near and bring him to us," Anluriel explained.

The drow cleric stood, her fine features drawn and tight. She said something to Anluriel in a language Naestra couldn't make out.

"She says she has done all she can, for now," the leader explained. "Two of your companions are able to walk and the third will need to be carried. If you wish, we can take you with us."

"Thank you." She thought for a moment. "While we walk, perhaps you can tell me what is going on."

The dark elf nodded. "Yes, that I can do. Come. Let us go."

Holding up for a moment, the assassin cast one last look around. "What about Ix?"

"If he is out there, my scouts will find him. Do not worry, if there is anything to be done, we will do it." Anluriel took her elbow, guiding her gently towards the south, away from the road. "Let us go before those creatures come back."

Nodding, Naestra fell in step with the drow woman. Her mind turned over the past few moments. Who are these dark elves and why are they helping us? And who is Eilistraee? Her thoughts changed. And what happened to that man? Ix? Did he run out on us and leave us to those creatures? Or did they take him with them somehow?

As they travelled, Naestra studied the group. Illandra and Ashera were both keeping up, though occasionally one of the drow would have to lend them a hand. Corenne was slung unceremoniously over the shoulder of one of the larger dark elves, her legs dangling in front and her head bouncing in back. All of Anluriel's group seemed to be females, which fit in with what the assassin knew of drow culture. Women held the power and men were little more than breeding stock. This pushed more than a few males to leave their Underdark dwellings and head out on their own, as adventurers or mercenaries or brigands.

She also studied the drow beside her as they walked. Anluriel was the fine features of her elven heritage, her skin the color of deepest night. Her silver hair shone in the moonlight and was pulled back in a simple tail much like the assassin's own. She knew little enough about how drow aged and for all she knew, the drow beside her could be an adolescent of five decades or a mature woman of five centuries.

The scenery changed little over the next few hours, the plains surrounded them were relentlessly empty of anything save for the occasional piles of rocks or snowbank. They had strayed far from the only road, which connected Develor to Gemyn's Rest. Both towns were still too new to have any major roadways linking them to the rest of the world. Develor had sprung up as a haven for adventuring parties that scoured the glacier for relics of ancient empires. The success of a few had brought more seekers, causing an avalanche as more and more people came, and then the people to support the first group, and so on and so on.

Food had been brought in overland from Icewind Dale to supplement the little that was grown in Develor's own sparse fields; other supplies had to be brought over the Spine of the World, a costly process, as both the distance was long and the perils were many.

Which makes this whole region a wonderful staging ground to start an empire of beasts already accustomed to its harsh way of life, she thought, her mind remembering the orcish marauders.

The night wore on and exhaustion began to creep up on Naestra. She saw that Illandra and Ashera both were stumbling along, barely able to stand beside the supporting arms of the drow beside them.

"How much farther is it?" she asked Anluriel softly.

Instead of answering, the dark elf simply pointed at a rough mound of rocks. As they approached, the assassin saw that there was a narrow opening among the rocks, leading back into darkness.

"Take my hand," Anluriel murmured quietly. Naestra took the drow's hand, holding tight as she was led into the darkness.

In the cave, there was no light at all, and the only sound came from the whisper-soft tread of boots on stone. With nothing to do and nothing to hold onto save the hand of the dark elf in front of her, Naestra began counting her steps.

Long minutes stretched on, and the assassin gave up her count at two hundred paces, because of the long distance covered and the startling amount of sharp turns and winding paths. Still they moved onward into the black.

As it seemed like the darkness was swallow them all, it suddenly winked out, and Naestra found herself blinking in a large cavern that held a phosphorescent glow. Looking around, she saw that the entire group, some dozen or so dark elves and herself and her four remaning companions, stood in the center of the cavern. Its ceiling soared high, a hundred feet about the worn stone of the floor. The walls were perhaps twice that length apart, with one side of the cavern holding a sparkling pool fed by a tumbling waterfall and the other holding an opening to the tunnel that they must have come through.

The dark elves used magic to blind us as they led us here, the assassin reasoned. But why? What do they have to fear from us?

There was movement off to her left, and Naestra saw that Ashera and Illandra were being led to a patch of stone that had what looked to be sleeping mats stretched out. The elf carrying Corenne had already depositing her unconscious load onto one of the mats.

"You may join your friends and sleep, if you wish," Anluriel said softly, having caught the subject of Naestra's gaze. "Or you may explore the cavern." She paused a moment. "There are, however, two places you may not go." She pointed towards the opening that the assassin had figured for their entrance point. "That leads up to the surface, yet to go up there may be to risk discovery by those creatures which attacked you, if they are still looking. The other place you may not go is there." She pointed again, to a small cave entrance near the pool. "We have a patient that was pulled from the brink of death and needs to recover before venturing out again."

The assassin nodded mutely, her eyes taking in everything, memorizing it for any possible extreme, whether defending against orcs or those shadow creatures or having to fight her way free of the drow.

"If it is alright with you, I think I'll join my comrades," she said quietly.

The drow woman smiled. "Of course. I'll have food and drink brought to you, if you wish it." Naestra nodded, already turning towards her companions and the promise of a few hours' sleep.

When she awoke some hours later, Naestra kept her eyes closed, listening intently for any sounds nearby. Nothing came to her ears save for the soft burbling of the waterfall that fed the pool.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, looking around the area. Her three companions were all nearby, still asleep. Turning her head a bit more, she saw the dark elves stretched out on the opposite side of the cavern, sleeping save for a single sentry who's attention was focused on the exit.

Rising, the assassin worked the kinks out of her back, stretching and making enough movement that the sentry saw her. When she saw the drow look in her direction, she nodded towards her then casually turned and strolled towards the pool. Up close, she saw that the pool was clear as crystal and deepened gradually, so that the bottom was only a dozen feet down at its deepest point.

Checking surreptitiously to make sure the sentry could see her, she unbuckled her belt, folding it and arranging her series of pouches and sheathes on the ground. Next, she worked her way out of her leathers, stacking them in a neat pile. She sat down, pulling off her boots and setting them beside her leathers. Standing back up, she slipping out of her dark shirt, letting it fall in a heap, adding her pants as well. She stretched for a moment, clad only in her thin shift before finally lifting that over her head and adding that to the pile of her clothes.

Naked, she approached the edge of the pool, untying the strap of rawhide that held her hair back, tossing it aside. Carefully, she tested the water with her toes and found that it was cool but not cold.

She waded out into the water, moving further and further away from the shore. When the water finally reached halfway up her chest, she turned and saw that she was half a dozen yards from the edge.

Taking a deep breath, Naestra fell forward, slipping under the surface. The cool water invigorated her, stealing away the last vestiges of fatigue and weakness from the fight the night before. She bobbed back up, rolling over onto her back and floating serenly on the water.

For nearly a half hour, she remaing motionless there, letting the water carry her body and her mind away, losing herself in a moment of pure relaxation. Finally, with a soft sigh, she righted herself, swimming towards the shore until she could put her feet down and walk more easily.

Reaching her pile of clothes, she slipped a small bar of lavender soap from a pouch at her belt, turning and heading back towards the water. Wading back in, she began slowly and methodically washing her skin and her hair, scrubbing away the dirt and grime of days on the plains, as well as soot and ashes from the ruins of Develor.

Finishing her bathing, she returns the soap to its place and once more swam out into the pool. She had been floating there for just a handful of minutes when she saw the sentry's attention to her again. Roughly fifteen minutes between checks. Good.

When the dark elf turned back to the cave entrance, Naestra took a deep breath and slipped under the water, swimming under the surface. She held her breath until it felt like her lungs were going to pop, but still she swam onward. Finally, she surfaced, gasping for breath. Good, she though. A bend in the cavern wall blocked her from the line of sight of the sentry. She had about ten minutes of safe time to find out who this mysterious patient was.

Making her way along the cavern wall, she left the pool, creeping towards the small cave, keeping to the shadows to prevent her from being easily seen. She reached the dark entrance with a good five minutes to explore.

She had worried about there being light, but now the assassin saw that the end of the tunnel was lit with a flickering radiance, probably a torch or larger flame. Silently, she crept along the passageway, easing towards the open doorway and the room at the end.

Finally, she reached a point that she could see around the wooden door jamb and into the room. There was indeed a fire flickering in a chiselled section on the far wall, its light showing a small writing desk holding a few sheets of parchment and a couple books. On the wall opposite the desk was a cot that was empty, though the rumpled blankets showed that someone had been sleeping there recently.

With only a few safe minutes left, the assassin began backing up, but bumped against something solid and unmoving. Blinking in surprised, she straightened, about to turn around and explain herself to whoever it was when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her in a crushing grip.

Chapter 12

As she was lifted into the air, Naestra lashed out behind her with her feet, trying to kick her opponent somewhere that would loosen the grip that held her fast. Her foot connected with what felt like a knee, but the blow jarred her as much as it did her assailant.

Changing tactics, she threw her head back as hard as she could, feeling her skull smash into someone's face. The arms loosened enough that she was able to slip her still-damp body out of the hold. She hit the ground and somersaulted forward, twisting in mid-motion and coming up in a brawler's crouch.

Her assailant was a man, clad in a pair of boots and supple leather pants and clutching at his face. This was the first male she had seen among the dark elves. His fair skin, rounded ears, and above average height said that he was human. What is a human doing among these drow women? Fearing some kind of grim alliance of villains, she closed on the man in front of her, moving to deliver a killing blow with her hands. Yet she stopped her advance when she caught sight of the ragged, half-healed scars that criscrossed the man's body.

A jagged set of three scars, looking to have been caused by the claws of some hideous beast, ran from his left shoulder, crossing down his chest and ending at his right hip. His arms bore slashed that looked to have been made by the edge of a blade. And on his left shoulder was a circular scar that looked like an old arrow wound, as it was a pale pink instead of the angry red of the others.

Finally, the man lowered his hands from his face, shaking his head to clear it. The assassin's breath caught in her throat. "Talomanes?" she whispered, scarcely believing her eyes.

A slow smile spread across that familiar face, though a new scar crossed from over his right ear and snaked down to his jaw. "Hello, there," he said quietly. In the next instant, Naestra had thrown her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

Blushing a deek crimson, the paladin returned the embrace. "Ah, you're, um, naked," he observed sheepishly.

The assassin laughed happily, burying her face against his neck. "So what if I am?" she answered teasingly. Talomanes pulled away from her slightly, moving his fingers under her chin and lifting her face to his. Smiling softly, he leaned down, bringing his lips to hers for a long kiss.

Naestra leaned into his kiss, holding him tighter and pressing her body to his. Suddenly, she remembered the sentry, yet found that she no longer cared as she felt the paladin's arms go around her, lifting her easily and carrying her towards the cot.

The assassin shifted slightly, draping her leg over the paladin's and snuggling up against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He drew her closer with the arm he had wrapped around her waist, stroking her cheek with the fingertips of his other hand. Bending his head down, he kissed her gently on the forehead.

Naestra felt as though she were floating in the pool again, though the coolness of the water was replaced by a deep warmth that seemed to ripple in waves through her body. She turned her eyes to the man with whom she lay, studying his face as he watched her dreamily.

Kindness touched the edges of eyes the deep green of a forest glen, making the refined features of his face seem as if they would be more fitting on a priest in a peaceful backwater village. His gentle face was completely at odds with the powerful grace and vicious skill with which she had seem him cut down his foes with his massive sword.

Talomanes, in turn, was wondering at the beauty he held in his arms. Naestra's fine features and supple frame continued drawing his eyes along her soft curves, though his eyes always wandered back to hers. Now, they were a soft brown, like freshly-tilled soil, yet he had seen them blaze the color of molten copper at the height of passion.

Feeling himself being drawn into her eyes again, the paladin leaned down, meeting her lips as she brought them to his. Again, he felt the stirrings of passion and saw the flame reflected in her eyes.

The fire had burned itself down to embers by the time the paladin awoke. He found he had lost all track of time, caring for nothing except the woman who now dozed on his chest. Her legs straddled his waist, pinning him down, but he had no desire to be anywhere except right there, with her.

Slowly, he ran his hands lightly down her back, drinking in the feel of her smooth skin under his palms. She stirred, folding her hands on his chest and propping her chin on them, staring deep into his eyes, a tender smile on her lips. "That was something I never thought I'd find," she said softly.

Talomanes furrowed his brow slightly. "What's that?"

"Someone who saw me as more than just a cutpurse or a hired blade. Someone who saw me as a woman." She stretched towards him for a moment, kissing him gently.

"You'd never…?" He found he couldn't finish the question.

A slight smile curved her lips. "No," she said simply. She paused a moment before reluctantly asking, "Had you?"

This time, it was his turn to smile. "My vows prevent me from laying with a woman I do not intend to wed," he murmured.

It took a moment for the substance of that statement to work its way through the dreamy fog that shrouded the assassin's mind. When it finally hit home, she blinked in confusion, then her eyes widened. "Wed?"

"Aye," the paladin said gently. He reached up, stroking her cheeks with his fingers.

Naestra's face relaxed into an expression of dazed happiness. "I would like that," she murmured, her eyes drooping shut as she drifted off into a contented slumber.

A cheery warmth filled the room, mirroring the the warmth that coursed within the assassin. When she finally opened her eyes, she was lying on her side, facing the doorway to the room. Talomanes held her in a tender embrace, his body pressed against her from behind, his arms wrapped around her waist.

Naestra saw that someone had rekindled the fire as well as piled her things neatly on the writing desk, the clutter of papers and books that had rested there having been removed. She was starting to worry that someone had discovered her there when she noticed the paladin's pants, which had found their way from the floor to the back of a chair, tossed too casually to have been done by anyone but he himself. After all, why would someone take the effort to put my things just so and then toss his around like that? She chuckled softly to herself, then blinked and chuckled again. And who am I to be wondering about something so inane?

A smile crossed her face as she snuggled back against the sleeping paladin. She knew now who she was and where she belonged. Yes, one of the Blacksword Alliance's trained killers, wife to a righteous man of the god of duty and loyalty. The thought brought an ironic smile to her face.

Gradually, the expression slipped from her face as she thought about the Alliance. They treated those who left their ranks without consent very harshly… And for someone to leave in the middle of a job… The assassin sighed, not wanted to think about such things right then.

Letting that line of thinking go, she lost herself for a time in the feeling of Talomanes' arms around her, in his scent, and in the sound of his slow breathing. Gradually, his breathing began to change, lightening as he came back from the world of dreams.

Naestra twisted on the cot, turning to face him, finding his eyes open and gazing at her with an expression of warmth and joy. He smiled at her before kissing her tenderly. "Good morning," he said softly.

"Good afternoon would be more like it," she replied with a smirk. The paladin chuckled softly. Her eyes fell on the new scar lining his face. She reached up, tracing it with a fingertip. "Yesterday, how did you…?"

"The elves," he said simply. He brushed his lips lightly against hers before going on. "They came just at…at the end." His fingers traced the scars that crossed his chest. "I was wounded…dying…" Pausing, he seemed to gather himself before going on. "Yet still I felt Torm's fire burning in me and I fought on even as I bled. I was so intent on butchering those unliving monstrosities that I hadn't noticed the elves among them until it was only them and myself still standing. One of them, Anluriel, approached me and asked if I needed aid. Then everything went black. When I woke, I was here." He gestured, his hand taking in the room where they lay.

Naestra hugged him close, resting her cheek against his chest. "I nearly lost you so soon after finding you," she murmured.

The paladin took her chin in his fingers, lifting her eyes to his. "Naestra, I love you," he said softly.

