Prologue

Thane cast his weary eyes over the battlefield. So many dead, so many flames that had been snuffed in these last days. Days filled with monsters, magic, and massacre. The days seemed to last lifetimes. But the nights, the nights were far worse. Skirmishes raged on throughout the night; sometimes only the gleam of Verik's Moon on armor and blade could be seen in the murky blackness. For six long days the battle had continued to ravage both forces. Thane began to walk the battleground, looking for any surviving enemy troops to interrogate or finish off. He was starting to feel the effects of so few hours of sleep over a six-day period of constant fighting. Trying to focus on the present, he drew his attention towards his comrades-in-arms.

Dear free-spirited Sheleigh. The boisterous halfling had traveled with him mere days after his departure from Fevoreen. He was always there to provide some good cheer when times were darkest. Now he lay huddled next to a battered barricade, covered in blood. His eyes were now bloodshot from lack of sleep. His brown hair was tussled, matted, and in places soaked with blood, giving it a black and red hue. Skilled hands that once plucked the strings of a lute and played the keys of reedpipes now involuntarily grasped a short sword with such intense fervor he could have died on the spot and a fortnight later the metal would remain thus clutched.

Alexandria and Steven. The wielders of the magic arts were all but enemies when first they met. Alexandria had come from a line of renowned mages, and full of promise. Her long auburn hair and striking green eyes projected a beauty that disguised quite well her determination, logic, and no-nonsense attitude. Now she sits on the damp earth, tears in her eyes, resting her head on Steven's shoulder. When they had met, Steven had nearly begged to join Thane's company. Then, his silver eyes had been full of excitement, eager to prove his worth. Sitting next to Alexandria, they were full of pain. He combed through his light brown hair with his left arm, bloody from the sting of an Orcish blade. Where previously the sorcerer's robes had been bright, now they hung loosely around his shoulders, tarnished with neglect. Looking at Alexandria, he wrapped his bloodied arm around her, desperately trying to soothe her.

Stubborn, obstinate Sarindra. In Gaeth it was rare to see a dwarf venture away from their mountains for more than commerce or warfare. To any person not familiar with the Dwarven histories of Gaeth, she was nothing more than an exception to the rule, but to a dwarf, Sarindra was more than an anomaly. For almost all Dwarven history, Balderks, both male and female, had been hearty warriors. They defended their kingdom, and had no desire or need to leave the mountainsides they knew. But Sarindra had deviated from her clan, choosing to pursue service to the Dwarven deity Moradin, and sought enlightenment and adventure. When the battle had started, she was in the front ranks, her red hair flowing in the wind and brandishing her warhammer with the battle fury known only to the Dwarves. Six days later, her blood-soaked weapon was slung upon her belt. Now she paced around the battlefield, calling to Moradin to aid her in healing the countless wounded that littered the ground.

Then there was Quirion. Thane had learned so much from the elven ranger during their travels together, yet he knew so little about the mysterious maverick. Presently, the elf stood atop a stone outcropping, his studded leather armor blackened with blood and magic, his short brown hair fluttering in the wind. Ehlonna's champion gazed across this once beautiful plain, surveying the devastation. Thane tried to read his thoughts, but the loner's soul windows provided no inkling of whatever occupied his secretive mind. The company was quite a distance from Kivarc, and for a moment he pondered why Quirion had continued with them even after they had left the forest.

Lothæsorun returned his attention to the apparent victory that surrounded him. He had prayed to Heironeous before this battle, asking for victory. This was no victory. Hundreds of humans, elves, dwarves, goblins, orcs, drow, and duerger now added unwanted flavor to this once sweet earth. How many lives had been saved through this bloodshed? He could only hope as he ran his blood-stained hand through his bronze hair. Yet the valiant warrior knew that it would be all for naught if Darsen was not stopped. The sky overhead was darkening once more. Lothæsorun turned and began walking toward his friends to discuss the matter of shelter for the night when the cry of a hawk toward a small mounted figure on the horizon. Reflexively, he tightened his grip on his sword.

"Your day will come," Lothæsorun muttered under his breath. "Your day will come."