Author's Note and Standard Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is a tribute to the Forgotten Realms, its creator and its fans. Certain settings and characters appearing in this story are © WotC. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. Most of the characters are my own. All reviews are welcome.

This scene is definitely not complete, but I'm going to post it anyway. My apologies in advance for the abrupt ending. But hey, my writer's group seemed to enjoy it...

When war came to Cormyr, the Black Dragons decided to make a little money by going into the mercenary business. Their first employer was a nobleman named Lord Avelstan. As you'll see, Lord Avelstan began to have some doubts about hiring adventurers to be his scouts. . .

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SCOUNDRELS AND RUFFIANS

Cormyr, near the Stonelands, autumn, DR 1371, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

Lord Avery Avelstan stared at the map spread out across the field table in his tent. It was the largest tent in the encampment- the only one large enough to be divided, allowing him some small measure of privacy in the back, which held his cot, arms and small iron trunk. The map was held down by a rock at each corner. Small wooden blocks, crudely painted, marked the location of the forces arrayed in this war on the map. There seemed to be so many more red blocks than blue.

On a cot near the closed flaps to the command tent, one of his knights, Sir Tresk, slept fitfully. He was a good man, Tresk, and Lord Avelstan didn't have the heart to kick him for falling asleep. Outside, it was pouring rain, and an occasional thunderclap would startle the tired commander, but Tresk snored on. Lord Avelstan was still awake, trying to go over in his head exactly how many men- and options- he had for the upcoming battle.

"Twenty-two light horse, and four heavy," he mumbled to himself, then shook his head. "Plus me, that makes...twenty-five." He could barely think straight. "A score of archers, plenty of arrows- I checked that today myself," he continued. He went over the arrangement of his camp in his head. "Forty-two veterans and men-at-arms, plus a hundred-ten conscripts. But fourteen of those are down with campsickness, so that makes..." He tried vainly to think clearly. A boom of thunder made him almost jump- and lose count.

At that moment, the tent flap opened. Out of the sheet of driving rain emerged a soaking wet figure, dripping all over the muddy furs which carpeted the lord's tent. He looked up to see who it was, and immediately recognized the War Wizard, Ambrestus. Behind him, Lord Avelstan could see the peering face of one of the conscripts who guarded the tent, nodding expectantly. No simple soldier would dare keep a war mage out in the rain waiting for an audience.

"Good lads, all of 'em," he thought to himself, feeling a bit sorry for the poor recruit who had to stand outside while he was in his tent- at least somewhat dry, if not warm. Lord Avelstan looked up at the mage, and nodded. He had worked with War Wizards before, and few of them were as willing to take orders and offer advice as Ambrestus. Let alone go out in the rain. He smiled, and Ambrestus drew back his hood.

Suddenly, Sir Tresk leapt up from his cot, groggily fumbling for his sword. "Halt," he commanded the newcomer, until he recognized who it was. Avelstan and Ambrestus both blinked at him and grinned. Sir Tresk suddenly looked embarrassed as he recognized the camp wizard, then realized he had fallen asleep. He glanced about nervously.

"Ah, excuse me, Lord Ambrestus. I dint recognize you at first," he apologized.

"No harm done, Tresk," Sir Avelstan said. "Tis only our good wizard, no doubt come with yet more good news." Given the recent lack of any good news, even this small joke wasn't funny. Sir Tresk, relieved he wasn't going to be flogged for sleeping on duty, respectfully bowed and went out the flap, muttering something about checking on the guards. Lord Avelstan had no intention of blaming Tresk for sleeping. If the younger knight was half as tired as he was, he'd needed the rest.

"Really, Ambre, what brings you here? It's late. Not bad news, I hope."

The wizard came forward, to stand opposite the field table with the map, and looked down at it intently. Few wizards understood or even cared about conventional tactics, but Ambrestus had a proven talent for it. The wizard touched one of the markers, tilted the wood piece as if checking for something underneath, then righted it again.

"Nothing, really, M'Lord. It's just that your scouts were supposed to be in several hours ago, and I was wondering if you'd heard anything from them."

Lord Avelstan shook his head. "Nay. You're right, they are overdue. I hope it's just the storm and nothing more which has delayed them. I've got to know more about the Dragon's lead forces. The tuskers could be on us at dawn, or dawn of the day after, at the latest." He shrugged. "The King hasn't sent any useful messages in days, which makes me wonder..."

"...Whether he's got any better idea what we're facing than we do," the wizard said. "Aye," Lord Avelstan continued. " They must have bigger things to concern them than sending messengers to me."