A gentle smile graced a face that, for so long, had been used as a mask behind which to hide. "And I love you, my Talomanes, my paladin." She kissed him long and hard, relishing the feel of his body against hers. After what seemed like a small eternity, he finally broke the kiss.

"We should be up and about," he said with a slight smile. "I spoke briefly with Anluriel while I was gathering your things. I let her know where you were, so she wouldn't worry." He traced her lips with a fingertip. "Tonight, the elves will try to locate the source of these undead. They think it's someone different than the one who commands the orcs."

"Did her scouts ever find Ix?"

The paladin shook his head. "No, she said it seemed as if he just vanished. There were no other tracks leading from where they had found you except those made by the group you were with."

The assassin turned that over in her mind before kissing Talomanes again. With a sigh, rolled over, sitting up as she set her feet on the floor. She stood and walked to the table, picking her folded shift from the stack of clothing.

Talomanes watched Naestra as she moved, the light of the fire dancing on her bare skin. She slipped into the thin garment, smoothing it with her hands. Catching the paladin watching her, she threw him a wink before stepping into her pants, pulling them up and tucking the hem of her shift into the waist. Next, she slipped into her dark shirt, settling it around her before strapping on her leathers. Finally, she wound her belt around her waist, buckling it and shifting the array of pouches into a more comfortable setting, making sure she could draw her knives quickly and easily. Then, she sat upon the table, watching the paladin with a look of amused expectation.

Chuckling to himself, Talomanes slipped out of bed, planting his feet on the ground and stretching. He yawned, gingerly scratching the scars on his chest. "They itch," he muttered darkly, bringing a snort of laughter from the assassin.

He wandered over to a chest that Naestra hadn't noticed, hidden as it was in a niche in the wall. He pulled it out and threw back the lid. From inside, he pulled out a pair of soft brown leather pants, sitting on the foot of the bed as he slipped them on. Bending forward, he laced them tight around his calves before standing up and doing the same to the waist. Next, he lifted out a loose white shirt, drawing it over his head and tying the cuffs snug.

Sitting on the bed again, he pulled on a pair of knee-high leather boots, reinforced along the shin and top of the foot with angled steel plates. He lifted a set of shining steel greaves from the chest, strapped them to his upper legs. Standing up, he drew out a chain hauberk, slipping it over his head. The mail settled over his body, falling to mid-thigh. From the bottom of the chest, he took a set of worked pauldrons with flaring edges and a set finely-worked steel vambraces, setting each piece on the bed, followed by a pair of segmented steel-backed gauntlets and a open-faced steel helm. Bending at the waist, he pulled the last item from the chest, a gleaming steel breastplate.

Talomanes slipped his head between the two halves of the piece, settling the weight of the breastplate on his shoulders as he tightened up the straps. Next, he belted the pauldrons to his shoulders, finishing up by buckling the vambraces onto his forearms.

He tossed his gauntlets into the helm, leaving them on the bed as he retrieved his two-handed sword. The worn leather of the scabbard was at odds with the beautifully polished plate he wore, but as he settled the blade across his back and buckled the belt around his waist, anyone could see that the sword was as much a part of him as was the rest of the steel he worse.

His eyes shining, the paladin walked towards Naestra, his armor clinking softly. He knelt smoothly in front of her, unhindered by the metal he wore wrapped around him. Beaming up at her, he reached into a pouch in his belt, closing his hand around something and drawing it out.

Slowly, he held up his right hand, his fingers unwrapping from the object he held. There, nestled in the palm of his hand, was a simple band of worked platinum, a benediction to duty and loyalty inscribed around the eternal circle.

He smiled up at her, his eyes full of love. "I have something for you," he murmured softly. Taking her left hand in his, he gently slid the band onto her ring finger. Naestra responded by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly.

When he was finished being quite thoroughly kissed by the assassin, Talomanes prepared to stand, but stopped as he spotted her bare feet. A wicked grin flashing across his face, he lunged forward, grabbing her right foot and holding it firmly in one hand while he tickled her sole with his fingertips.

Naestra broke into peals of laughter, squirming on the table and trying to kick him with her free foot, doing nothing more than pounding on his armor with her heel. Finally, the paladin ceased his torture, letting her laughter subside. With a tender smile at her, he kissed each of her toes before heaving himself to his feet.

Crossing back to the bed, he picked up his steel-backed gauntlets, slipping them onto his hands. "Come, beloved," he said softly as he picked up his helm. "We've got work to do now." Slinging his helm under his left arm, he offered his right to her.

After stepping into her boots, Naestra slipped her arm through his, taking his mailed hand in hers and squeezing gently. Together, the paladin and the assassin headed into the passageway.

Chapter 13

Bitter cold hung in the air as dark storm clouds blocked out the moon, throwing the wind-blasted tundra into near total darkness. The wind howled with berserker fury as it scoured the plains for any spark of warmth to steal. From the dark clouds above, a light snow had begun, being driven on whirling eddies by the lustful winds.

A pair of faintly glowing red eyes tracked the motions of the wounded figure, reading the scant traces of heat working their way out of the limping figure's clothes. A heavy body, covered in hair thicker than a human's, shifted slightly, easing into a position to draw the heavy-bladed axe that hung at its side should the need arise. So far, the creature had been content to watch and wait.

The wounded one below paused in its flight, head cocked to the side, listening. The hidden watched listened, as well, trying to catch what had caught the attention of the one it spied upon.

Carried faintly on the frigid wind came the keening howls of a pack of winter wolves, no doubt having found the trail of blood the one below had left as it fled. Where the wolves prowled, their masters would not be far behind. The wounded one knew this as well as the one who watched, and tried to run, but ended up making only a staggering hobble before collapsing in the snow.

Growling to itself, the watcher rose and sprinted towards the fallen figure, motionless now on the snow. This was the first time it had ever done anything like this, thwarting the will of the winter wolves' masters. Yet it wouldn't see the wounded one be torn to shreds when it could do something about it.

As the creature approached the motionless body, it saw what it had been expecting. A soft white cloak was wrapped loosely around a body covered in furs, yet what struck the watcher was the night-black skin the color of night and the shock of snowy white hair. It had seen elves before, but it had been long indeed since it had seen one such as this…

When it was a few steps away, the creature saw the elf, a female, open her eyes and look at it, her hand clutching the hilt of a slim-bladed sword at her hip.

"No, elfie!" the creature said in broken Common. "Me no hurt. Come. Get you fixed." But the elf's eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed to the ground.

Fearing it might be too late, the watcher picked up the unconscious elf, hefting her over its muscled shoulder. Casting around for somewhere to hide, the watcher saw that the only means of escapement and, hopefully, concealment lay along the path the elven woman had been running.

Ducking its head against the wind and ignoring the approaching howls of the winter wolves, the creature sprinting as fast as it could, the weight of the elf slowing it little. After a hundred paces, the wolves were very close indeed, nearly within sight.

Suddenly, the ground broke away under the watcher, spilling it and its burden down a frozen streambed. Tumbling to a stop, the creature scooped up the battered elf and howled in victory. Not more than a dozen paces was a small cave, hollowed out by the river that flowed through the stream during the warmer months.

Knowing that it would have to fight the winter wolves, the watcher hurriedly entered the shelter of the cave, setting the bleeding elf as gently as it could on the ground and draping its own cloak atop her to keep her warm. Then, the creature turned back to the mouth of the cave, slipping the axe from its belt and holding it in a two-handed grip.

For a long moment, there was no sign of the wolves. Hoping that some god had given a blessing and that the keen-nosed wolves had lost its trail, the watcher relaxed slightly. That's when the first white-furred shape burst through the cave mouth.

A snowy coat covered an emaciated, unhealthy-looking body that was twice as large as a normal wolf. The lips on the heavy muzzle were pulled back in a rabid snarl, baring knife-sized teeth. A malevolent intelligence glittered coldly in the glowing red eyes.

The black iron halfmoon blade of the axe whipped out, catching the wolf in its mouth and shearing off its bottom jaw before crunching through its neck, sending jaw, head, and body tumbling further into the cave.

The second and third wolves were faster and smarter. One rushed the watcher, earning a slash that gouged out an eye, but its comrade slipped past its foe's defenses, latching dagger-like teeth onto the watcher's left arm, the momentum of the wolf sending it tumbling backwards.

Black blood seeped around the wolf's muzzle as it chewed through flesh and muscle, powerful jaws doing their grisly work. The watcher's right hand seized the beast's throat, squeezing and pulling steadily back. With a wet ripping sound, the wolf's throat came away in the iron-fisted grip.

Standing shakily, the watcher met the attack of the blinded wolf, but its one-eyed coordination put it at a disadvantage. A fist to its head sent it spinning, slamming into the cave wall with bone-crushing force. A moment later, the wicked black axe went spinning after it, sinking deep into the beast's skull. Whimpering pitifully, the wolf's legs twitched as it died, its claws scrabbling on the cave floor.

Grunting in pain, the watcher tore long swaths from its shirt, using the strips to bind its mauled arm, which was bleeding heavily. When it was finished, it retrieved its axe, slipping it back into its belt before hauling the wolves' corpses deeper into the cave.

That done, it sat beside the elf and waited, blunt fingers stroking the blood axe blade as it fervently hoped that the wolves' masters would miss the cave into which their pets had disappeared.

Soon, deep, gutteral voices called out in a harsh language, a language the watcher knew well. Calling to the wolves. Closer and closer the voices came, most of their words carried off by the wind.

With astounding fury, the windstorm turned into a full-blown blizzard, the tortured winds whipping into a frenzied gale, the snow falling in thick waves.

Expecting the wolves' masters to come crashing into the cave at any moment, the watcher crouched, its axe now in its hands once again. Moments passed, turning into long minutes. After nearly an hour, the watcher finally relaxed, slipping its axe in its place.

Drawing a heavy dagger from it boot, the creature fell to butchering the wolves, skinning and gutting the animals. When it was done carving up the meat, it buried the entrails in the back of the cave in a shallow hole it dug. The meat got set aside as it turned its attention to the skins.

Using broken sticks and rocks, the watcher wedged one of the skins over the cave entrance, which was small enough that the wolf pelt blocked out most of the snow. Soon, the snow had piled against the makeshift door, sealing them in. Knowing the snow would trap in heat, the watcher nodded to itself, pleased with its handiwork.

Making a pile out of some of the driftwood that lined the cave, the watcher got a small fire going with a piece of flint and its dagger. Once the fire had warmed the cave enough, the watcher laid down a wolf pelt near the fire.

Taking its cloak from the elf, it tore it into strips, setting them aside. Next, it removed the elf's own cloak and furs, revealing a dark mail shirt and pants. The shirt had a rent in the right side, showing smooth ebon skin broken by a ragged gash.

Muttering to itself, the watcher pulled the chain shirt over the elf's head. Then, it moved to her feet and pulled off her boots and then her mail pants. Lastly, it cut away her underclothes with its dagger before setting the naked elf on the white fur of the wolf pelt.

With competent skill, it cleaned her wounds, thick gray fingers spreading a gooey ointment on afterwards. Pulling a clean bit of wool from the sack at its belt, the watcher bound it to the elf maid's side with the strips town from its cloak. Her less minor wounds got treated first with water and a rag, then with the pasty ointment.

When it was finished tending her wounds, the watcher wrapped her back in her cloak and the furs she had worn over her armor. Satisfied she would be warm enough, it set its waterskin near her in case she woke up thirsty later. Then, trying to stifle a great yawn, it wrapped itself in the last wolf skin, curling up beside the fire and falling into a deep slumber.

Consciousness returned slowly, like a smooth peddle that skipped just out of reach whenever Maezinessa got close. Marshalling her concentration, she finally seized wakefulness with a deathgrip, forcing herself to awaken.

Eyes opening slowly, she surveyed as much of her surroundings as she could without turning her head. It seemed she was lying on her back in a cave, a fire flickering on her right side. The combination of the fire and her wrappings made her almost uncomfortably hot.

When she tried to push her way out from under the bedding, her right side twinged horribly, sending a shuddering wave of pain through her body. Moaning softly, she lay back, resting for a moment to regain her strength.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed what she recognized as her own cloak and furs off of her. The cold bite of air against her bare skin caused her to gasp and sent a shiver down her spine.

Turning her attention to herself, she saw that someone had stripped her of her clothing and possession and had tended her wounds, even bandaging the gash from an orcish axe in her side.

The soft sound of snoring came to her from a mound covered in another white pelt that lay across the fire. Spotting her discarded swordbelt, she snatched her slim longsword from its scabbard, standing up stiffly. Making her way around the flickering flames, she carefully pulled back the top half of the pelt with the point of her longsword.

A bare-chested orc lay sleeping face-down on the ground, its head pillowed on its beefy forearms.

Quickly, Maezinessa backed away, looking around for some means to escape. Her keen ears caught a change in the orc's breathing. Slowly, it rolled over, sitting up and blinking blearily. When it had cleared the sleep from its eyes, it focused first on the sword being pointed at it, then the naked elven woman wielding it. Concern flashed across its heavy-browed face.

"Elfie, be careful. No want you to hurt yourself. Have to fix you once already, Korg did." Ponderously, it got to its feet, glancing once at the point of the slim blade facing it before pushing it aside. Moving in close to the elf, it said, "Come. Sleep. Rest. Heal." With that, the strength went out of the elf maid, her body going slack. The orc was quick and caught her before she could fall, lifting her into its arms like a child and carrying her back to her pallet.

Setting her down gently, it tucked her cloak back around her, though leaving off the fur wrappings. Seating itself beside her, it took her hand in its own, giving her a fatherly pat on the head.

"Don't worry, elfie. You let Korg take care of you. He no let you get hurt."

For some reason, Maezinessa found that oddly comforting, and before long, sleep had reclaimed the wounded dark elf.

The scent of food finally brought Maezinessa back from unconsciousness. A thick, meaty smell mixed with several unknown herbs hung in the air. Her eyes flickered open and the elf saw that the orc, Korg, was busy fidgeting with a small pot he'd hung over the flames using a tripod made of bones.

Seeing that his patient was awake, the orc's face spread in a toothy grin. "Hungry, elfie?" he asked in his deep, gravelly voice. Maezinessa nodded, making Korg's grin grow even broader. "Dat good. I make a nice stew for you. Wolfies gonna eat you, but now you gonna eat wolfies." The orc chuckled to himself.

Holding her cloak tightly around herself, the drow maid sat up carefully. The pain in her side was mostly gone, replaced by a stiffness as the wound healed. Her mind turned over her last memories, of leaving the hidden cavern that she and her sisters-in-arms had used as a base of operations, venturing out to scout for the orcish army. The party of orcs that had caught her unaware as she lay in the snow, watching the main body moving across the plains, the short fight that ended up with more than a few of them dead and a terrible wound in her side. The cold-filled flight across the tundra, trying to lead the orcs away from her comrades' hiding place before she died. Then…waking up here.

From across the fire, Maezinessa studied the orc as he tasted the stew, then shaking his head and adding a pinch of something from a sack at his belt. He was as tall as most of his kind, with a thick torso and powerfully-muscled arms. His skin was a pale gray color, and the hair on his arms and head was the color of shining steel. The sloping brown and the two small tusks that jutted from his lower jaw gave his face a primitive quality, but his eyes and the set of his mouth gave him a decidedly friendly demeanor.

The drow turned her eyes around the cave, nothing her pile of armor and clothing, as well as a pile of bones and several small piles of meat. "Where are we?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly.

