Chapter one:
Men trembled at the sight of Talindra Thellis. Whether it was from lust, fear, or both she neither knew nor cared. It mattered not in the end, so long as they obeyed. The provocative cut of her spiked leather armor was as functional as it was appropriate to a priestess of Loviatar, although it was there that the similarity ended. Her willowy frame, silky blond hair, and fair skin gave her a delicate beauty that contrasted with the image of a priestess of pain. It was difficult to ascertain her half elven nature at first glance, which was as she would have it. When it came to Talindra, appearances could be as changing as they were deceiving.
She had been harried every step of her journey. She breathed a sigh of relief when she had finally seen the silver eagle of Sembia on the banner of the Scardale harbor's docks. She had seemed to travel half of Faerun in her quest, but at long last she was on her way home. Scardale was not home. No Dale was home, but Sembians endured here yet. To be among her people was the next best thing to walking the streets of Saerlun once more. She had enjoyed her brief stay immensely, but now that she was traveling down the coast she found herself immensely bored. She almost wished to encounter some sort of resistance just to break up the tedium.
She looked to where Randal rode beside her. She wished that his skills as a lover paralleled his skill with his blade. It was a pity, but at least the Zhentalar Lord had his uses. He looked to her very infrequently for a lover, his dark eyes always focused forward when in the saddle, never looking back in suspicion nor regret. She trusted him only to do always that which would benefit him and his city.
Mandrake the pathetic mage, however, she was questioning herself about. The spell caster from the Moonshae isles had claimed to kill the bard Anton Aliston in Raven's Bluff, but she had not seen it with her own eyes. She was once a priestess of the goddess of lies, and knew well the nuances of a liar. She did not trust him and planned to dispose of him at her earliest convenience.
Dorc the demented trotted behind her. He never removed his eyes from her bottom in the saddle no matter how near or far he was from the sight. She found this mildly irritating, as she could not tell if it were his manly desires or his taste for human flesh which drew his attention.
Vhaner the rogue was more predictable, as well as more dependable. He had put many of her foes in the grave. He was not as skilled with the dagger as his erstwhile partner Deneiri, but knew many ways to put it into an unsuspecting back nonetheless.
Deneiri stayed close to Vhaner as always, throwing a dagger into the air by the tip and catching it by its handle. As difficult as that could be while on horseback, she had seen more impressive displays of his skill. Along the sea of fallen stars the former pirate had earned the name "Daggermaster" among the cutthroats of the region. High praise indeed among that crowd.
She thought of them all as the best of the rest. Some of the others she missed more, but had not been worth the cost or danger of raising them from the dead. They had served her in both their lives and by their deaths. That was enough. In front of the party and shortly behind, mercenaries of the "Crimson Lion" company trotted along. They were a third drawer company if ever she had met one, but Scardale had a shortage of great mercenary companies such as the Flaming Fist. She had gone to the expense of an escort because she had a need for cannon fodder, and a shrinking circle of henchmen. Anton's relentless pursuit had seen him ally with everything from Harpers to Red wizards, Beast cults to the night watch of Raven's bluff. The unpredictable and indiscriminant war he waged had given her both respect and loathing for the man, even as his face had brought up entirely different feelings. He was so like his brother. She had no idea what to expect next, and wanted to be prepared this time. She had been successful so far, but Tymora was not her faith. The auspices of Beshiba had ever plagued her life, and she preferred to make her own luck.
The wilds of the borderlands between Sembia and the Dales were not pictures of majesty as much as the remnants of a former glory. The once great Elven woods were now forgotten clear-cuts populated by the seedlings and saplings of a new generation. The ghosts of fallen Cormanthor whistled sadly in the wind that blew beneath the Blackfeather Bridge. Underbrush that once would have been choked out by towering trees thrived in weedy sprawls. Twenty miles to the south lay Ordulin, once known as Moondale, and all of Sembia. Rauthauvyr's Road went all the way to Selgaunt, and thus he was unsure of her destination. All that he knew was that he had no intention of letting her reach it. This was where the ending would be, Dartrick had decided. One way or the other, it would savagely end in this weedy sprawl by the side of the road to civilization.
He had no idea that this day and place was only the beginning.
Laying on his stomach in the brush, legs making a v shape behind him, a passerby would need to step on him to see him. His chin rested on the back of one hand and the other on his longbow. From the position he could spring to a kneeling fighting position and fire in less than an eye blink. Looking to his left and his right, he saw that Shael and Largon had assumed the same position as he had directed. He had learned over the years that cover, concealment, and other ambush tactics were something that others needed instruction in. For him, it was as natural as breathing. He had been doing this since he was a child, both as a hunter and as a soldier.
Across the way he saw that Onlar the elf and Buchanan the halfling were doing much better. He knew that because he couldn't see them, and he knew where to look. Buchanan had settled his pugnacious self behind a thick stump while the slim Onlar had found cover in a tangle of bushes. He knew from experience that elves and halflings were well known for their ability to surprise their enemies. For the half elven woman to his left and the Druid to his right, it had been work.
He had only three days to plan this ambush, and had asked his brother Ethos and his cousin Chadrick for aid. He had been disappointed with the results of both requests. Both of them had magic powerful enough to transport themselves to the site of the ambush almost instantly. Still, both of them had concerns that far outweighed the threat of the rogue priestess. Ethos had sent him Largon Blackhawk, one of his students. While the young Druid did not have Ethos' power, he had proven invaluable. He had spoken with every animal and even some of the plants in this region, giving detailed reports of Talindra's movements. While she had magic that could defeat attempts at scrying, there was little that she could do about a bird, squirrel, or oak tree informing on her.
