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.

I'm not sure whether I consider this a complete, stand-alone chapter or not. At around 4,000 words, it might be just a big scene.

After the hero business got a little too political for the Black Dragons, they decided to retire and go into a more reputable line of work. Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out. For one thing, there was this war. Even when it was over, its effects were still being felt.

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BETTER TIMES

Cormyr, the village of Tyrluk, autumn, DR1372, the Year of Wild Magic

"Turnips and pig snouts again!" groaned Helin, staring glumly into the half-full wooden bowl on the table in front of her and poking at the thin stew with her spoon. Her companion, Gault, lifted his own bowl to his lips and drained it without complaint.

"I'm sorry, Miss," the serving girl apologized. "I'd take it back and bring ye another, but we just ain't got any better, honest."

Helin was disappointed, but not surprised. Turnip stew was about the best she could hope for. Times were hard in the Forest Kingdom, and even a middling inn like the Dancing Bear along a major road found proper food hard to come by. The girl who had brought their meal looked half-starved herself. They sat at a large table in the common room of the Inn of the Dancing Bear. Though it had never been the finest inn to be found in Tyrluk, both town and tavern had seen better days.

"No, I am the one who should apologize," Helin said. "I should not complain so much, in troubled times such as these."

"Aye," Gault agreed, as soon as the servant was out of earshot. "It has been a poor summer. The coming winter will not be any easier. You and I, we could live better out in the wilds than here. I have been into the heart of the King's Forest, where there's still plenty of venison. Most folk just don't know where to look."

"I would like that, Gault," Helin replied, putting her hand on his. "But let's wait 'till the others get here, and see what they have to say."

It was not long before the first of the others arrived- a thin, one- handed man in robes, and a lithe, non-descript man in somewhat expensive leathers.

"Mind if we join you?" asked the man in the leather armor.

"Poiniard!" exclaimed Helin, smiling up at him. "And Pember! Good to see you again. Where are your brothers, Poiniard?" she asked.

"My half-brothers, you mean," he answered. "Gwydien is on his way here from Marsember with Broderick. Last I saw Gwydeln, he was traipsing about the Dalelands with Hafgrim." He looked around the common room of the Dancing Bear. "This place sure does bring back some memories." With that, he sat down and helped himself to some of Helin's bread.

***

The inn of the Dancing Bear stood on the north side of the High Road where it ran through the town of Tyrluk. The High Road began far to the west, at the mountain fortress of High Horn, and ran down and east into the plains of northern Cormyr. Tyrluk and the Dancing Bear were the first stop on the High Road for those continuing on eastward to the larger towns of Eveningstar and Arabel. A good many soldiers travelled this road in both directions, but few others. In better times, the High Road would be filled with merchants, farmers and travellers, and the Dancing Bear would be filled with light and song. But now, bandits and worse often lay in ambush along the way.

The King's Road came to Tyrluk from the south, and ended at the very doors of the inn. This road lead away southward through the King's Forest, a vast expanse of woodlands whose eaves brushed against the rooftops of Tyrluk. The King's Road was now mostly empty, even moreso than the High Road, although a few moons ago both had been clogged with refugees fleeing south away from the wars. Soon after, the forest had become infested with bandits and other lawless men as the unfortunate turned to robbery and poaching to survive. Most of the forest bandits no doubt had been forced into such a life out of desperation, their only other choice being starvation. Yet, some of them were more opportunistic and determined, and found a lawless existence in the King's Forest easier than honest work in field or farm. It was these who the lords of Cormyr wished to hunt down.

The forest offered better terrain for brigands to ambush, and better for them to hide in after their escape, and fewer soldiers travelled its length. Despite the efforts of the Crown, the King's Road was even more dangerous than the High Road. Four old friends on horseback arrived at the front door to the inn at precisely the same moment. Two came from the south, and two came from the north.

"Hail, Black Dragons!" cried out Gwydien.

"Hail and well met," answered Gwydeln, leaning over his saddle horn and clasping his brother's hand.

"Hafgrim, it is good to see you again, as well," said Gwydien. "It has been too long since I've seen either of you. Tell me, what news from the north?"

"We encountered some trolls in the plains north of Eveningstar, near the Haunted Halls," replied Gwydeln. "But they did not slow our progress for long. As you can see, we are both unhurt." The warrior grinned at his brother. "What news from the south?"