"We be in a cave," the orc said, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. He tasted his stew again and nodded in satisfaction. "Dere be a human town near here. Orcs no find it yet, but Korg think he might be able to take you dere."

That gave Maezinessa a pause. "Aren't you an orc?"

"Just 'cause Korg be an orc don't mean he one of dem orcs." He fetched a small tin cup from his sack, pouring some stew into it and holding it out to the elf maid. "Eat, elfie. You gonna need your strength if we be going anywhere."

She accepted the cup from him with a nod of acknowledgement, sipping from it gingerly to avoid scalding her mouth. Blinking in surprise, she swallowed and took another sip. The stew was good!

Catching the look on her face, Korg looked pleased. "Korg be considered good cook among some. Him glad you like his stew." He reached across the fire, covering up her shoulder where her cloak had slipped off. "Korg sorry he had to cut your clothes off, elfie. Him was worried about you and didn't want you to die here."

Maezinessa smiled at him. "Don't worry, friend Korg. I'm certain we can think of something." Her words left the orc beaming across the fire at her. "What happened? Out there, I mean." She gestured vaguely with her hand. "I remember falling in the snow…and then I woke up here."

Her companion nodded. "Korg was watching you, saw you fall. Didn't want you to get eaten by da wolfies or let da masters find you, so him pick you up and carry you. Found cave here and killed da wolfies. Was glad da masters didn't find, would have been hard to kill dem."

The elf nodded, taking that in. "I'll have to leave soon. I wasn't supposed to be gone this long."

Korg pondered for a moment. "Korg go wid you. Him good wid axe and can cook good stew," he said proudly.

The drow's lips twitched into a smile. "I believe you. But I don't think you will be welcome with my friends."

The orc frowned. "You go back wid da black elfies? Dem s'posed to be wicked, but Korg no tink you be wicked."

"Something like that, yes." Maezinessa shifted uncomfortably.

"Korg go wid you anyway." His face hardened into a look of determination. "Even if you tell him no, Korg no gonna let you die out dere. Him good tracker, can follow you on da snow."

While she doubted that the orc could follow her if she didn't want him to, she knew she owed him more than to leave him out to die on the tundra. "Alright," she said quietly.

Satisfied, the orc nodded. He lifted the pot from its place, ignoring the heat of it as he refilled her cup. "Dere. You finish dis and den you sleep. When you ready, we go find da dark elfies." He blinked. "Korg not even know your name."

"Maezinessa," she said.

"Mae…uh, Maez, uh…" The orc scratched his head. "Mae. Korg call you Mae, okay?"

The dark elf smiled. "Alright, Korg. Call me Mae."

Korg smiled happily at her before lifting the half-empty pot to his lips, gulping down a swallow of stew. "Eat, Mae. We sleep tonight and tomorrow, we go."

Chapter 14

A softly-glowing ball of magical radiance flashed into being in the night above the score of orcs in the patrol and then faded, blinding their sensitive eyes.

The white-clad figures that rose from the snow in a semi-circle on the orcs' flank had been careful to keep their eyes closed then that magical light had appeared, and they saw quite well in the pale moonlight, arrows leaping from polished bows, finding targets in the ranks of the bedazzled orcs. Within a matter of moments, the entire patrol was down, lithe shapes making their way among the groaning humanoids, finishing off the wounded with quick motions of sword or dagger.

Talomanes slowly rose from his prone positon near Naestra's feet. For the past two days, it had been like this, ambushing patrols that strayed too near Gemyn's Rest. The first had nearly discovered the small village, and each one after had been taken farther and farther from the hamlet, drawing the orcs' attention away. With luck, the settlers there would never know how close they had come to having a murderous mob of bloodthirsty orcs come crashing down on their heads.

Beside him, Naestra slipped the arrow she had nocked back into the quiver at her hip, unstringing her bow and tucking it in with her arrows before closing the oiled leather flap. The light snow that was falling wouldn't do much damage to her bow and arrows, but the wind and the starless expanse of sky to the west seemed to promise much more before dawn came.

The paladin slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her close to himself so they could share their body heat as he wrapped his cloak around them both. He felt he squeeze his gauntleted hand as they both surveyed the carnage of the orcish patrol.

In the last two days, they had taken nearly a hundred orcs, with the loss of only one drow archer and a scout that was still missing and presumed dead. The skills of Ashera, the drow priestess, and Talomanes' own newfound healing abilities had kept those more seriously wounded alive long enough to get them put back together and away from the threat of death.

The sole drow killed had actually been an accident, having been tumbled down a steed draw when the snow beneath her feet gave way. When the rest of the group reached her, they saw she had crashed through a patch of ice and landed in a nest of ice vipers, already dead from a score or more venomous bites.

Looking across the churned snow of the ambush site, Talomanes saw that Ashera was talking with Yshandara, the elven cleric of Eilistraee, using another drow as an interpreter. The cleric of Lathander had fallen in with the other priestess and spent much time with her, as well as the scout who had gone missing. The three of them spoke long and usually loud, interspersing the conversations of deities, magic, and rituals with more relaxed subjects such as stories of growing up, wonderful sights each had seen, and, oddly enough, men. The paladin figured he must had played a role in some of the last topic, and, judging by the acid looks that occasionally got sent his way, it wasn't a very good one.

Naestra sensed his distress and turned her face to his, a slight hint of worry creasing the faint lines around her eyes. Her eyes on his always brought a smile to his lips and he leaned down, kissing her briefly. She returned his kiss and he saw that the lines around her eyes had faded.

Turning back to the field in front of them, Talomanes gestured with his hand, taking in the whole scene. "It went well tonight."

"Yes, it did," the assassin agreed quietly. She went back to studying the moonlit plains around them, her eyes searching for anything out of place. Once before, after an ambush, they had been attacked by shadowy wraiths, and it had been she who had sounded the alarm. Since then, they had been extremely wary after an engagement, as the undead seemed to be drawn to violence and death like vultures.

The dark elven women were finished rifling through the corpses of the orcs and were preparing to return to their hiding place in a roundabout, backtracking manner to throw off attempts to track the group back to their lair. Seeing this, the paladin gave Naestra a quick kiss on the cheek and squeezed her waist affectionately before guiding her over to the elves.

Ashera, the drow priestess, and their go-between fell in, as well, the cleric of the Morninglord shooting Talomanes and Naestra a look of scorn. Women! he thought with an exasperated mental snort.

The group began moving east, angling northwards, though the cavern lay to the south. Three fast-running scouts sprinted ahead of the group, helping to prevent the ambushers from turning into the ambushed.

About three hours to daybreak, the storm that had been sweeping in from the west overtook them. Screaming wind slammed a virtual wall of snow into them, the thick falling cutting vision down to just a few feet. The drow had prepared for this and each member of the group paused for a moment to loop a long, thin strand of rope through their belts.

Guided by their heat-sensitive eyes, the scouts returned and likewise tied themselves in with the group, one in front and one on each flank, their eyes roving the white expanse of nothingness.

Talomanes could see nothing in the blizzard, not even the back of the drow archer a pace in front of him, her cloak making her blend into the darkened mass of swiling snow even more. He stumbled along, both pulling Naestra behind him and half-dragging her when she stumbled through the larger drifts. Her hand in his seemed the only thing solid in the snow-shrouded night, as the ground gave with each step.

The rope at his belt jerked once and then went limp as the paladin took another step forward and tripped over something solid and heavy. Falling to his knees, he felt Naestra bump into his armored back. Slipping the gauntlet from his right hand, he reached down, trying to pry the rope from whatever had tripped him, as it had seemed to be tangled with whatever it was.

He followed the rope down with his hand, bumping against something solid. Probing around blindly, he realized he was feeling the belt of the elf that had been in front of him. Trying to work his arm around the fallen drow to help her to her feet, his fingers brushed a gaping tear in her fine chainmail, coming away sticky with rapidly-cooling blood.

Talomanes leapt to his feet, bellowing, "Ambush!" Realizing that fighting in the sightless murk would endanger friend and foe alike, the paladin roared out a single command. "Run!"

Slipping the dagger from his belt, he cut the roap from the fallen elf's beat, severing him and those behind from the ones in front. Looping the cut rope around his right hand, he leaned down, lifting the drow and slinging her over his shoulder unsure whether she was alive or not. Regardless, he wasn't going to leave her here.

Leaning forward, he crouched and bit and tensed, then ploughed through the snow at an angle perpendicular to the one they had been following, dragging Naestra, the three drow who were behind him, and Ashera through the new path had was blazing. "Run!" he yelled again, crouching slightly as he pumped his legs as hard as he could, seeming to make his way through the knee-high snow with agonizing slowness.

For long moments he heaved and waded through the snow, fearing an attack he couldn't see. Then calmness flowed through him as he felt Torm's presence within himself. With the presence came a pang of guilt, as the knowledge came to him that he had abandoned his comrades who had been ahead of him.

If I hadn't cut and run, we may all have been dead! With that, the feeling of guilt lessened, but didn't go away completely. He knew that when he had gotten those behind him to safety, he would be back out here, searching for the rest.

Hot blood flowed down Talomanes' left shoulder, seeping through the seams of his plate and through the links of his mail. Thankfully, the drow stirred a bit, moaning. Still pushing relentlessly through the snow, the paladin opened himself to his god's divine radiance, summoning up the healing warmth and sending it flowing into the dark elf. There was a brief resistance, as always, and then the warmth left him in a rush, flowing into her.

The dark elf relaxed as the healing power coursed through her, her body going limp on the paladin's shoulder. Giving her mailed rear end a good pat, the paladin trudged faster through the snow, not knowing where he was headed but wanting to be as far from whatever had hit the group as possible.

Hours later, the raging storm finally blew itself out, leaving the entire plain covered in waist-deep snow. A bone numbing weariness had seeped into the paladin and by the dragging steps of those behind him, he knew that the others felt the same.

Talomanes' right hand had gone numb, the rope wrapped around it hard enough to draw blood, but even the blood had frozen, welding the rope to his skin. The blood that had flowed down his left shoulder had iced as well, making the entire left side of his body feel as though it had been submerged in a glacial river.

The sun had just cleared the horizon, and as the paladin lifting his red and blistered face up, he caught sight of a faint smudge of smoke against the horizon. As the smoke seemed to be too little to be the orcish camp and hoping for someplace warm and dry to rest, he turned his numb feet in that direction, plodding through the drifts with painful slowness.

After nearly a half hour, he was close enough to make out each of the twoscore buildings in the small village. Gemyn's Rest. Torm be praised! Soon, he was leading the band among the town itself, looking for an inn or hostel.

Occasionally, a pair of eyes would turn to the band curiously, and more than one caught sight of the black-skinned elves. Though tales of the legendary drow ranger Drizzt Do'Urden had spread this far east, these dark elves certainly weren't him. Suspicious glares followed the companions down the main road, despite the presence of three humans in the group.

Spotting an inn named the Benevolent Unicorn, which he took to be a good omen, Talomanes hastily made his way there, the others close on his heels. The building was stout river stone, the chinks in the walls patched with mud daubing. The door was stout oak, and closed against the cold.

Leaning back a bit as he carefully juggled the weight of the wounded drow, the paladin reared back an iron-shod boot and kicked the door open, sending it banging against the wall. He staggered through, trying to get his balance back before he tumbled both himself and the one he was carrying onto the floor. Naestra took up watch outside the door as the rest filed in, her hands resting surreptitiously on the hilts of the long knives at her belt.

The innkeeper, a portly, balding man, was mopping up the ale he had spilled when Talomanes kicked open the door, glowered at the group until he caught sight of the snow-covered and blood-drenched paladin and the body over his shoulder. Eyes widening in fear, he began backing up towards the door to the kitchen as the dozen or so people in the room fell silent.

Trying to diffuse to panicked mood of the innkeeper as well as that of the patrons in the taproom, the paladin stepped forward. "Greetings, there," he said cautiously, raising his right hand to show he meant no harm. He winced a bit as his torn flesh protested in agony, but continued. "My name is Talomanes. I'm a paladin of Torm. And these are my companions." He gestured at the others, taking in the drow, Ashera, and Naestra, who had just closed the door behind her and was keeping her hands well away from her knives.

"T-T-Torm, you say?" the bald man stuttered. He seemed to regain a bit of composure, mopping his sweaty forehead with the ale-sodden rag he was holding. Stepping forward, he held out his right hand, which the paladin took. Gingerly, they shook hands. "You need a place to stay?"

"For a while, aye." Talomanes swept his eyes over the bedraggled group he had led in. "Perhaps a week or two."

The smile that spread across the innkeep's face, though it slipped a bit when he caught sight of the dark skin of the drow, was genuine. "I'm Harald Calhen. You're welcome for as long as you want here in the Unicorn. I haven't had much business all winter, and all but one of my rooms are free." Throwing a concerned look at the unconscious elf over the paladin's shoulder, he turned towards a stairway at the back of the room. "Follow me and I'll show you to your rooms," he called over his shoulder.

Talomanes followed the heavy-set man, struggling up the stairs, which led to a long hallway lined with doors. He registered motion at the end of the hall and looked up in time to see a pair of eyes watching him from the crack of the door at the far hall. Realizing the paladin had taken notice of the movement, the watcher slammed the door quickly.

"Ah, that's my other patron. She said she was a bardess, but she hasn't come out of her room at all, hardly. She even insists on having us bring up her meals." Harald shook his head in confusion. Blinking, he noticed he was just standing in the middle of the hall. Apologizing profusely, the man rushed over to the nearest door, turning the knob and pushing it open for the paladin.

Staggering into the room, Talomanes spotted the nearer of the two beds and, as gently as he could, dropped the dark elf onto the straw-filled mattress. With his burden gone, he stepped back, sagging down to sit on the other.

Yshandara, the priestess of Eilistraee, pushed her way in, followed by Ashera. Together, and the two began weaving their spells over the wounded elf, completely ignoring the paladin, which suited him just fine. He leaned back against the wall and within moments had slipped into a doze.

A hand shook him awake and he gazed up into Naestra's worried brown eyes. Such beautiful eyes… He reached up, stroking the assassin's cheek gently, not hearing more than one or two words she said. Armor? Cold? That's when he realized he was indeed cold. Very cold.

Shakily, he got to his feet, Naestra helping him unbuckle the armor plates from his body. When the last had crashed with a dull thud to the ground, he shrugged out of his bloody hauberk and stripped off his soaked clothing.

A fire had been started in the fireplace and was already driving away the chill. The warm air on his skin causing him to tingle all over. Slipping between the linen sheets, he pulled the assassin, who was clad in only her shift, to him.

With her body nestled against his and his arms wrapped around her, Talomanes was asleep almost instantly.

When the paladin finally awoke, the room had been plunged into near darkness, the only light coming from the dying fire. He had been asleep all day and into the night, it seemed. Feeling the bed beside him empty, he swung his legs over the edge, bracing his hand against the wall as his head spun for a moment.

Shrugging off the dizziness, Talomanes stood, stretching and working the kinks from the muscles of his neck and back. From the other bed came the sounds of someone sleeping. The wounded elf, he thought.

Being careful not to disturb the slumbering drow, the paladin found his trousers where someone had hung them to dry and pulled them on. Padding as quietly as he could to the door, he slipped out, not wanting to let anyone see him.

The hallway was empty but the sound of voices drifted up from the main room below. As he crept to the stairs, Talomanes caught the sound of Naestra's voice, talking with one of the other drow, as well as a woman he didn't recognize. He hoped their conversation would last for a short while, at least.