It was just this sort of thinking which had lead Lord Avelstan to hire his own scouts. The ones he'd gotten were little more than adventurers and scoundrels, but their leader- a man by the name of Pember- had credentials. He was a spellcaster of some sort from the east, at one time a member of War Wizards. Loyal to the king through and through, they'd assured him. If that part at least was true, Avelstan didn't care how much the man cost, or who he associated with. Pember had a few friends who, for gold, were willing to cross the border into the Stonelands and spy on the goblin armies mustering there. Avelstan had used his own money to pay the commission. When he thought about how his men were already running low on supplies, and how he had to now buy more and more with his own funds, he wondered whether the scouts were worth it. Sometimes, he worried whether he'd ever see this Pember again at all.

Just as he was about to get depressed, the tent flaps rustled again. Ambrestus turned to see who was coming, and Avelstan, sensing something, reached unconsciously for his sword hilt. Both men blinked in surprise as the guard entered, with a glowering Sir Tresk behind him, sword drawn.

"Scuse me, M'Lords," stammered the soggy guard. He bowed and scraped a bit, flustered.

"Out with it, you thrice-damned bilge-rat," spat Tresk, who elbowed his way around the nervous soldier.

Tresk came into the light of the camp- lanterns, and Lord Avelstan's eyes widened in surprise when he saw what the knight had on his arm. Ambrestus frowned. Sir Tresk held up his mail-clad arm. On his shoulder perched a huge, soaking wet hummingbird, as big as a pumpkin, its wings flittering incessantly.

"What in the Seven Hells is THAT?" bellowed Lord Avelstan.

"Tis a hummingbird, M'Lord," spluttered the guard, only to receive a glare from Sir Tresk. "It came up on me out of the rain," continued the guardsman, "headed straight down fer tha tent, an perched right on top of me pike, it did."

"I'd not b'lieve it meself, Lord Avelstan, 'cept I saw it as well," confirmed Tresk. The bird was still fluttering and jittering on his arm, and Tresk- faced with something he thought might be important, and yet uncertain, was at as much of a loss as the guardsman. Ambrestus took some of the tension away by striding over to Tresk, and peering intently at the giant, unusual avian. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The wizard gently reached up and took the fluttering bird from Sir Tresk's shoulder. It squawked and flapped, despite the wizard's gentle handling. Ambrestus quickly set it on the table amongst the map and pieces. Tresk and the guard both looked immensely relieved. The guard bowed, saluted quickly, and ducked out. Tresk, nervous but interested, remained. Avelstan, his hand no longer on his sword hilt, stared at the oddity jumping around on the table.

Ambrestus cast a quick spell, almost before Lord Avelstan could notice. The bird noticed, though, and fluttered down from the table to land on Sir Tresk's bunk.

"No wonder," the wizard said. "There's magic all over this bird. It's a sorcerer or a messenger." Tresk heard that, and moved forward, to stand between his lord and the magical bird. As if in answer, the bird suddenly began to shimmer and...stretch. Lord Avelstan put a restraining hand on Sir Tresk, who would likely have slain the thing sooner than wait to find out who- or what- it was.

In the blink of an eye, the bird transformed back into the wizard Pember- the leader of the group of delinquent, expensive scouts. He carefully eyed the knight, who was standing over him with a threateningly naked blade. Pember then turned to Ambrestus and nodded.

"M'Lords," he said, by way of greeting. His voice seemed hoarse, and he immediately began to rub his arms, which had suddenly become terribly sore. That sort of thing happens when you're a hummingbird.

Lord Avelstan gave a huge sigh of relief, and Ambrestus relaxed. Sir Tresk noticed that the newcomer ws dripping water all over his cot.

"My good Sir Tresk," Avelstan ordered, "would you be so kind as to have someone bring ale for our messenger here?" Tresk nodded curtly and went for the flap, sheathing his broadsword as he went.

Pember tried to say something, but only coughed at first. As Tresk paused, he finally managed to say, "Some tea would be much appreciated. Some HOT tea, if you can manage it." Tresk nodded, and went out. Pember collapsed back on the cot, without even offering proper respects to the two lords- his employers- who were standing before him. Ambrestus considered making something of it, but Lord Avelstan felt otherwise. If this Pember had anything useful to report, he could have the manners of an ogre and it wouldn't bother him.

Ambrestus stepped back a few paces, so he could discreetly cast a truth- seeking spell. Pember didn't seem to notice, but whether that was because of the War Wizard's skill or Pember's exhaustion, Ambrestus wasn't sure. Pember sat up again after a moment and erupted into a long fit of coughing and hacking, like a man who has swallowed a feather and is trying unsuccessfully to expel it from his throat. Finally, Lord Ambrestus pulled a stool around, and sat down beside the cot.

"What news, Master Pember?" the nobleman asked, somewhere between eager and impatient. "Can you now speak? How many orcs march against us? Is the dragon with them? How many spellcasters and siege engines have they brought? How many wains? Do they come through the passes, or are they staying on the trail?" Pember could only stare blankly at the barrage of questions.

"And what of your compatriots?" Ambrestus added. That sparked something in the scout, and he suddenly became very worried.