"Well, Broderick and I came up the Waymoot Road through the King's Forest. We saw signs of brigands, but thank the Lady of Luck, we were not ourselves waylaid. We did meet a kindly goodwife, recently widowed, bless her soul. Wearing a purple scarf, no less." The bard gave a knowing wink. Gwydeln smirked and Broderick rolled his eyes. Hafgrim simply glowered and twirled his beard. "Which by the customs of the Forest Kingdom meant she was looking for a mate. Brown-haired she was, and fair, fairly well endowed with-"

Before Gwydien could get too far with his embellishments, Broderick interrupted him. "Have the others arrived yet?" Both brothers shrugged.

"I know not," answered the warrior. "We have only just arrived. Is this the right inn?"

The bard looked up at the sign above the door and nodded. The shingle was painted with a brown bear, standing atop a red ball, juggling three yellow balls with its paws.

"The sign of the Dancing Bear," he read.

"There will be time enough for this sort of talk later, my friends," Broderick declared. "I don't like the looks of this storm coming out of the north. We should be getting inside, where it is warm."

"Aye, I'd not mind a nice warm fire," agreed Gwydien.

"And a bite," said Gwydeln.

"And a pint," added Hafgrim.

"Then let us go inside," said Gwydien.

***

The officers of the Black Dragon Mercenary Company and Trading Coster found themselves gathered around Helin's table in the common room. The winds howled outside the inn which, for the night at least, served as their headquarters. Old friends greeted one another while the serving girl came back with more bread and stew. Gwydien gave her a friendly wink, and Hafgrim sent her back for a round of ale.

"You call this an evening meal?" asked Poiniard, disappointed.

"We are one short," observed Gwydeln, with a wry look at the dwarf. Hafgrim was impatiently drumming his fingers on the table. "Where is Mheren?"

"She is not coming," Gault said. Gwydien sighed, though only his brothers noticed. "She is back at my camp in the forest, but she sends her greetings."

"Hrm," nodded Poiniard. "Probably the best thing for her. We always did have trouble getting her into town."

Gault shrugged. He was usually able to conceal the orcish side of his bloodline, but Mheren, who was dark elven, could never hope to pass as human. A cowled hood had always sufficed in the past, so Gault suspected that Mheren had other reasons for not joining them.

No one spoke while they ate, save for Broderick's brief prayer of thanks to Chauntea for the meal, and to Lady Luck for their continued health. The dwarf's eyes lit up, though, as he spied the servant returning with the drinks at last. The drinks were handed out, and the girl smiled and went off. Broderick cleared his throat.

"Well, it is time we discussed our prospects, " he said.

"What of our holdings in Marsember?" asked Pember, finishing the last bite of his bread.

"Well my good wizard," answered Gwydien, "I'm afraid our Caravanserie is all but ruined." The bard set down his mug and continued. "Prices for everything are up, and no one's interested in buying anything but food for the winter- and that's hard enough to come by." No one needed to be reminded of that. "And there's no longer any market for luxuries or magic," he went on. "The Sembians have hiked their taxes, and that big shipment is rotting in a warehouse in Ordulin 'till we pay."

"What of the wains we sent to Hillsfar?" asked Pember.

"We lost the new caravan on the Halfaxe trail less than a tenday ago,"
answered Gwydeln. "The Iron Throne got wind of us, somehow," grumbled Hafgrim. Poiniard, who was sitting across from the dwarf, shrugged.

"Might be our informant has turned," he said. "Wouldn't surprise me- the Iron Throne can sure pay better'n us these days."

"Aye," conceded Gwydien. "Or, it could have just been ordinary brigands. All the lands are full of lawless men these days."

"In any case," his brother Gwydeln added, "it was a mistake to pull so many men from guarding the caravans to fight in the Company."

"When the tuskers invaded Cormyr and the dragon came, we all agreed to put aside the Coster and put our efforts into the Company," Broderick reminded them.

"Aye, and it still was not enough," replied Gwydeln, clenching his fist. The warrior was still bitter from their defeat, which he considered his alone. He scowled at the priest's reminder. "We were cut to pieces that day."

"Yes," answered Broderick, sighing. "And so was most of the Forest Kingdom. Yet, we are still here."

"Perhaps we should get rid of the Coster altogether, before everything is gone?" offered Helin.

"You mean sell off what we still have?" asked Poiniard. "Who would buy it?"