Sneaking back to his room, he dressed as quietly as he could. His armor clanked and clinked as he bundled it in his cloak, tying the makeshift bundle to his back with the blanket from the bed he had shared with the assassin.

Moving to the window, he pushed it open slowly, wincing as a gust of cold air blasted in. The sleeping elf murmured something in her sleep, but her voice drifted off into silence again. Breathing a silent prayer, the paladin wiggled through the window, barely fitting his bulk and his armor through at once. Thankfully, there was enough of a ledge to brace himself on while he closed the window from the outsite.

He reached back through the window, snatching up his two-handed blade and tossing it into the snow below. Holding his breath, he unslung his armor, letting it fall to the snow below. Instead of a clatter, it just made a dull thunk. Smiling slightly, Talomanes hopped off the ledge, dropped off the second floor and landing beside his armor.

Hurriedly, he untied the bundle, using handfuls of snow to scrub as much of the blood off his armor as he could. I wouldn't pass inspection, but it should do well enough and not draw too much attention. He slipped into the hauberk, running his hands over his body to get it settled. Next, he belted on and buckled down piece after piece of the plate.

Slipping the shoulder strap of his scabbard over his head, he buckled the belt around his waist, securing the greatsword in its place for an over-the-shoulder draw. Satisfied with the fit, he tested the draw of the blade and found it acceptable.

Ignoring the gnawing pangs of hunger that ate at his gut, he slipped off a gauntlet to scoop up a handful of snow, stuffing it into his mouth and letting the heat of his body and his saliva turn it to water.

Pulling his gauntlet back on, Talomanes strode off to the northwest, heading in the general direction of where they had been ambushed, sloshing the melting snow around in his mouth. He never noticed the slim form that leap from a different window on the second floor of the inn, landing softly in the snow and flitting from shadow to shadow as it followed him.

Chapter 15

Trundling forward as best he could on the contraptions strapped to his feet, Talomanes made better time across the shifting snow than he would have otherwise. Snowshoes, the man had called them. The paladin had purchased them from the fellow who ran a small supply and sundries store on the edge of Germyn's Rest where he had left a letter explaining his absence.

That had been hours ago and Talomanes fervently hoped that those he had left behind, expecially Naestra, had followed his instructions and would wait for his return. I hope she isn't too angry with me when I return, he thought dryly. Knowing the assassin, she might carve her mark into his hide. That brought a slight chuckle to the paladin's cracked lips.

The day had thankfully been clear and still, the tracks from the companions' frenzied flight the day before still quite visible in the snow. A heavily-armored warrior followed by nearly a half dozen others leaves quite a trail. He hoped that a storm would blow up soon, though, to cover over the tracks and minimalize the danger to the settlers.

All through that night and into the morning, the paladin trudged across the snowy plains, eventually losing the trail from the night before in the newer falls of snow that had blown in with the blizzard. With a growing sense of futility, he realized that there was probably no trace at all left of the site where he had cut himself loose from the elves in in front of him.

It was nearly noon when a shadow flashed over him, sailing majestically in front of him on the snow. Turning his eyes skyward, he caught sight of a huge, winged shape that seemed to glisten like liquid metal in the sun. The creature's broad, sweeping arc made Talomanes think it was either hunting or looking for something on the snow. As it turned and came towards him once again, the paladin got a very clear look at it.

Dragon! The great, bat-winged beast glided overhead, its scales throwing back the light of the sun like a mirror. Its head turned left and right, searching the ground below. Suddenly, its eyes fixed on the paladin.

His body froze with fear, but he quickly shook it off. Drawing the dagger from his belt, he leaned down, slashing the bindings that tied his boots to the snowshoes. Once he was free, he hopped into the waist-deep snow and dropped to his knees, tunneling through the snow like a mole through dirt. Though he realized the dragon would be able to see the tunnel from above, he hoped he had a better chance below the snow than he would on top of it.

A great whooshing sound carried through the snow as the creature skimmed just above, causing loose flakes of white to rain down on Talomanes. Holding his breath, he counted nearly two hundred heartbeats before relaxing a bit, thinking the dragon had passed.

In front of him, there was a muffled thump, causing the snow before him to collapse inward. Then the ground was rocked by an even harder thud, the makeshift tunnel completely caving in around the paladin.

Vowing to die on his feet like a true Paladin of Torm, Talomanes burst upward through the snow, sending a cascade of sparkling ice into the air, drawing his great two-handed sword with one swift motion. Steeling himself, he raised his head, preparing to face his death.

Instead, he found himself nose to snout with a draconic face that held what could only be described as a bemused expression.

A head as long as he was tall capped a long, thick neck, the powerful body position in a squat resembling a cat, even to its tail curled around its legs. Dark silvery scales the color of burnished steel covered the entire creature like armor. Twin horns jutted from above its liquid silver eyes, running backwards, nearly parallel to its neck. Two giant whiskers fell from its jaw, looking like a thin mustache framing its gaping jaw. A jaw which the paladin noticed was filled with sharp teeth the size of rapiers.

The paladin hadn't realized he'd been standing there, slack-jawed and eyes popping from his skull, his sword hanging limply in his hand until a low groan sounded at his feet. Gathering his resolve in the face of the metallic monsters staring him literally in the eyes, Talomanes looked down.

There at the dragon's feet was a wiggling form wrapped in a bright red cloak. Muffled cursing came from within those crimson folds until finally a head poked out from under the cloth. A mass of dark curls spilled around a delicate feminine face, cheeks ruddy from the cold. A pair of dark eyes regarded first the paladin, then, with little fear, the great dragon crouching nearby.

Muttering to herself, the woman stood upright, brushing the snow from her cloak. Underneath, the paladin could see she was wearing heavy travelling robes of a bright green, the contrasting colors nearly giving him a headache with their hideously clashing colors.

"You should be more careful what you let follow you, human." It took a moment for Talomanes to realize that the dragon was talking to him in a low rumble, like the sound of rocks falling deep within a cave. "I am surprised even your weak eyes did not see this one creeping along behind you." The creature prodded the woman forward with a gleaming claw. She windmilled her arms as she tried to keep her balance but ended up plunging headfirst into the snow, bringing a rasping chuckle from the dragon.

The paladin's mind worked quickly. He thought this dragon was a silver dragon, one of the supposedly good dragons that inhabited Faerun. However, his experiences with dragons was limited to a single encounter, and he didn't know how that one turned out yet. Discretion without courage is called cowardice, and courage without discretion is called stupidity.

"What do you want of me, dragon?" he asked as he let his sword drop a bit. There was nothing he could to do save the woman if the dragon chose to make a snack of her, and little he could do for himself if the creature wished the same for him.

The dragon chortled again. "I like your fire, human." It leaned down, flicking a claw against the paladin's breastplate with enough force to cause the study steel to ring like a bell, making Talomanes' teeth rattle. "The task I have for you is a simple one, and one that you would most undoubtedly undertake on your own. Not far, there are two who are in need of aid, and you would do well to find them."

He shifted his footing on the snow. "I'm already looking for someone. Someones, actually. The rest of my group what I lost in the blizzard last night."

Nodding, the dragon replied, "Yes, I found their tracks this morning and saw that they led to a heavily warded cavern. They should be safe. The two I speak of have no such protections."

Not quite willing to trust the dragon, yet fearing he had little choice, the paladin relented. "Alright. Lead me to them and I'll fetch them to safety."

The dragon's face twisted into what could only be considered a grin. "Lead you I will, but not in the sense you mean." It leaned forward, resting the tip of a talon against the paladin's helm. "Know." The single word was followed by an arcane syllable that sent a ripple of magic coursing through Talomanes' body.

Consciousness faded to a tiny pinpoint of light and the paladin felt himself fall forward. The instant before he hit the snow, his vision returned in a blinding flash and he saw that he was soaring skywards. His view swung to the ground and he spied the red-cloaked woman kneeling beside a form that glinted with metal in the sun. My body…

The thought was ripped from him as his vision turned to the front, the ground tearing along underneath. Talomanes was awestruck by the sight of the ground slipping past at breakneck speed, furrows and drifts of snow shooting past almost before they could be seen. The sense of motion he was experiencing took his breath away, leaving his mind numb from the sight.

For what seemed like hours the view slid along, until finally it banked into a tight spiral and plummeted down into a tiny valley, the bottom iced over with the remnants of the river that had carved the gash. His view seemed to shrink a moment and he was standing in front of a narrow cave. Then, his sight left him completely.

Moaning softly, Talomanes stirred. The cold, wet press of snow against his face did much to rouse him from his magic-induced torpor. Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet, not an easy thing considering he was fully armored and standing in nearly waist-deep snow.

The woman was at his side, her body pressed uncomfortably close to his. Looking down into her face, he saw her large, nearly black eyes were wide with fear. Up close, he also saw that her delicate nose and mouth and her high, narrow cheekbones, though pleasing to the eye, also held a feral quality that made the paladin's palms itch.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked casually.

The woman's eyes widened even further, something the paladin had thought impossible. She took a stumbling step backwards, slipping and falling onto her rear. Her cloak fell open enough that the form of a flute case was visible slung over her shoulder.

"Hmm…so you're that mysterious bard who hasn't been very bardly at Goodman Calhen's inn, aye?" He regarded her wearily, wondering why she had chosen to follow him from the inn. And, for that matter, how?

His comment seemed to bring a bit of fire into her eyes. "Bardess, you lumbering, iron-shod idiot. Now, be a gallant and help me up." She held a slim hand out to the paladin.

Chuckling to himself, he stepped forward, drawing out a scathing oath from the woman. "Hey! Mind your big feet around that cloak! It's Tethyrian!" The humor faded from Talomanes, replaced by that nagging itch on his palms. The woman's voice, though a pleasant contralto, made his teeth ache almost as bad as his palms itched.

Taking her hand in his, he easily lifted her to her feet. The cloak and robes made her seem bulkier than she was, and she wasn't very tall, perhaps a touch over five feet. She seemed to weigh as much as a child.

The ease with which he pulled her to her feet brought an approving grunt from the woman. "It's nice to know you're good for something," she remarked with a smirk. Her expression deepened into a wicked smile as she rapped a knuckle against his armor. "Maybe we'll get you out of this and see what else you're good for, hm?"

Talomanes stepped back, confusion and embarassment flashing across his face. The bardess let out a mirthful laugh, her eyes dancing with merriment. Her lips quirked into a genuine smile as she leaned forward, extending her hand to him. "Bardess Anjolina at your service, good knight. Recently of Cormyr and rather more recently of Mirabar."

Surprised at the change that had come over the woman, the paladin took her hand, bowing low over it, his armor creaking from the cold. "It's a, ah, an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady."

Smiling at him, she went on. "And I haven't performed lately because I've been lacking in inspiration. It doesn't do to be a bardess if you don't have some songs of your own to sing, hm?" She trailed a finger along the inside of his armored forearm. "I saw you and thought that maybe you would give me the inspiration I needed. And your clumsy attempt at stealth could only have been overlooked by a blind toddler or that bunch of wailing harpies you arrived with."

Well, that answers the why and the how… "How did you manage to track me so easily without me seeing you?"

Anjolina simply pointed at the snow, where Talomanes stood in waist deep snow. He turned, looked at the churned ground and the tunnel he had tried to dig, as well as the long line of snowshoe tracks stretching off to the horizon.

"Oh." He felt his cheeks flush with embarassment again.

His discomfort brought another peal of laughter from the woman, who slipped an arm through his. "Come, come, my good man. Let us go find what the good dragon has in store for us. And maybe make a song or two in the process, hm?"

Sighing, the paladin disengaged himself from her. He could either take her with him or try to get her to turn back, but he balked at leaving her alone on the frozen wasteland and, even if he did get her to leave, there was no guarantee she wouldn't just follow him again.

Resigning himself to his fate, Talomanes began plodding through the snow once more, following the course the dragon had shown him in his mind, not even bothering with his snowshoes. Anjolina laughed happily, following along beside him, pelting him with question after question about himself and his past.

"Yes, I can ride a horse." "No, I've never had to crawl through some slimy sewer." "Yes, I can really use this sword." "No, I've never seen a dragon before, either." "Yes, I can read." "No, I won't sing for you!" "No, I don't have any children." "No, I'm not married. Yet."

The last question seemed to throw the bardess of balance for a moment, as if she didn't understand what he meant. She recovered quickly, though. "So tell me, what do you really do?"

"I'm a holy paladin of the Church of Torm." He plodded along, trying to keep watch and answer the questions the bardess kept throwing at him. If I were a lesser man, I'd have slugged her and thrown her over my shoulder and left her in some snow-filled gulley. The thought brought a small smile to his lips.

Anjolina, meanwhile, was thinking of another question. "Well, paladin, what are you doing this far out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Looking for drow," he replied stoicly.

The woman stopped, standing still as a statue. "Drow? Out here?"

"Aye," he grunted. "And what you are doing up here? It's a long way from Sembia."

"Cormyr," she corrected him absently. "And Mirabar."

Stopping, Talomanes turned to face her. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Why are you here?"

"Oh, that." She opened her mouth once, shut it, then tilted her head, thinking. Finally, she said, "A certain noble didn't really care for the price I asked for a performance at one of his estates."

Talomanes snorted softly. That story could be true, or it could be a lie. It had a kind of hackneyed ring to it that either bespoke an embarassing truth or a quickly-thought falsehood. Deciding to take her at her word for now, he plunged back into the snow, trying to reach the cavern the dragon had shown him before evening. The bardess moved to his side again, firing more questions at him as they trudged off into the endless expanse of white.

Chapter 16

The ground was frozen, making it all the harder for the small spade to bite deeply. It took longer than had been anticipated to finish this hole, though it was the last of the three. Already the sun was touching the far horizon, staining the sky an ugly red.

A day covered in blood, though the elf warrior-wizard known as Corenne the Dark. She paused with the head of the spade stuck in the ground, leaning against it to catch her breath. The fur-trimmed tunic she had been given by her drow companions was soaked with sweat, despite the coldness lingering in the air.

Drow… All her life, Corenne had heard stories of the descendants of the Ilythiir elves who had been banished with their goddess Araushnee to the realms below Faerun by the Seldarine, the elven gods. She had never expected to meet any, much less become allied with them. But these drow were different. They worshipped Eilistraee, whom they called the Dark Maiden, a goodly goddess who sought to be a beacon of light to the dark ones, and hoped for the drow's return to the sides of their aboveground cousins.

Sighing, Corenne got back to work, turning a last spadeful of frozen soil before setting the tool aside. As she turned towards her next duty, her throat clenched. To her side lay one of the drow maidens, her face composed as if sleeping. The jagged rip across her throat and the paleness to her body spoke of the eternalness of her slumber.

As she dragged this last slain dark elf into a grave, she still was amazed that Anluriel and the other two dark elves had managed to each carry one of their fallen comrades so far, seeing as how each of the survivors had borne fierce wounds themselves. She, Illandra, and the one drow who had remained behind had done what they could for the Anluriel and the other two, and now Corenne was seeing to doing what she could for the three who hadn't made it.

Throwing the last spadeful of dirt onto the grave, she tamped it down lightly with the metal head. Bowing her head, she offered up a prayer for the soul of the fallen elf. Corellon Lorethian, Father of Elves, take your daughter Eilistraee's humble servant to Arvandor and be merciful to her. She served her goddess well and was a steadfast comrade. For a long moment after she had finished her prayer, she stood silently, letting herself mourn for this fellow elf.

Finally, she raised her head, taking up the spade and setting it across her shoulders. She entered the mouth of the cave behind her, slowly wending her way through its twisting passages to the safety of the cavern within.