"Aye," Pember said, quietly at first. "That's what I came to tell you. My friends are nearing your lines, and you've got to let the troops know about it. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, after all." Lord Avelstan nodded at this. He looked around for Sir Tresk, but remembered he'd gone for the wizard's tea. "Guard!"

At the commander's bellow, not just one but all three of the tent guards came bursting in, eyes wide and spears ready. Lord Avelstan stood up from his stool, and grabbed two of the guards by the arm."You two, get the word out, quickly. My scouts're comin back in tonight. The sergeants know the passwords- tell 'em to make sure the pickets do too."

"Aye, M'Lord," the two soldiers responded in unison. With that, the two guards ran out to deliver their lord's orders. Ambrestus stood, and went over to put a hand on Pember's shoulders. The scout looked up at him.

"Pember, are your friends close behind you?" the War Wizard asked, with perhaps the slightest weary hint of a twinkle in his eye. Pember nodded.

"If I'm not mistaken," Ambrestus said, "the friends of goodmaster Pember here are already within our pickets.

Pember then chuckled for the first time in many, many days. Grinning, he said, "And if I'm not mistaken, my good lords, then at least some of my friends have already found the tent where you keep your strongest ale, and are already sitting down somewhere dry with their boots off and hanging over one of your campfires."

At that moment, a squire arrived, bearing a teapot.

***

Pember was only half right. At least some of his friends had, in fact, found the tent where the Third Cormite Company kept its strongest ale. But because of the diligence of Lord Avelstan's quartermaster, they were far from getting any of it. The supplies were kept in a makeshift wooden building, longer and lower than the lord's tent, with a plank floor to keep the contents dry and on the other side of the camp. The quartermaster Verilg was a gruff veteran of many years with Cormyr's navy, and so he knew how to avoid getting supplies swindled out from under his nose- whether at land or sea. At that moment, the balding Verilg was standing outside, as the pouring rain began to let up, guarding the locked door to his supply cabin with a stout cudgel and an even stouter temper.

He was being glared at by two very wet, very armed, and very ornery, figures. One was a halfling, buried somewhere inside a large, brown cloak. He wore studded leather armor, with a shortsword in a scabbard at his belt, and a wooden shield slung across his back. The other was a slim human, clad likewise in a brown cloak, but beneath that he wore leather armor that looked rather new, albeit somewhat dirty. Over it was a plain tunic of unadorned sable. This one bore a longsword at his side and a long knife at his belt, but no shield. Both had leather gloves, grey boots and black trousers with mud up to the knees.

"Now you look 'ere, gramps," said the halfling, his hands on his hips, looking up at the old seaman. "We're scouts in the employ of yer laird hisself, an we're just come back from traipsing through the hairiest territory you ever imagined. We want some ale, an we wants it now. And some pastries too, if you got 'em, and I know ya do, and we want 'em both double quick."

Verilg didn't quite know what to make of this scolding, but he wasn't about to open his larder for two ruffians who somehow wandered into camp, and without even proper uniforms. Not only that, but there weren't many halflings in the fleet, and he was in fact quite astounded to find one looking up at him now, in the middle of the night, soaking wet with rain. For all he knew, the entire army- dragons and all- was about to descend on his supply cabin at dawn. He looked to the halfling's human companion for help. He didn't get any.

"We've got a Charter, see?" continued the halfling, who patted his pockets. "And it says we works fer the lord himself," he said as he felt in his boots for said contract. Unable to find it, he continued. "It explicitly states, and I quote-"

At that, his human companion spoke up.

"Collo," he said, with a silk voice that almost made old Verilg shiver, "I don't think you'll find that copy of our contract, since I lifted it from you yesterday." With a wink at the old quartermaster, he pulled out a tattered, much-folded piece of parchment that was tucked in his belt and waved it over Collo's head. This only seemed to further infuriate the thirsty, tired halfling.

"Poiniard," he scowled, "I knew you lifted it, cause I saw you do it." Then, in a slightly louder voice, as if wanting to let Verilg in on a secret, Collo continued, "But it was such a feeble attempt that I pretended not to notice cause I dint want to hurt your feelings, and I know how sensitive you are about such things. But the fact remains, this sturdy guardian has not yet relinquished the keys to his cellar- which contains the brew to which you and I both are legally entitled, as written on yon charter." He indicated the paper, which Poiniard had now tucked back into a quite different hiding place on his person. A hiding place which did not escape Collo's notice, but which Verilg quite missed, though he had been watching Poiniard closely the whole time. "You said it, Collo," answered Poiniard. "Entitled."

With that, Verilg's already thin patience evaporated, and he turned to the two scouts with a frown. "Now see here, you two," he began. "I don't know who you are, nor do I like the look or tone of ye, but it's obvious you're inside the camp, so you must be friendlies..."

Collo and Poiniard both pretended to listen, but neither payed any attention to the old sailor's lecture, because by then one of them already had relieved him of his key ring.