"We were approached by Hamasphur of Selgaunt a tenday ago," said Gwydien.

"You mean that nurker who's holding the Ordulin shipment 'till we pay his so-called-taxes?" Poiniard glowered. "I'd sooner kiss an ettin." Helin giggled.

"Bah, I'm not selling anything to a Sembian," agreed Gwydeln.

"Well, perhaps the Trader's Alliance from Waterdeep, then? Surely they have an agent in Suzail somewhere," suggested Gwydien.

"Perhaps," Broderick suggested. "Could we not donate what we have left to the church? You remember the priestess in Suzail? The Tower of the Lady of Luck?"

Poiniard scowled, and a few of the others shook their heads. "I'm not about to just give away my share," he said.

Broderick sighed, and shook his head.

"Well, we will just to have to look for a suitable buyer," said Gwydien.

"We've spoken enough of our Trading Coster," interrupted Pember. "What of the affairs of the Mercenary Company? Perhaps the military arm of our enterprise has fared better than the mercantile. Gwydeln, how many men are left of the Company? We had half a hundred survived the battle." Pember knew he would not like the answer.

"We fielded two-hundred men-at-arms, and two score of archers pulled in from the Coster side. Of that, less than a tithe remain. Those who had anyplace to go have already left."

"Bah, mutiny," growled Hafgrim. "I'll go straighten that out soon as we finish 'ere. Thems signed on fer a contract and it ain't up yet. Breakin' a few shins will put a stop ta that nonsense."

"Can't say as I blame 'em," the warrior said quietly. "They're cold, they've little enough food and they know we can't pay them past the New Moon. I've scoured the lands from Suzail to Arabel. There are simply no men to recruit. Not the sort we'd consider, anyway. If we're going to get some new blood, we'll need to search farther afield."

"Perhaps another visit to the Dalelands," suggested Hafgrim. That elicited grumbles all around, followed by an awkward moment of thoughtful silence. The winds howled outside the inn.

"Well," Pember asked. "How much do we have left in the treasury?"

Broderick quietly drew a large, battered backpack from beneath the table.

"This is all that remains of our commission," he answered. He stood up, unhooked the catch, and spilled out the contents. There was a small pile of gold coins and gems, a roll of parchment with a tattered black ribbon, and a gold medallion.

At the sound of clinking coins, a man drinking at a nearby table looked over. His eyes widened as he saw the treasure spread out on their table. What seemed a pittance to the guild officers looked to be a year's wages to a commoner. Poiniard curled his lip and gave the man a sinister glare. The man wisely averted his eyes, suddenly very interested with something in the bottom of his mug.

Helin reached out and picked up the medallion from the top of the pile. It sparkled in the lantern light, showing the royal crest of Cormyr.

"Well, at least we have the gratitude of the nobles," she smiled. The medallion was not even real gold, just plated copper.

"That thing's worth about as much as goblin spit these days, " chuckled Poiniard. "The nobles are in as sad a state as we are, some even worse."

"I count six hundred gold lions, and another thousand worth in gems, " estimated Broderick. Pember reached out and took the roll of parchment off the table. A few eyebrows raised at the sight of it.

"My friends," said Pember, "I hate to say it, but, the Black Dragon Mercenary Company and Trading Coster is no more."

Poiniard chuckled. "So much for earning an honest living," he grinned. "Now that we have arrived at the obvious, the question is- what are we to do now?"

"We could go hunt goblins in the Stonelands," suggested Gault.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" grinned Poiniard. "But I heard they aren't able to pay the bounties, even though they're still offerin'."

"The Crown is as broke as we are," said Gwydien.

Pember removed the ribbon and unrolled the paper he was holding. It was their Charter, issued years ago to a fledgling adventuring party by an agent of the Crown. This was no lucrative contract that might rebuild the Mercenary Company, nor a valuable trade agreement that would pay the debts of the Trading Coster. It was merely the license to exist as a band of adventurers, formed long before they'd ever given thought to business or war.

"My friends," Pember declared, holding up the Charter. "The only way to get back what we've lost is to go back to doing the only thing we're good at- adventuring."

***

The doors to the common room burst open. They turned and saw a squad of armsmen enter and survey the common room. The guards wore the tabard of the Purple Dragon over their mail. "King's Men," hissed Poiniard. Broderick hastily shoved the coins and gems back into his pack and set it under the table.