Inside, the air was warmer and now carried a faint mist from the waterfall in the back of the cavern. Illandra was busy looking over Anluriel and the other two dark elves. Anluriel was the only one of the three still awake, though from the way she slumped against the wall, Corenne was sure it was only the leader's iron determination that kept her conscious.

The drow's fine adamantite mail lay in a pile beside her, along with her tunic, a twin to Corenne's. A bloody bandage covered most of her chest and shoulders, covering up the vicious slash that had opened her up from shoulder to hip. Corenne was still surprised the dark elf had managed to make it back at all, much less carrying the body of one of her slain comrades.

"And that was all?" Illandra was asking as Corenne approached.

Anluriel nodded, her eyes closed. When she opened them, they were clouded with pain. "We heard someone scream and then those creatures were all around us. Jaeleth, Vaedonna, and Ansileth were brought down quickly; we were barely able to take them up. And we still do not know what happened to the rest."

The raven-haired elf nodded, taking Anluriel's hand in her own. "Lie down now, and sleep. Corenne and I will watch over you." The drow nodded and allowed herself to sink back onto the pile of furs beneath her. Soon, she was breathing the deep rhythm of sleep.

Illandra rose and moved over beside her friend. "Any word from Jaezil?"

Shaking her head, Corenne replied, "No. I finished with the three they brought back, but Jaezil hadn't returned yet."

Jaezil was the drow scout who had remained behind with her and Illandra, and had gone out when the other three returned to see if she could find any trace of the rest of the group.

Corenne gave her friend a quick hug and then began pacing her way around the cavern. As always when she did this, she stopped before the smooth patch of stone where a series of runes had been engraved in the shape of a doorway.

How many of these gates are there? she wondered as she ran her fingertips along the runes. Though she was careful not to trigger the magical gateway in case it led to the undead-infested temple she, Illandra, and Ix had discovered, she studied the runes very closely.

At first glance, they seemed dwarven in make, though Corenne had had little contact with those sturdy mountain dwellers. The longer she studied them, the more she saw that the runes also bore scant traces of elvish script, as well as the Thorass language from which the written human tongues had been derived. It seemed as if whatever civilization had first carved the runes had either been influenced by many diverse cultures or had placed its own indelible mark upon those same cultures.

Corenne tried to call up what she remembered of her history. Humans were the oldest native race of Faerun, though they had come to power only recently, within the past few thousand years. The runes seemed to be ancient beyond measure, and an elder, forgotten human civilization could explain why they bore a resemblance to Thorass. Except that wouldn't explain the elvish or dwarvish resemblance. Elves arrived through a portal from a distant world millennia ago, and the dwarves…Well, she didn't know much about the dwarves, but supposed it was something similar.

None of this helped her decipher the meaning behind the runes, much less tell anything about where the gateway led. She was still in the dark about most of this as when she had first opened the other gateway in the hollow where she, Ix, and Illandra had been trapped.

Her thoughts turned to the man named Ix, a man who was shrouded in mystery and still confused her to no end. At first, she had thought him cruel and wicked, dragging her and Illandra up the the room at the inn and leaving them both standing in only their skin. But, when he had returned, he had surprised her with both his generosity and his modesty. To spend so much and shrug it off…that was beyond Corenne's imagination.

During their time with the ill-fated expedition and after the orcish ambush, he had been strong, courageous, and considerate, seflessly defending her when she had been injured and protecting Illandra, as well. And in the temple, he had taken charge of the situation and had cut his way through the undead horde, trying to lead them away from the two elves.

Ix, where are you? She called up an image of the silver-eyed man, holding it firmly in her mind.

Corenne felt something touch her mind, something dark and malevolent, full of shadows and darkness. Taken off guard and filled with roiling terror, she tried to push the feeling away, but it clung to her, oozing around her thoughts like tar. She felt her body grow cold, spikes of ice jabbing into her gut. Falling to her knees, she tried to scream but could get no sound out, her face frozen in a silent rictus of fear and pain.

Then, suddenly, the feeling was gone, leaving her empty and drain. Her muscles refused to respond and she tumbled onto the ground, laying there, panting. Slowly, her strength began to return to her. When she was able, she rolled onto her back and sat up, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, trying to stop the shivering that had taken hold of her.

What was that? She looked around in wide-eyed terror, searching for something, anything that was out of place in the cavern.

Near the far wall, the three wounded dark elves slept deeply. Illandra was sitting on the rock that was the typical watch spot and didn't seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Once her shivering had subsided, Corenne got shakily to her feet, turned to regard the gateway again. She ran her fingers over the runes again before turning to walk away, heading towards the room where Talomanes had been resting when they first arrived. She planned to start a fire there to drive away the chill that lurked within her bones still.

It took her a few tries to get the kindling going, but eventually a crackling fire blazes to life, doing its best to spread its cheery light through the small room. Satisfied, Corenne pulled the chair from the desk, seating herself and looking through the half dozen books stashed in a drawer. Half of the books were in the language of the drow, and were only so much gibberish to her, but a few of the remaining ones were written in the Common tongue, and one was written in flowing High Elvish script.

Picking up the book written in elven, Corenne opened it and leaned back, perusing the first few pages to get an idea of its contents. Judging by the dry, lecturing tone the writer had adopted, it seemed to be a treatise on the fall of the elven nation of Cormanthyr.

Snorting softly, she tossed it aside, picking up a book written in Common. This one was about the complex trade systems of the Sword Coast and was even less interesting than the book on long dead Cormanthyr.

A third book detailed the Orcgate Wars in the far country of Mulhorand and was told not so much as a history but as a compilation of heroic tales. Finally! she thought. This is something worth reading. She leaned back in the chair, propping her booted feet on the desk as she relaxed, letting the fire drive the chill from her bones as she became engrossed in the epic stories of heroism and deceit, love and treachery.

The blood-drenched sky faded to even darker shades as evening gave way to night. A howling wind screamed across the frozen plains from the west, tearing at the ground as if trying to dig up the foulness that festered within.

Freshly-turned soil shifted, clods of black dirt and small stones rolling off the rising mound. The wind rose to a fevered pitch, as if in tormented anguish. The ground shifted again and the dirt fell away from a hand that was once skinned as if by the night, but now a dull, listless gray. More of the frozen soil spilled away as a mail-clad torso lifted from the ground. The face of the creature wore an expression that could almost be mistaken for slumber, save for the staring eyes that glowed with a vile red aura. The tear in its throat seemed to cause it little distress and no blood flowed from the wound.

With a preternatural ease, the creature got to its feet, two others just like it rising from their earthen sleep behind it. They sensed the hot blood of living creatures coming from the dark cavern in front of them. As one, they stepped forward, the blackness of the entrance causing their unliving eyes no inconvenience.

With the pulsing thrum of life blood ahead of them, the creatures knew that soon they would slake their unnatural thirst.

Corenne jerked upright in her chair, blinking around as she tried to clear the fog of sleep from her mind. Straining her ears, she tried to pick up the sound that had awakened her.

"Help!" The cry came from the main cavern.

Tossing the book in her lap carelessly onto the desk, she ran through the short passage and into the main area. She pulled up short, blinking and wondering if she were awake or caught in the grip of some nightmare.

The three drow she had buried only a short while ago were back, moving purposefully towards Illandra and the three still groggy elves who had been sleeping up until then. From the pale, bloodless color of their skin and the dull red glow of their eyes, Corenne knew that the three corpses had taken up an unholy life.

Illandra put herself between the three walking corpses and the wounded drow, raising her hands and invoking an arcane syllable. Two darts of brilliant cyan radiance smashed into the first of the undead. It stumbled back a pace but continued on. The raven-haired elf was reaching into her pouch for a spell component when the horror reached her. With snakelike grace, it backhanded her, sending her tumbling to the wall. There was a sickening crunch and the elf fell still.

"Illandra! No!" Corenne reached through herself for the magic of the mystical Weave, drawing on the same spell her friend had just used and uttering the triggering word. The magic pulsed through her and a streaking missile of red energy burst from her hand, smacking solidly into the lead undead. It stopped for a moment and then seemed to shake itself before continuing on.

Growling, she sprinted towards the creatures, wishing she had a sword with her. As it was, she drew her heavy-bladed belt knife, intending to keep the undead fiends away from the wounded elves as long as she could.

When she was a dozen paces from the creatures, mystic chanting came from her left, where the three wounded drow were now on their feet. There was a shouted warning and Corenne fell prone on the ground. The air thrummed with power and a bolt of lightning shot over her head, blasting two of the creatures into chunks of scorched flesh and bone. The third continued on, ignoring the fate of its two companions.

There was a shouted command and a half dozen pulsing black darts shot overhead, slamming into the undead creature, rending flesh and mail and sending it sprawling. Even this didn't defeat it, though, and it began to rise with grim, purposeful movements.

That's when Corenne noticed the two blasted creatures.

A dark, shadowy substance oozed from the bits and pieces that lay strewn across the rocky ground, coalescing into two shapes of pure darkness, vaguely humanoid and with a pair of burning eyes. Together, the two wraiths began advancing on the three drow, the remaining walking corpse bringing up the rear.

The cavern filled with a roar the left Corenne's ears ringing as a spinning flash of black arced through the air, crashing into the ghoul that brought up the rear and catapulting it across the ground.

A gleaming blade whistled down in a diagonal cut, splitting one of the wraiths in half. The creature burst into black flame and began to dissolve into shadowy tatters. The great two-handed blade looped around and clove through the second wraith in a backhand stroke, sending it into oblivion as well.

The elf picked herself up from the ground as Talomanes made his way to her, sheathing his two-handed sword in the scabbard hanging across his back. Oddly, a steely haired orc trotted across the cavern, moving to wrench a black iron axe from the chest of the fallen ghoul. It growled out a chant in its own gutteral tongue and gestured at the ghoul, which burst into flames, filling the cave with a wretched screech.

Checking her over for injuried, the paladin gave her a quick nod before moving off to the stricken Illandra. He knelt as Corenne watched, taking the raven-haired elf's head in his hands. A look of calm came over him as a golden nimbus of light enveloped his hands. It grew brighter for a moment and then flowed into the elf. After a moment, she stirred, moaning softly.

Smiling to himself, Talomanes heaved his armored body upright and walked to Anluriel and the two other dark elves. He laid hands on each of them, though the golden glow was less pronounced than it had been the first time.

A scuffing at the cavern entrance caused Corenne to spin around, expecting another assault. She relaxed when she was it was just Jaezil, as well as two others. One was the missing scout. Maezinessa, I think. The third was a woman who was swathed completely in red, save for her sharp-featured face. Her eyes roamed over the cavern, as if measuring every detail in the place.

Corenne turned to study the orc, a rather odd companion for the group if she did say so. It was taller than everyone there, save the paladin, and then it was close. Its skin was a light gray; steely hair tufted its forearms as well as its barrel chest. A single braid fell halfway down its back, bobbing up and down as the creature trotted back towards the entrance. It was wearing a pair of loose leather leggings, stout iron-shod boots, and its only concession to the cold was a thick cloak made from the hide of some white-furred animal. Slipping a wicked black iron axe into a loop at its belt, it fell in beside the missing scout, Maezinessa, and began talking to her in quiet tones. It shot a quick glance at Corenne as it was talking, and she got a glimpse of eyes the color of polished iron.

"Is everyone alright?" The paladin's voice boomed through the cavern, his eyes meeting those of each of the others there and receiving a quick nod in return. "We're going to be leaving. Even if the orcs don't know we're here, you can bet whatever these living shadows serve knows where we are." He gestured at the still smoldering corpse of the ghoul the orc had blasted.

"The rest of us are at an inn in Gemyn's Rest. We're going to get there and get ourselves patched up before we go running across the snow again." Corenne was a bit surprised at the competent way Talomanes took charge of everything, and surprised more when Anluriel seemed content to be relegated to a secondary role.

The paladin gestured at the red-cloaked woman. "That's Anjolina. Seems she wanted to follow me for a story or two. So far, she hasn't gotten in the way. If that changes, you've my permission to tie her up and leave her in a snow drift." The woman's features were a study of cool detachment, though her cheeks colored a bit at that.

"That's Korg." A gauntleted hand took in the axe-wielding orc with a broad gesture. "He's more than pulled his weight today. If he bugs you, you can try to tie him up." The orc threw back his head and roared with laughter. "But seeing how he's used that axe of his, that might be a bit of a problem."

Talomanes turned his eyes to Corenne. "Corenne, there's a stack of blades outside that Korg picked off an orcish patrol we surprised. Pick yourself one that suits you and then get back in here." The elf nodded and ran to the entrance as the paladin was barking out more orders.

A blast of freezing wind hit her as she emerged from the passageway. In just those few moments being faced by those undead monstrosities has soaked her clothes with sweat, and now the wind was doing all it could to freeze her solid, it seemed.

Shivering, she bent over and studied the blades on the ground. Most were heavy iron blades, sheathed in crudely stitched leather or fur. A few axes were also tossed haphazardly with the swords, their heads wickedly curved and wrought in black iron.

At the bottom of the stack, a flash of color caught Corenne's eye. There lay a red-lacquered scabbard with a fine-tooled, leather-wrapped hilt jutting from the top. Her curiosity piqued, she squatted down to get a better look. Sure enough, it was the sword that the silver-eyed Ix had bought her what seemed a lifetime ago. Wonderingly, she lifted it from the snow, partially drawing it and noting that the blade was still as finely honed as it had been before.

Smiling in satisfaction, she stood, using a length of scarlet ribbon to tie the scabbarded blade to her belt. Now, if only I could find my spellbook, she thought wistfully.

Running her fingers over the soft leather wrapping the hilt, she turned and re-entered the cavern, never noticing the pair of tracks in the snow that had approached the pile of weapons and then simply disappeared.

Chapter 17

A shining sun hung overhead as the party left the cavern the next morning. Talomanes led the way, leading them by memory. Anluriel trudged along in his wake, her and the two other drow caught in the ambush moving stiffly from their still-healing wounds. The red-cloaked Anjolina made her way as best she could behind the drow, her heavy clothing sometimes bogging her down in the snow. Korg came next, his axe slung across his right shoulder as he carried a satchel loaded down with books across his left. Illandra and Corenne came after the orc, talking quietly amongst themselves, one of them occasionally moving up beside Korg to ask him a question. Maezinessa and Jaezil held the rear position, keen drow eyes keeping a vigilant watch for another ambush.

The bright sun shone on the steel of the paladin's armor, warming him pleasantly. Despite the freezing temperature, he found it warm enough to doff his tattered cloak, folding it up and tossing it over a shoulder. Though his easy gait and the marching song he absent-mindedly hummed bespoke a certain nonchalance, his green eyes kept watch nearly as well as the two scouts', though he spent much of his time sweeping the sky, looking for the dragon that had led him to the orc and the scout the day before.

Korg… Talomanes was still trying to figure out what goals the orc had. When he had first entered the small cave and spotted him hunched over the sleeping drow, he had been prepared to cut him down but had instead found his muscles frozen in an magical grip, leaving him unable to move. After both he and Maezinessa had talked to him, at length, and made sure he understood, the orc released the spell he had used to hold the paladin.

After watching way the orc handling his axe in the skirmish with the patrol yesterday, as well as the spells he had wielded with equal ease, Talomanes knew that Korg was both an accomplished warrior as well as a powerful sorceror. The fact that he bore no ill will towards them and even risked his own life to save that of the wounded scout made little sense, considering the orcish army plaguing the land. Also, the paladin sensed no evil at all within him.

Shaking his head in confusion, Talomanes turned his eyes once more to the sky. Orcs who attack us, orcs who help us…Next, we'll be finding a kindly old man out here who just happens to be the great Elminster and he'll whisk us all away to the jungles of Chult for tea. Snorting, he ploughed onward through the snow.

Behind him, Anluriel was also struggling with her thoughts. She had led a full dozen of her sisters into this wild northland in the hopes of working Eilistraee's good here. Now, four of her sisters were dead. Their souls weighed heavily on the drow, seeming to weigh her down with each step. Silently, she offered a prayer for them, recalling each of their faces. My sisters, daughters of Eilistraee, you will not have died in vain.

Anluriel turned her eyes to the man in front of her, a human warrior of a human god who had every reason to hate her for the stories that were told of her people. Yet, oddly, he accepted her and the rest of the dark elves with nary a second look. We could learn a lot from this one. She didn't begrudge him for taking command of the group so easily. Instead, she admired a male with such assertiveness, something never seen among the drow culture, which was dominated by the priestesses of Lolth and where men were kept as little more than slaves and breeding stock.

The sun crept ever higher in the sky as the group moved westward, heading towards the relative solace of the village. At noon, Talomanes called a short halt so they could rest and eat some of the dried fruit and meat the drow had stashed in their hideout.

Chewing on a strip of tough reindeer meat, the paladin turned in a slow circle, his eyes sweeping over the unbroken expanse of white that surrounded him.

"Getting us lost, fearless leader?" There was a rustle of cloth at his shoulder and a flash of red glimpsed from the edge of his vision.

"No, just checking for anything out there that'd like to stick us full of sharp, pointy objects." He turned his eyes on the bardess. "Why are you here, Anjolina?" Holding up a hand to forestall the objection about to tumble from her open mouth, he trod on. "Why here? Why now? There's too many threads woven here for all this to be coincidence."

The bardess looked down, picking idly at her crimson cloak, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You are right when you say there's too much going on to be coincidence." She lifted her eyes to his. "There are some who can sense these things." It seemed that her eyes flashed with a hidden fire for a moment.

Talomanes blinked. "And you're one of these people?"

That brought a bright peal of laughter from the woman. "Me? Good heavens, no!" She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "They sent me to watch and record what happens and to tip the scales if they seem to be too badly unbalanced." Stepping close to him, she reached up, touching his cheek. "But just because I'm here on obligation doesn't mean I can't have a little fun, too." She threw him a wink before turning and slipping off to seat herself on the satchel of books that Korg had lain in the snow, striking up a conversation with the orc.

Muttering to himself, Talomanes was struck by how ludicrous it was. Korg and I and a dozen females! Sighing, he touched the steel covering his heart, his thoughts going to Naestra. Remembering the feel of her in his arms as she slept brought a small smile to his lips. The memory of their moments of passion brought a fierce blush to his cheeks, as well, turning his smile into a goofy grin.

"Korg tink you got water on da brain, lookin' stoopid like dat." A powerful hand smacked him on his backplate, nearly tumbling the paladin into the snow. "Tink you need be getting' us movin'."

Grinning, Talomanes clapped the orc on the back. "You're right, Korg." He raised his voice. "Let's get moving. We've still got a few more hours of plodding along like pack mules."

As Korg proceeded to lift Anjolina off his bag of books and dumped her unceremoniously on the ground, the others stood and made ready to move out. The paladin turned his gaze to the west. Trying, with difficulty because of his armor, to scratch an itch between his shoulder blade, he set off once more, his feet carrying him towards the one he loved.

The great, sweeping plains were cloaked in darkness by the time the weary group reached the houses of Gemyn's Rest. The scent of woodsmoke lingered in the air. The smell of cooking also wafted from more then one chimney, doing a little to pick up the spirits of the companions.

Talomanes hurried his pace, eager to get something hot in his belly as well as to see his Naestra again. The short trip to the Benevolent Unicorn seemed to take an eternity to him. Finally, though, he stood before the stout door that led into the common room of the inn, the soft hum of conversation coming from within.

Taking a breath, he pushed open the door. "Look who I found!" Holding the door open, he stood to the side as the rest of the group came trudging in. Master Calhen's eyes widened a bit at the sight of more of the dark elves and nearly started from his head altogether as Korg's barrel-chested form came through the doorway.

"Ah, w-w-will you be needing more rooms, good sir?" He was wringing his hands, not sure whether the influx of new patrons was a good thing or not.

"I think so," Talomanes replied, tossing a small purse to the heavyset man, who caught it with remarkable grace. The paladin's eyes swept over the few folk gathered there, spotting Yshandara, Ashera, and one of the other drow seated at a table. Naestra and the other dark elves were nowhere to be seen.

There was a tapping at the top of the stairs, drawing Talomanes' eyes. The assassin stood at the landing, swathed in shadows. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest and was tapping her foot on the floor, her face a grim mask. With inexorable slowness, she straightened and made her way silently down the stairs until she stood directly before the paladin, staring up at him.

"Come with me," she said quietly, slipping around him and out the front door.

The silence of the inn was only broken by the feel of every eye on him. Blushing furiously, Talomanes turned, following Naestra out the door. The cold bite of the air stung his exposed skin after the soothing warmth of the inn. He steeled his resolve, following the dim figure of the assassin around the side of the building and into the main entrance of the inn's stables.

A lantern threw its fitful light around the empty stable, doing little to drive away the murk of the night. Talomanes made his way inside, trying to find Naestra in the darkness. The sound of the door closing behind him was followed by the clunk of the bolts being thrown. Turning, the paladin saw the assassin standing there, one hand still on the last bolt. In her other hand, she held the naked blade of one of her long knives, the light of the lantern dancing on the gleaming metal.

The last bolt shut fast, she approached him, with with grim purpose until she stood before him. When she spoke, her voice was a soft whispering that Talomanes had to strain to hear. "You left me alone, running off into the night." With a deft twist of her knife, she cut one of the straps of his breastplate. "You never left word about where you were going." She cut off his protest by slitting another strap. "You could have been killed and I would never known." The blade flicked again, leaving the armor hanging precariously from his mailed shoulder. "You will never do that again." Once more the blade flashed, severing the last bit of leather and letting the steel clang to the ground.

Gazing into Naestra's eyes, the paladin saw the pain and the fear lurking there. And something else, a banked fire. "No," she whispered. "You will never do that again." She drew her hand back, her knife set for a killing blow.

Unflinchingly, Talomanes stood before her as her knife whipped forward, groaning in surprised as she shifted her grip at the last moment to punch him full in the gut, causing him to bend over and fall to his knees as he wheezed, trying to catch his breath. A firm hand on his chest pushed him over backwards as bucket of water was poured over the lantern, snuffing it's feeble light.

"You'd better do a good job of convincing me you're sorry of you're going to hurt worse in the morning," Naestra's voice murmured teasingly as Talomanes felt her hands on the buckles of his remaining pieces of armor.

"Yes, my love," the paladin replied dutifully, his own hands working on the straps, as well. Torm have mercy should I fail to impress her… A wicked grin flashed across his face in the darkness.

The faint light of dawn filtered through the cracks in the door and walls when the paladin awoke. Blinking awake the sleep in his eyes, he stretched, then immediately regretted it when his arms and shoulders slipped from under the mound of blankets.

Chuckling to himself, Talomanes huddled back underneath the pile, snuggling up to the still-sleeping assassin. She had planned his out in quite a bit of detail, he had realized. The two of them lay on a stack of blankets four thick and had as many covering them, keeping the two of them warm despite the freezing air within the stable.

Wrapping his arm around Naestra's waist, the paladin lay behind her, letting the warmth the two of them shared lull him back into a doze. His thoughts brushed over the night before, his face flushing. Hurriedly, he turned them elsewhere, looking back over the past few days, to the orcs that had been pillaging the land and to the undead that had seemed to be plaguing just them.

The way they act…it seems like they're two separate groups. Talomanes turned over the possibility that they were facing not one but two enemies, each one working towards unknown purposes.

As if his thoughts had drawn the fell humor of a dark god, the mournful call of an orc war horn came faintly to his ears. "Oh no…" He gently shook Naestra's shoulder. "Beloved, wake up. It's an attack."

The assassin came awake instantly, sitting upright, her head cocked to one side as she listened, ignoring the biting cold that drew goosebumps over her exposed skin. Again the faint call came. Swearing to herself, she hastily began pulling on her clothes.

Talomanes began dressing, too, his teeth chattering in the frigid air. After he had dressed and slipped into his mail hauberk, he held up the breastplate, trying to figure out a way to repair it quickly. Grunting, he let out a bit on the straps, punching new holes in them with his belt knife. It wasn't something a smith would be proud of, but it would hold his armor on.

By the time the paladin had unbolted the door of the stable and entered the inn, he saw the others were already prepared. The drow were all clad in their dark mail, slim elven swords at their hips and graceful bows across their shoulders. Corenne and Illandra stood near them, the raven-haired wizard looking cool and composed clad in a brilliant white gown and cloak, her friend looking vaugely ill as she ran her fingers restlessly over the sword at her hip.

Korg had found a shirt of chain somewhere, as well as a sturdy leather helmet, reinforced with strips of iron. He grinned at Talomanes and Naestra as they entered, his eyes sparkling knowingly. His wicked black iron axe hung at his belt, his hand resting lightly on it.

At the rear stood Anjolina, clad today in a cloak of mouse gray which parted to reveal a set of clothing that was plain and ordinary, the color of fresh-fallen snow. A graceful rapier hung at her hip, though she kept brushing it with her hand as if to remind herself what it was doing there, exactly. She also smiled as the paladin and assassin came into the inn, throwing a roguish wink at the pair.

A half dozen or so large men clad in furs in carrying massive longbows stood in the center of the room, talking amongst themselves and throwing the occasional glances at the dark elves. Oddly enough, Harald Calhen also stood with them, an ill-fitting leather jerkin covering his broad bulk and a rusty spear held uneasily in his hand.

"What's going on?" Talomanes asked, catching Anluriel's eye.

The dark elf gestured towards one of the men. "I shall let them tell you." She nodded towards a black-bearded man, his head covered in a conical steel helm. He returned her nod and stepped forward.

"I am Jenvar Gnorrson, a trapper hereabouts. My friends and I," his gesture took in the other men standing behind him, "heard orc horn while we were holed up in our winter camp. We've grown accustomed to the usual cycle of orcish raids every spring, but there are far more than normal. Maybe as many as a thousand. And they're headed this way. We made it here perhaps an hour ahead of them."

Talomanes nodded, taking this in. Maybe as many as a thousand… "We need to get the women and children out of here as fast as we can. I want you to gather as many men who will fight and send them here. Don't send them all. We'll need someone to protect the others as they flee."

Jenvar shifted uneasily, exchanging looks with his comrades. "There is nowhere to go. Develor was the only haven around here, and your friends have said that it lies in ruin."

The paladin muttered an oath. An idea, nothing more than a hopeful grab at someway to get the women and children out, came to him. He looked to Anluriel. "We'll take them to the hidden cave."

The drow leader started to object. "But the undead-"

"-are no threat compared to the thousand orcs about to come crashing down on us," Talomanes said, crushing her statement. "If we don't act now, everyone dies. Or worse." He turned his eyes back to the trapper. "Go. Get everyone here. We're going to push hard and fast towards a safe place and hope the orcs are content to stop and loot this village." Jenvar nodded and motioned to his comrades. Together, they left the inn, heading out into the fierce cold.

Harald Calhen came forward. "Good sir, I've still got much of my winter stores left. It's not much, but it should feed everyone in the town for at least two weeks."

"How many people are there here, exactly?" the paladin asked.

The innkeeper thought for a moment. "Perhaps thirty or so. Why?"

Shaking his head, Talomanes replied, "No matter." He gestured towards the steely-haired orc. "Korg, go with Master Calhen and see what you can do about dividing up the food. When the townspeople start coming, I'll send the stronger men to you and you can load them up."

"Awright," the orcish warrior grunted. "Korg tink dat da water on your brain musta cooked off. You be tinking good now." He grinned toothily at the paladin before following the innkeeper through the kitchen door.

Talomanes permitted himself a grim smile before turning to his other companions. His eyes swept over the women. I wonder who will die today? "Yshandara, Ashera, you two will stay with the women and children, keep them safe. Illandra, you go with them. Your spells would be more useful there. Anluriel, you and your drow stay with me for now. Corenne, you, too. Try to stay back and use your magic, leave the swordwork to the veterans." He turned, his eyes dropping to Naestra, who still stood behind him. "Beloved…" His voice was barely above a whisper. "I want you to watch my back. I can think of no one I would rather have there."

The assassin smiled briefly, reaching up to touch his cheek in a tender gesture. "Just don't do something foolish like charging into the whole horde and expect me to keep up." She stood up on her toes, brushing her lips against his.

"What about me?" Anjolina's voice came from behind the others. "I can fight, too, you know."

The paladin turned to face the bardess. "I want you to stay with Korg. He may need an extra hand watching over the food. It'll be the most important property in the days to come."

The woman snorted. "So now I'm nothing more than a glorified tavern wench, hm?" Her lips quirked into a sardonic smile. "Well, if I'm going to die, I might as well die buried in dried figs." She spun on her heel, her gray cloak billowing around her as she strode into the kitchen.

The first of the townspeople began showing up then. Talomanes directed them into three groups. The older boys he sent through the kitchen to Korg so that they could be assigned a portion of the stores to carry. The women and younger children were shepherded to a circle of a drow warriors. The men, nearly a score counting Jenvar and his trappers, were taken by the paladin to a place outside the inn and away from the others.

Talomanes looked over his handful of soldiers carefully. All of them looked as if they knew how to use the axes and bows they carried. As Jenvar had said, orcish raids were something to look forward to every spring.

"This is what we're going to do." He squatted down, tracing a circle in the snow. "This is the village." He drew an arcing line below the circle. "This is the orc army, coming up fast." Another line came out of the top of the circle, bending sharply to the left. "We'll go north from here and turn westward towards the hidden cave." Leaning back on his heels, the paladin swept his eyes over the men gathered before him. "We are going to be the rearguard. Anluriel's dark elves will watch over the others and get them there safely."

Talomanes held up his hand to forestall the muttering before continuing. "What we're going to do is to buy them enough time to get there safely and try to cover our tracks as best we can. Hopefully, we'll get another winter storm blow up, but if not, we'll do what we can."

The paladin stood. "Five minutes and we move out. Until then, your time is your own." He walked around the side of the inn.

In front of the building, the drow were busy getting the women and children together. Maezinessa even had a bawling baby in a harness on her back. Korg and his detail of boys, some barely larger than the heavy burdens they carried, were lined up. The orc was directing them with his wicked axe, either unaware of the stares it drew or knowing and using it to his advantage. Corenne and Illandra were talking quietly amongst themselves, but when the brown-haired elf saw him approach, she quickly embraced her raven-haired friend and fell in beside him.

"We're leaving?"

Talomanes nodded, his eyes searching for Naestra. He found her talking with, of all people, the gray-cloaked bardess. The two women had their heads bent close, ignoring the chaos churning around them. They ended their conversation, the bardess giving the assassin a quick hug before heading towards the axe-waving orc. Naestra looked up and saw the him and elf approaching and moved to meet them.

The paladin wrapped her in a tight embrace, lifting her from the ground. He held her for a long moment like that before setting her back on her feet. She threw him a brief smile before taking her place at his side, opposite Corenne.