"Looks like they're comin' this way," rumbled Hafgrim. The foremost guardsman scowled as he approached with a few of his men.

"Lawless freeswords are not welcome in Cormyr, troubled times or no," said the sergeant, one mailed hand resting easily on his belt, near his sword hilt. "We are soldiers of the King, and there'll be no trouble from ruffians while we are in Tyrluk."

"Rufiians?" asked Helin, dismayed.

"Now see here, Sergeant," Pember huffed, getting to his feet. "We are adventurers, not brigands. Look here." The wizard handed their Charter over to the sergeant. He read it carefully and passed it back.

"Well, ye do have a Charter, so yer assemblage is lawful," the sergeant said, still skeptical. "But ye should all be wearing peace-strings about your weapons."

"I guess mine must have fallen off," Poiniard snickered, putting a hand over the hilt of his shortsword. Broderick glared at the rogue from across the table.

"An honest mistake, my good man," Gwydien assured the sergeant. The bard hastily stood up and put an arm around one of the guardsmen in a companionable way. "To most civilized people, adventurers are indistinguishible from ruffians. Come, let me buy a round of drinks for you and your men, and we'll drink to the health of the Prince Ascendant. While food may be scarce in Cormyr, ale is not."

"Praise all the gods," Gwydeln muttered under his breath. The other guardsmen wandered off as Gwydien lead their sergeant over toward the taproom. Once a cask had been broached, everyone in the room breathed a collective sigh of relief there would not be any violence. Soon, Gwydien called for his lute.

"Will you accompany me on your flute, Broderick?" he asked.

"Nay," the cleric answered, shaking his head. Gwydien shrugged and went off. Soon, the guardsmen were singing along, or mingling with the other patrons. For a while at least, they were able to forget their troubles.

The sergeant soon returned to their table. Gwydeln gestured to an empty chair and the man sat down.

"Hail and well met," he said. "I am Lhusk of Waymoot."

"Well met, sergeant," answered Gwydeln. "I am Gwydeln, Captain of the Black Dragon Mercenary Company." He went on to introduce the others at the table. "The dwarf is Hafgrim son of Bjorngrim, Blood of Agroth of Sarphil, First Axe of the Company." Hafgrim politely stood and bowed after the manner of the dwarves. "The pretty one is Helin Ghreyfa," Gwydeln continued, indicating her with a smile. Helin blushed at the compliment. "She serves Sylvanus while caring for our mounts. Her companion is Gault, the Worg of Jharek, slayer of giants." The sergeant could not help but notice that Gault had an orcish look to him. "Gault is the trusted and valiant master of our scouts," Gwydeln reassured him. "A finer tracker you will not find in all the land, nor one more loyal to the kingdom." Gwydeln then turned to indicate Gwydien, who was across the room. "Yon minstrel is my brother, Gwydien Manyswords. He runs the Black Dragon Trading Coster in Marsember. Our half-brother, Poiniard-" Gwydeln blinked, for Poiniard had somehow slipped away without being noticed. The warrior shrugged and went on. "Well, he assists Gwydien in counting coins. Here is Broderick of Tymora, the chronicler of our deeds and the much overworked steward of our spiritual well-being." Broderick smiled warmly at the sergeant. "And this is Pember One-Handed, our own humble enchanter of no small reknown." Lhusk could not help but notice that Pember's left hand was missing above the wrist, but again, the swordlord politely held his tongue.

"The Black Dragons, ye say?" He rubbed his chin, and took the mug Gwydeln offered. "Not quite what I was expectin'."

"Expecting?" Gwydeln asked cautiously. Swordlord Lhusk nodded.

"Aye. I was given a missive to deliver to ye," he explained. "Right from the top, by the looks of it. Came by messenger two nights ago. But I didn't half expect to find ya, 'cause I'd heard ye'd disbanded after the wars."

"Well, we did. We here are all that is left."

"I've heard of yer outfit, though." Lhusk went on. "During the Dragonfall War, I fought in the west, attached to the banner of the Lord of Tyrluk. You were further east, weren't ye?"

"Indeed," answered the warrior. "Our Company was in the hire of Lord Avelstan, whose lands lie near Eveningstar. We did mostly scout work. Before that, we were down in Marsember, hired on by Lord Illance."

"Ah," said Lhusk. "Lord Avelstan died in battle, did he not?"

"Aye, along with his son and heir."