He turned to face the assembled group, taking a deep breath. "Listen up, people! Until I say otherwise, Anluriel is in charge." He gestured at the dark elven leader, who nodded her white-haired head. "I want you do to whatever she says. If you don't you risk everyone's lives. Move 'em out!"

The drow nodded again, raising her own ringing voice. "Follow me and keep the pace up! We need to hurry!" She started off at a brisk walk, the small column of women and children following her. Korg and the boys carrying the food were in the middle, Anjolina walking beside the orc. The other drow formed a circle around the group, keen eyes already keeping a watch for danger.

When they were out of sight, Talomanes turned to his own men, many of whom were staring after the column. "This is it. It's up to us to see that your kinfolk make it safe and sound." All eyes turned to him. "There's probably going to be scouts come through here first while the main army waits outside. They're going to want to see what kind of opposition they'll be facing." Silently, the paladin thanked all those boring lectures he'd had to endure in the Temple of Torm, lectures on military tactics and history. And to think I thought paladins always battled alone or with just their comrades.

"We'll split into small groups of four or five and take up positions around the city. When you catch sight of the scouts, try to pick off as many as you can and then begin falling back. Meet up here as fast as possible and we'll leave once everyone arrives. Hopefully, losing some of their scouts will give them pause and give us enough time to slip away."

Quickly, he divided up the men, placing at least one of Jenvar's trappers in each group. With himself, he took Corenne, Naestra, Jenvar himself, and Harald Calhen. Taking a deep breath, he faced the men one last time.

"Remember, we need your alive, so no noble sacrifices right now." A few of the men chuckled nervously. "Torm's guidance go with you all." He dismissed them with a gesture and they began to slip away in their groups.

He turned towards his own small band. The assassin gave him a small, comforting smile. "Let's get to the south edge of town and take a look at these orcs." The others followed him as he trudged down the main street of the village. Once they reached the house he had in mind, they quickly entered and took up position in the bedroom, which was on the second floor and gave them a good view of the plains between them and the advancing orcs.

Chapter 18

The cool leather-wrapped hilt of the great two-handed blade was comforting in his hands as Talomanes knelt on the ground. His blade was grounded in the wood of the floor before him, his hands wrapped around the hilt as he prayed to Torm for courage and valor to see him through the day.

As the last words of his silent prayer slipped from his mind, he opened his eyes. Instead of the stark wooden walls of the house around him, though, he saw that he floated in a realm of empty blackness. He realized this wasn't natural, yet he was oddly calm and unafraid.

Everything seemed to be empty, as if the world had ceased to exist, leaving him hanging in nothingness. He unwrapped his left hand from his sword and waved his arm. His motions had a sluggish, dreamlike quality, colors seeming to smear and shift as he moved.

"Talomanes."

His eyes came up, searching the darkness before him for the voice that had called to him. Squinting, he thought he saw a faintly glowing speck in the far distance, though it was hard to tell whether it was his imagination or not.

"Talomanes, it's time."

Trying harder, the paladin could almost make out the object in the distance, though it was still too far to see clearly. It did seem to be growing larger, though whether he was approaching it or it approaching him, he wasn't sure.

Closer and closer it drifted. Talomanes' eyes widened when he realized what it was. I can't believe it! It floated to him and he reached out his hand…

"Talomanes, they're coming!"

A hand shook his shoulder. The blackness shattered with a nearly audibly crash, the wooden walls of the bedroom he knelt in springing back into his sight. He looked up at Naestra, who still had her hand on his shoulder.

"They're coming. We'd better get ready."

The paladin nodded. I know there was something…I saw something…or did I? He shook his head, trying to clear it. I must've fallen asleep. He chuckled to himself as he stood, the assassin shooting him a concerned look.

"Let's take a look and see what we've got in store for us." Smiling at her, he let her lead him over to the window. Casting his eyes out over the plains, he whistled low.

The orcish army streched from horizon to horizon, the plains teeming with brutish humanoids. The paladin spotted other shapes along the line, here and there the muzzled forms of gnolls crouched, occasionally the towering bulk of an ogre looming over those around it. There were also bands of hobgoblins and kobolds.

His throat constricting, Talomanes turned to the others. "When the scouts start across, pick off two or three and then we'll get out of here." Jenvar nodded, taking up his great bow. Naestra had her own bow readied, a white-fletched arrow nocked. The brown-haired Corenne was looking vaguely ill, but her face was a mask of concentration, her lips moving silently, though whether in prayer or practicing her spells, the paladin couldn't tell.

Harald Calhen surprised Talomanes. The innkeeper was looking out the window at the assembled horde, a look of anger on his face. "How dare they think they can take our town from us?" He gripped his spear with whitened knuckles.

The paladin leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Be easy, friend. We'll make them pay." The innkeeper relaxed a bit, forcing a smile and giving him a nod.

Turning back to the window, Talomanes saw that nearly a hundred orcs had begun crossing the plain between the army and the village. He moved aside as Jenvar took up a firing position, Naestra moving to the other window.

At a hundred paces, the trapper loosed his arrow, a half dozen other stinging shafts shooting from the houses around them. Only one or two found marks in the advancing orcs, though Jenvar's arrow lodged savegly in one of the humanoids, knock it over backwards as the keen arrow piercing its eye and lodged in its skull.

When the scouts had closed to half that, they took up a howling war cry. The trapper fired again, this time accompanied by arrows from all the bows, nearly every one striking true.

Again and again the trapper and assassin's bows twanged, sending shaft after shaft into the charging scouts. When the orcs had closed to a dozen paces and the other bows had fallen silent as the groups began falling back, Talomanes called out. "Let's go!"

His gleaming blade held before him, the paladin ran from the bedroom, taking the stairs in two great hops. Launching himself from the house, he caught the nearest scout completely by surprise, his blade slashing out and disembowling the orc in a shower of gore and black blood.

The other scout in sight raised a crossbow, a wickedly barbed bolt coming in line with the paladin. The orc clamped down on the trigger but its aim was off, the bolt glancing off Talomanes' pauldron and sinking into the wooden jamb of the door behind him.

Two quick strides and he had closed with the orc, who had dropped its crossbow and drawn a curved scimitar. The scout parried his first thrust, backing up slightly. Again the paladin's blade lashed out, coming around in a horizontal slice aimed at the orc's chest. But the scimitar came up, blocking the stroke and bringing a grunt from the humanoid as the two swords met.

Talomanes stepped back and took a deep breath. His face twisted into a mask of berserker fury as he roared as loud as he could, raising his sword and then bringing it down in an overhead chop.

The roar caught the orc off guard, but it still managed to raise its scimitar in a two-handed grip. There was a dull clang! as the two blades met, then the scout stumbled forward as its sword was sheared in half. It stopped abruptly as the paladin's blade sank into its neck, the force of the blow ripping down into the humanoid's chest, cutting through muscle and bone.

Kicking the corpse off his sword in a shower of black blood, Talomanes turned, finding his companions exiting the house. "Go!" he yelled, gesturing towards the north end of town with his bloody blade. As they turned and began to run down the street, he turned back to the south, facing down a half dozen raging orcs.

A step forward and his keen blade lashed out, severing the haft of the axe that was swinging towards him and sundering the black iron mail across the humanoid's belly, ripping leathery flesh and causing a heap of steaming entrails to spill on the ground. Another step and he spun, wrenching the blade free of the falling body and sending it in an arc that met a sword strike and then reversed his stroke to rip the face off another orc. A third step brought his shoulder crashing into the sword-wielding orc, sending it sprawling as his blade lept up to turn a spear that was thrusting at him, spinning in and snatching his heavy belt knife and burying it in the orc's ribs. A shift and slash sent the head of the sword-wielding orc bouncing across the snow, trailing black blood.

The fourth orc was still falling as the paladin planted his feet on the ground, his sword held before him in a two-handed grip, black blood running down the length of the gleaming steel and dripping from the crossguard. The two remaining orcs pulled up short before the deadly warrior, turning to run. The one on the right sprouted a white-fletched arrow between its shoulder blades. The other managed to get two strides before a rusty spear flashed by Talomanes, slamming into the humanoid's back and catapulting it forward onto the snow.

The paladin turned to follow his companions. Harald Calhen slipped by him to snatch the orcish spear from the hands that held it, pausing to hand Talomanes back his knife. Naestra had another arrow nocked, waiting for the two of them. Jenvar Gnorrson and Corenne were already a score of running strides down the street.

Resheathing his knife, Talomanes took off at a run, his two-handed sword clenched in his gauntleted fist. Master Calhen huffed and puffed but kept up with the armored paladin. Naestra fell in beside them, pausing occasionally to throw a look over her shoulder, sometimes turning to loose another arrow as more orcs began entering the town.

Upon reaching the inn, the paladin saw that the others had already arrived and were waiting for them. Most of the men were uninjured, though a couple bore crude bandages on bloodied wounds.

"Go!" he yelled, pointing north with his sword. The men needed no more urging and took off at a trot, Jenvar's trappers forming a ring around the group to keep a watchout for any orcs that had managed to circle around the town.

Armored clanking, the paladin ran on, breathing hard as the adrenaline in his blood began to thin and the fatigue of the brief fight and the flight in his armor taking its toll. Once the group had passed nearly a quarter mile out of the town, he called a halt. Turning, he studied the town, hoping to see the orcs giving up the chase to loot the village.

Instead, the forms of orcs, black on the pristine white of the snow, were streaming out of Gemyn's Rest…but heading south, to rejoin the army. Talomanes furrowed his brow in confusion. What's going on? For long minutes he and the others stood there, watching the orcs. Naestra came up beside him, resting her hand on his arm.

"What are they doing?" she asked, her voice soft.

He shook his head. "I don't know." A faint thrum seemed to pulse through the air, tickling the paladin's memory. Frowning, he tried to recalled why it seemed familiar. His eyes widened as he placed the feeling. The expedition! "Everyone! Run!" He turned, waving his sword and pointing northwards. "Go! As fast as you can! Don't look back!" Taking his own advice, he pounded through the snow, Naestra at his side.

Despite his admonition to the others, Talomanes looked over his shoulder, half-turning as he ran to get a better look. A huge expanse of snow between the village and the orcish horde began to glow. Suddenly, it flashed with a bright light, then began to move, rippling like water in a pond. It flowed towards a center point, rising up into a column and the paladin saw that the snow had indeed turned to water. More and more of the glowing liquid poured into the spire, causing it to grow higher and higher, towering over the plain like a single shaft of pure light.

Then the light faded, leaving the column of water standing free in the air. It shifted, two blocky appendages ripping from the middle to form arms as the base widened and split, forming a pair of massive legs. The top flowed into the semblance of a head, the front rippling into a face, eyes deeply sunken and mouth agape in a silent scream.

With ponderous slowness, the thing took a step forward, the shock sending tremors that Talomanes felt from where he had stopped and stood, watching the creature. Step by step it lumbered towards the village, dwarfing the settlement, making the houses seem like no more than children's toys. Its watery feet crushed snow, wood, and stone beneath them as it made its way to the center of town.

As it stood in the village center, the beast turned its liquid face to the sky, mouth falling open even wider. A scream of primal rage ripped from the beast, blasting the paladin and sending him tumbling into the others who had stopped to watch. The water creature raised both hands to the heavens, as if imploring some unseen god for mercy. Then, with a sudden tearing sound, the beast came apart, spilling itself over the town, swelling as it spread outward.

As the paladin watched, the water hardened even as it flowed over the town, until the entire village of Gemyn's Rest had been encased in a solid dome of ice.

Two days later, the land was gripped in a raging blizzard, snow filling the air nearly as thickly as it did the ground. The demoralized band that the paladin led trudged through the last few hundred paces of snow, the entrance to the cavern just ahead.

Beside Talomanes, Maezinessa hunkered down in her cloak. She had been sent to guide them to the cave, as the men had spend the last two days laying a winding course that led roughly towards the ruins of Develor before moving as stealthily as they could towards the hidden cavern. But with the blizzard, it looked as if their work had been in vain. Not once had they spotted orcish scouts. For all they knew, the army was still encamped near the frozen village.

With a sigh of relief, the paladin slipped into the entrance of the cavern, the scout falling in behind. The rest of the men formed up behind them, falling into single file to squeeze through the narrow opening.

Winding through the twisting passage, Talomanes emerged into the main cavern, bustling with activity as the women and children went about their daily business. Seeing as how there was almost no place to go, this constituted gossiping for the women and playing for the children, for the most part. The lack of privacy for so large a group in such a confined area brought a frown to the paladin's lips. It can't be helped, I suppose. With Develor in ruins and their village trapped in ice, there was nowhere for him to lead these people besides southwards, and that was a large, arduous journey for which they were most definitely not prepared.

As the half-frozen men began dispersing to their families, the paladin allowed himself a moment to wrap Naestra in a tight embrace as she slipped through the entrance and moved beside him. He kissed her gently on the forehead before setting her down, stripping off his frost-rimed helm and gauntlets. She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned against him as he picked out the others with his eyes.

Talomanes caught Corenne by the sleeve as she brushed by him, working her hands vigorously up and down her numbed arms. "Bring Illandra, Korg, Anluriel, Yshandara, and Ashera to the study. We've got some planning to do before we can rest."

The brown-haired elf nodded, the tips of her pointed ears still blue from the cold. She turned and trotted off, heading first towards the figure of her white-garbed friend. Sighing, the paladin rested his cheek against the assassin's as he allowed himself a moment of respite.

"If you don't get moving soon, you're going to rust on that spot."

Grinning, he straightened, turning to look down into her merrily dancing eyes. He brushes his lips against hers before they headed towards the small room that held such wonderful memories for them both.

The fire was blazing happily in the small fireplace, warming Talomanes, Naestra, and Coreene as they sat with their companions. A rich, meaty smell filled the small room as Korg was busily cooking a thick stew over the flames. The paladin's stomach rumbled loudly, a testament to the orc's cooking skills.

"So there was no sign of the orcish army?" Anluriel sat back on her heels, resting her back against the wall. The only chair was occupied by the orc's muscled bulk, who had claimed it after stating that since he was the cook, he deserved the chair. Corenne, Illandra and Naestra all sat on the narrow cot while the human cleric of Lathander and the dark elven priestess of Eilistraee sat near the door. Talomanes himself was seated on the floor, his back to the wall next to the fireplace.

Shaking his head, he went on. "No, Jenvar and his men kept up a good watch but they didn't spot so much as a single scout during the two days before the storm blew in. Even if they didn't follow us directly, we would have seen the smoke from the campfires of an army that size."

The drow leader turned that over in her head. "Then they either stayed where they were or they are heading south or east."

Talomanes nodded. "I don't know much of anything out there unless they intend to push through the Spine of the World and hit Mirabar or even march on to the Sword Coast." He shook his head. "Still, that's a long, hard march for an army that has to forage to support itself. They won't find much to eat in the mountains, though the pickings once they cross will be good enough."

"Tell me again what destroyed the village?" This came from the raven-haired Illandra.

The assassin spoke up this time. "The snow between the orcs and the village melted and then flowed into a water spout. It turned into a man-shaped monster, walked to the middle of the town, then collapsed, burying the entire town under ice." The soft, emotionless voice in which she relayed her description made it seem far more sinister than the paladin could have done, had he chosen to answer.

"Water…like the earth creature that destroyed the expedition." The elven mage closed her eyes, her forehead creased in a look of concentration. "It sounds almost like an elemental, but on a scale that I've never heard of before."

Talomanes blinked. "An elemental?"