"Ye were badly mauled in the last battle of the war. It saddens me, but I had hoped to learn otherwise. Sturdy lads, the Black Dragons, so twas said. My own company fared little better. We took a severe beating. Lost a lot of men, though we made them tuskers pay dear."

"Entire units died to a man," said Gwydeln. "Mostly those who were caught in the dragonfire, which we were not."

"We may 'ave won the war," Lhusk said, "but it sure doesn't seem like it. We've just come from Norbe Keep, a minor barony 'bout a days ride north an' east of here, north of Eveningstar and near the Haunted Halls. Twas a nice enough place, once. I visited it once in my younger days. Now the baron's died an' Norbe Keep is all but ruined. Lady Norbe an' her daughters rule the place now, but there's no men to keep order in what's left of her husbands lands. I'd hoped to put my lads up in the keep overnight, but no such luck." Gwydeln raised an eyebrow."They refused to provide shelter to a squad of Purple Dragons?" he asked in disbelief.

Lhusk shrugged. "Not so much that they refused," he explained. "Better to say that they couldn't. They've no food, and most of their servants have fled. There's not a room in the place what has so much as a roof, let alone four walls standing. The Lady Norbe greeted us, an invited us in, but she kept insisting her lord husband was going to return, and she acted as if nothing had happened. But tweren't nobody about save her two daughters and an old chamberlain. Lady Norbe kept calling for her cooks as if they were still alive, an' apologizin' when they dint arrive ta serve up the dinner. She sent one of my lads out to her stables to have the groomsmen look after our mounts, an' there weren't no stables left, nor any groomsmen. She was startin' to make the lads nervous. Not to speak ill of a noblewoman, but I think the events of the past season have afflicted her mind."

"If you don't mind me askin', Captain Gwydeln, if ye get a chance, maybe you could ride yer folk up north an' look in on Lady Norbe?"

"Certainly," said Gwydeln.

Lhusk paused wistfully and shook his head. "We lived so long under the rule of good king Azoun, we dint know how good off we had it. Now the King is dead." They all raised their cups in silent tribute to the Old King, and the sergeant took a long drink from his mug.

"Now, don't get me wrong," he continued, whiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Most of my men respect the Steel Princess, and I do too." He lowered his voice slightly. "But there's some as are uncomfortable with the whole idea of a Regency. These men are no traitors, mind you- just men loyal and true what are afeared for their wives and homes."

"Understandable," said Broderick. "You've heard the tales of Salember, the Rebel Prince?" The sergeant nodded. "That trouble came up during the last Regency- a hundred winters ago."

"Theres even worse news," the guardsman continued. "All of these northlands are rife with goblins and orcs, now that we've retaken Arabel."

"Surely the king's War Wizards will be able to straighten things out," suggested Pember.

"The War Wizards are in disarray too," the sergeant countered, "though they don't let on about it. It wasn't just swordsmen who died in the war- we lost a good many finger-wagglers, too. Word has it not only is there a new head of that outfit, but also a new Court Mage as well." The sergeant shook his head.

"What will come of it all, I wonder." He took another drink.

"Are you being moved to the rear, to winter over in High Horn?" asked Gwydeln. The sergeant nodded.

"Well, I've some worse news of my own," continued Gwydeln, "though perhaps you've already heard it. Hafgrim and I just come back from the Dalelands, and we had to make our way through some pretty evil territory on our way here to Tyrluk. We passed by Tilverton, and some sort of magical catastrophe befell the city."

"What say you?" asked Pember.

"I cannot say," Gwydeln replied with a shrug. "The town is nothing more than a smoking ruin. We were turned away by guardsmen, and could not get near the place."

"And the weather is strange, too," interrupted Helin. "Huge storms all summer, and now these early blizzards coming over the Stonelands."

"Out of the deserts of Anauroch," said Pember.

"There's strange deeds and evil afoot there, folks say," added the sergeant. "You hear a thousand tales, none of 'em the same. Most folk are of a mind that the blackness that overtook Tilverton is linked to whatever's happening out in the desert."

With that, the sergeant drained his mug and stood up. He removed a scroll from his tunic. It was bound with a purple ribbon, and sealed with wax.

"Well, I need to go check on the lads," he said. "Here is the message I was to deliver." He handed the scroll to Gwydeln. "I thankee for the drink, and the talk. We're hard-pressed that's for sure, and it's good to see well- armed adventurers who abide by the King's Laws for once. Until swords part."