Illandra nodded, her eyes still closed. "Elementals are the beings that make their homes in the elemental planes of existence. The elemental planes exist between and perpendicular to the prime material plane, the heavens, and the hells."

"Ah." The paladin felt his eyes glaze over. He'd never paid much attention in the lectures on the planes, though he did know that the prime material plane was the plane that held the world, Toril. The heavens and the hells he had a vague notion of, though he mostly just knew that those were the places that the gods dwelt.

"So you think these creatures may be some kind of elemental?" Corenne leaned on her friend, who nodded. "It does make sense. That earth creature that destroyed the expedition…the water one that froze Gemyn's Rest solid…and maybe a fire one that destroyed Develor, or at least a part of it."

Illandra blinked. "Develor?" Her eyes opened, widening in a look of astonishment. "Yes! A fire creature is most likely what enabled the orcs to take Develor so easily and would explain the burns there." She smiled at that other elf. "Good thinking." Corenne's lips twitched upward slightly at the praise.

"This doesn't really help us with the reason for the orcs' attacks," Talomanes pointed out. "If they were merely after plunder, they would have raided Gemyn's Rest before freezing it. And it doesn't look like they had stayed to loot Develor, either. Whoever their leader is, he's working with a plan." He cast his eyes around the group. "We need to find out what it is he's after."

"And we still don't know what happened to Ix…" Corenne's murmur hung in the air.

There was a snort beside the paladin. He looked up at Korg, who was busy tasting his stew with a long-handled wooden spoon. "Me tink we be seeing him again," the orc said in his low, gravelly voice. "You no worry 'bout him, elfie."

"How sure are you of that?" The brown-haired elf's eyes held those of the orc.

"Korg no sure, but him tink he know what he talking 'bout." He grinned toothily, pouring some of the steaming stew in a tin cup. Holding it out to the elf, he said, "Eat dis, elfie. Warm your guts, make you feel better." Corenne took the offered cup and took a sip, leaning back on the bunk and relaxing against the wall.

Ashera, who had been silent until then, turned her eyes to the paladin and spoke up. "I've been looking at a wall here. It seems to be a twin to the gate that Illandra, Corenne, and Ix used when they fell on top of us. It may lead to that temple they told us of or it might not. Perhaps we should look there for answers."

The brown-haired elf was nodding her head. "I saw that, too. I think I know how to activate it if it is like the ones I've seen before."

Anluriel glanced at Talomanes. "It was that which drew my sisters and I here in the first place. We've seen writing of that kind before, in certain ruins within the Underdark. No one knows who made them; they are older than even the Exile."

The dark elf was referring to the banishment of the ancestors of the drow beneath the ground during the Crown Wars, the paladin realized. That means these gateways are over ten thousand years old…The thought was astonishing. "What can you tell us about the other ruins you've seen?" he asked.

The ebon-skinned woman took a moment to compose her thoughts. "There was a ruined city near the Blacklake… The buildings were stark, almost crude, made up of simple slabs of stone. Yet objects of massive arcane power have been found there, though most are simply shadows of what they were." She paused before going on. "One of the items that was retrieved destroyed an entire drow city when it was used. The entire cavern that housed the city was collapsed and the area was rendered magic dead."

Anluriel paused again to let that sink in. "Some of the buildings bear writing like that on the wall of the cave out there. No one has ever been able to decipher the glyphs. Even the strongest of divinations is resisted. It is like the gods themselves do not wish for that civilization's legacy to be passed on."

Feeling a sudden weariness come over him as he listened to the dark elf, Talomanes leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. "So whoever built those portals was older than the drow, perhaps even older than the elves themselves." That was a statement, not a question. "Which means that whoever or whatever it was is older than can be imagined…perhaps from the time of the gods themselves."

Yshandara, the dark elven priestess, leaned forward and began speaking. Anluriel began translating for the others. "In the first days, there were five races that were born. The first were the dragons, granted with might and power, though few in number." The priestess' violet eyes seemed to lose focus as she stared ahead, lost amid the mists of time. "A race of smaller lizardfolk walked, though they held little in common with their draconian kin. They built a great civilization, though it died out rapidly." She stopped for a moment, taking a breath before going on. "In the forests of Aber-Toril there lived a race of sylvan peoples who frolicked and rejoiced in life, contenting themselves with their pastoral existence and never seeking greatness or glory." Still, she stared ahead, her eyes seeing things that had been lost to the light of day for eons. "In the seas arose a civilization of shapechanges that spread onto the land and eventually toppled the lizardfolk before they themselves succumbed to the other waterborne races."

Seeming to come back to the present, Yshandara blinked, bringing her violet eyes to Talomanes'. "And the fifth and final race that arose during that time was the humans." The priestress took in everyone with her gaze. "Every civilization rose and fell, every one of those ancient races was shattered and sundered… Every one save humankind."

"You think these ruins were built by an ancient human nation?" the assassin's whisper-like voice floated in the silence left by the dark elf.

Nodding, Yshandara responded, Anluriel relaying what she was saying. "It seems that is the most likely answer. Humans sought shelter in caves and the Underdark while the other races fought and died. There is no reason why one group of humans could not have grown and prospered belowground and then spread above after the fall of the other civilizations."

Illandra stirred. "What of the undead in the temple we found?"

Shrugging, the priestess leaned back and fell silent. Anluriel answered on her own. "All great peoples have their outcasts. Perhaps that was the temple of one of the nation's dark gods."

Lulled into a daze by the warm fire, Talomanes yawned. He stretched his arms then got unsteadily to his feet, his armor creaking. "We've got a bit more insight into those gateways out there, but little on the orcs or their motives." Unbuckling his the belt that held his sword to his back, he laid the scabbarded weapon against the wall. "Why don't we all get some rest and then we'll decide what to do tomorrow. Maybe we can send a scouting party out to try to spot the orcs if this blizzard blows over." He began stripping off his armor.

"Meanwhile, we can send a group through that gate and see where it leads." Setting his pauldrons on the ground next to the rest of his armor, he busied himself with his breastplate, the last piece of armor still buckled to him. "Torm watch over you while you sleep." His breastplate joined the pile of steel on the ground. "Now, everyone get out of my room and let me get some sleep of my own." He flashed a grin before slipping out of his hauberk.

After everyone else had shuffled out of the room, Naestra shut the door behind them. She moved over to the desk, dragging it across the floor so that it blocked the door, keeping it from being opened. That finished, she turned to the paladin, a smile of her lips that brought a grin to the paladin's face, as well.

"I'm still a bit cold," the assassin murmured as she slipped into his arms, pressing her body to his.

Talomanes kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I think I can find a way to warm you." He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the cot.

Chapter 19

The darkness of the cavern overhead seemed painted with shades of blue, violet and orange, subtle variations in the temperature of the rock. The simple whorls and patterns had a stark beauty that comforted Maezinessa.

The drow scout shifted on her bed roll, trying to get comfortable on the hard cavern floor. Despite being exhausted from the trek through the snow, she found sleep elusive. Her eyes burned and her head ached with fatigue, yet she was as awake as she had been when she left that morning, it seemed.

Turning her eyes from the blackness overhead, she blinked her eyes rapidly as the light of the small fires the humans had built washed out her heat sight. Most of the humans lay sleeping, though here and there groups of two or three sat, talking quietly so as not to wake their fellows. Her dark elven comrades sat near the entrance, talking with the human bardess, Anjolina, yet she felt no urge to join them.

The scout lay near the shore of the small pond, the waterfall rumbling gently and carrying away any other noises. She'd lain here, hoping the sound of the water would lull her to sleep, but to no avail.

The soft sound of leather against stone carried to her keen ears. Turned her head, she saw the barrel-chested orc walking towards her. Reaching her, he tossed his thick blanket down beside her own, lowering himself onto it crosslegged.

"You need be sleeping, Mae," Korg rumbled.

She sighed. "I wish I could. Sleep seems slip from my grasp."

The orc thought for a moment. "Tink you need Korg to sing you to sleep?"

That brought a short laugh from the dark elf. "No, my friend. Though I am sure you sing wonderfully well among your people." She smiled at him.

After pausing a moment to think, he opened the sack at his belt, pulling forth a long, narrow case crafted of oiled black leather. Unbuckling the two belts that held it closed, he opened it, unwrapping the object that lay within. Carefully, he lifted the object out of the velvet-lined interior. In Korg's hands lay a finely-crafted flute, age-darkened wood with silver keys.

The orc brought the instrument to his lips and took a breath. He coaxed a single note from the flute, a sound of beauty and wonder, letting it hang in the air like a ray of sunshine. Smiling to himself, he took another breath. Putting his lips to the mouthpiece once more, he began to play.

The sound that Korg's thick fingers and toothy mouth drew from the flute stole Maezinessa's breath away, the sweet music seeming to come alive and flow through the air, wrapping her in peace and serenity. The muted rumbling of the waterfall drown out everything else save for that music, wrapping her and the orc in a cocoon of sound, preventing the wonderful notes from drifting to the others. He played for her and her alone.

Feeling herself relaxing to the wonderful melody, the scout closed her eyes, her mind drifting aimlessly, following the subtle shifting and weaving of the music. She felt herself begin to float, the darkness behind her eyes seeming to lighten.

A warm breeze on her face roused her and she opened her eyes. Instead of the stone overhead, though, she saw that she was looking down on a verdant green patchwork. She felt herself drift lower and the even patches below resolved into fields. Gently rolling hills stretched off to the horizon. Here and there, small farmhouses dotting the landscape, the tiny figures of people toiling in the fields or tending small herds of sheep or goats.

The ground began to slide by faster and faster, the sun overhead racing towards the western horizon at an alarming rate. A massive chain of mountains rushed by underneath. Patches of snow began to dot the ground beneath Maezinessa as she flew along. Soon, the entire expanse below was one solid mass of white.

Suddenly, her dreamy flight stopped. Looking down, she saw a tiny dot of black against the snow, now a murky gray as evening gripped the land. The cave. She knew with a certainty that was what she was looking at.

Lifting higher into the air, she turned to look southeast. A darkness was moving across the snow, heading straight towards the black dot. With the speed it was moving, whatever it was would be upon the cave in a matter of hours.

The ground sped up to meet her and then stopped, leaving her hovering a dozen paces above the snow. Casting her eyes to the east, she saw the true nature of the darkness. Thousands of foul beasts marched to the northwest, hundreds upon hundreds of orcs, as well as innumerable trolls, goblins, kobolds, hobgoblins. Here and there were also the towering forms of bands of ogres and giants.

For what seemed nearly an hour the army trudged beneath the scout. Finally, the ranks began to thin, until only a small group passed. She felt her eyes drawn to the orc in the center of this group, a massive humanoid astride an equally massive dire wolf. The orc was clad in armor the color of deepest night, a double-bitted greataxe strapped to its back. As the figure passed directly below, she was able to pick out blood red glyphs embossed on the steel of his armor. And, most chillingly of all, his eyes blazed with a crimson light, looking as if his eye sockets were filled with unholy flames.

The drow scout felt herself being pulled back to her body. With a distinct lurch, she found that she once again lay on her bedroll, though the wonderful music had ceased. Opening her eyes, she saw that the rest of the humans had taken to sleep, as well as all but two of her sisters.

Fearing that her vision was more than just a simple dream, Maezinessa began to sit up, but she felt something warm and comforting ease her thoughts. Rest well, it seemed to say. This is not the present but a vision of the future. Take heed, but there is no cause to rush.

Feeling herself relax, she turned her head and saw that Korg was watching her, the flute resting in one meaty hand. "Thank you," she said simply.

The orc grinned, his tusks jutting over his upper lip. "Dat you like is danks enough for Korg." He began to raise the flute to his lips again, but she put her hand on his, stopping him.

"Please, I wish to talk."

Korg chuckled. "If you tink so, Mae. But Korg tink him play better dan him talk." Regardless, he still returned the flute to its case, slipping it back into the sack at his belt.

"Why aren't you with the others?" the scout asked, her eyes turning to the humans and the small band of dark elves.

The orcish warrior furrowed his brow. "Dey can like you dark elfies because dey only hear 'bout your people. But dey see udder orcs come and murder and steal year after year. Dey may not hate me, but dey don't like me." There was a note of grimness in his voice.

The scout slipped her slim elven hand into his. "You are always welcome with me, my friend. Because you risked your own life to save mine. Because you've helped us through so much with little thanks and no reward. And, mostly, because you are a good and noble orc, and I am honored to call you my friend."

Korg closed his thick orcish fingers around her hand, lifting it and placing an oddly gentle kiss on the back of her hand. "Dank you, Mae. You Korg's first friend in a long, long, long time." He smiled at her again, his lines around his steel-colored eyes loosening into an expression of peaceful contentment.

Maezinessa closed her eyes, her hand still in his as she felt sleep, true sleep, finally overtake her, carrying her away to a slumber filled with dreams of dancing flutes and smiling orcs.

Beside the sleeping dark elf, Korg lay down on his own blanket, her hand still held in his own. He closed his eyes, though he did not join her in slumber.

Instead, his mind shifted, slipping free of the crude Common he used and embracing a language far, far older. His thoughts wrapped around the new words as he spoke quietly to himself in his mind.

They know much, but is it enough? he thought in his own language. I cannot tell them all I know; they must learn it on their own or they won't truly understand the urgency of the situation.

As always when he worried about the future, he called up the image of his home. He recalled the cliff upon which he stood as a child, the warm summer sun bathing his face as the wind tugged at his clothes. Below him stretched the bristling emerald expanse of a forest, one which he had ventured into more often than his mother approved.

A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered his mother, a tiny woman graced with a doe-like grace. He remembered her tender smile and loving eyes whenever he was good and the way her mouth quirked and her eyes flashed whenever he was bad. Which was more often than not, he thought with a chuckle.

His thoughts turned to his father, a kindly man who spent much of his time poring over books that the explorers brought back with them. He remembered his father hunched over one tome or another, his black hair cropped short around his fine-boned face and his thin frame wrapped in a brown robe, a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose.

A sense of utter sadness stabbed at him, piercing him to his core. Mother… Father… I miss you…

His mind's eye saw that last, fateful day. His mother and father standing outside, holding each other as they stared upwards. Hundreds of shadows filled the afternoon sky. Dragons, he heard his father say. But they weren't coming to burn or loot or pillage.

They were fleeing.

After the last graceful shadow had passed from sight, a fell stillness gripped the world, as if all of creation was holding its breath, waiting for something dire to occur. There was not long to wait.

On the far horizon more shadows appeared, though they were not the slim, serpentine shapes of dragons. Instead, they were hideous constructs, things of living bone and muscle, formed into shapes that pleased their owners. Each was larger than the largest sailing vessel he had ever seen, with spines sprouting from it that held gossimer silk sails, propelling the vessel along as it floated through the sky.

As the grotesque ships drifted closer, they unleashed their death among the people in the city below. Blasts of lightning send gouts of dirt into the air as massive balls of fire erupted, shattering buildings and tossing flaming bodies around like sparks in a campfire. Great clouds of ice formed, leaving behind people frozen solid in their final repose. Trickling streams of acid spewed forth, carving great trenches through stone, metal, and flesh alike.

When the masters of the boneships had their fill of slaughter, small, agile craft began to float to the ground. Within each was a score of soldiers armored in living bone, wielding frightful swords that left only dry, dessicated husks whenever they touched, sending the life energy they stole to the massive ships overhead, powering the great hulks and their hideous magic.

The last thing Korg remembered was the pennants rippling happily in the summer wind, each bearing a black, horned skull on a crimson background. That was the day everything had changed.

That was the day the Black Empire had come.