Chadrick's contribution to the cause had been twofold, although neither of them had been all that impressive. He sent his elemental familiar, a dust devil like the little wind wisps that Ethos used to conjure before he was powerful enough to summon full sized elementals. The tiny thing was nearly invisible when at rest, and when on the move was only as visible as the amount of loose dirt and debris would allow. It had come bearing a ring that enabled Dartrick to speak with it and was charged with a few spells that could be used once per day. Dartrick was angry at Chad because his recalcitrance left him without a Wizard. Perhaps that would prove to be an advantage instead of a setback, yet he knew that the enemy had two spellcasters. Dartrick had survived as long and as much as he had because he was a tactician at heart. He realized his tactical disadvantage in this battle, so had sought every advantage he could muster.
He had chosen his allies as well as he could given the haste and circumstances. Shael had been by his side for nearly a year. Buchanan was a long time friend. Onlar was a traveling companion of Ethos who owed him a debt of honor for bringing him back from the dead. Largon was also bound by his word to Dartrick's older brother. None of them were here for any selfish reason. They were not putting themselves in harm's way for gold or glory. They were simply here for a friend, and that was enough. The only exception to this proved the rule, as the one member of his party that refused to seek cover and ambush his foes. The swordsman known as Styngian sat on a stump whistling, waiting for the group to come along so that he could challenge them. He was here to fight for the love of fighting, and the grizzled veteran had insisted that he was too old to crouch in bushes. It was the most dangerous part of an ambush to be the distraction, but he was capable of taking care of himself. The old man was one of the most respected grandmasters with the sword in all Faerun.
Thus was the stage set, and when an excited squirrel ran up to Largon and chattered in his ear, it was no surprise when only moments later the distant clop of hoof beats on the Blackfeather bridge alerted Dartrick to the approach of Talindra's party. He slipped his hand into one of his many pockets and it came out with a pair of hollow reeds, which he gently blew into. At the chirp that the birdpipes made, two chirps came in answer from the other side of the road and Styngian's whistling abruptly stopped. Hands quietly went to weapons, and eyes that had been bored and restful came to sudden life. None of them shared the Ranger's patience, and they were ready for a fight.
Dartrick's fingers moved to the arrows that he had laid out in front of him, ensuring that his elbow would not be seen in an effort to go to his quiver. It was time to see what they were all made of.
"Something is amiss." Randal muttered.
Talindra had learned to trust the dark warrior's judgment over the years they had known one another, and turned immediately to him to ask a silent question.
"I don't like this path." He said "Perhaps we should get off Rauthavyr's road at the Featherdale fork and travel through Tasseldale."
"I do not wish to stay in the Dales one second more than I have to. It seems to me that more and more of my enemies come from these cursed lands." Talindra sighed, thinking again of Anton and one other.
"We have to keep our eye on the prize." Mandrake rudely interjected "We must do whatever is necessary to reach our destination. It is too important to risk a longer journey."
Talindra shocked the mage with a withering glance "I seem to have forgotten the instance when I requested your council." She replied frigidly.
It was then that the opportunity for any such decisions was gone forever. The party rounded a corner where a lone old man in a long black cloak came into view. He was standing in the center of the road at the military position of parade rest.
"Halt!" The captain of the Crimson Lion troops yelled back to both his troops and those that he was escorting. He nodded to his lieutenant to ride forward and challenge the old man.
"Well met... traveler." the young man said with some distain as he approached the old man "You are barring the way of the fine people we are escorting, and we would know your intentions."
"Intentions?" The old man said with an impish grin "Only that you indulge an old man and give me a moment of your time."
In that moment the lieutenant's horse was chopped out from under him, its headless body rolling to the ground after throwing its rider. The mercenaries reacted as fast as they could, with the men to the rear of the formation galloping to the forward position, but by then the old man had already seized the fallen lieutenant and had his sword across his throat. The company of the crimson lion tried to ready their crossbows, but it was too late.
"Hold your fire!" the captain yelled, having no way to know that his order was going to be immediately countermanded.
"Fire!" Talindra commanded, with the force of a priestly spell behind the shout.
Even the captain had to admit that he would have fired also if he had a crossbow.
The mercenaries loosed their quarrels, turning the lieutenant into a pincushion as Styngian ducked behind him. He was only hit by one quarrel that traced a burning line from his wrist to the elbow of his left arm, which was holding his sword. To most swordsmen, this would be a disastrous injury, but Styngian was not left handed. He switched the blade from left hand to right as the lieutenant fell, and parried a quarrel from midair before finishing with a flourish of the blade that was his signature in his younger days.
"Charge!" Talindra commanded again, the magical power of this command so powerful that the both the mercenaries and Dorc spurred their mounts to action.
Crossbows clattered to the ground as swords cleared their scabbards, and even the captain charged without a thought. The dozen charging horses sounded like thunder as they bolted toward the dismounted swordsman, who looked to be not even a little impressed. It was at that moment that Dartrick's arrow struck the captain in the neck, dropping him from his confused mount. Then it seemed like arrows were raining from all directions, as four archers seemed to spring from the very brush to encase the riders in a killing box. Only Dorc had the total lack of sense to continue charging the old swordsman, but - even as the remaining mercenaries broke off the attack to form two flanks - it was far too late.
"Ambush!" Randal yelled, finally dropping his lordly disinterest and drawing his black bladed sword.
"Withdraw to the bridge to regroup!" Talindra shouted, but just as soon as she turned to do it she realized that it was impossible. Jagged spikes of stone had formed from out of nowhere, turning the road into an obstacle impassible by man or horse.
Mandrake blatantly ignored the order of the woman that he had grown to hate. Instead he lifted his hands to cast a killing spell. He had resented Talindra's displays of priestly power, and was going to show her how much easier it was for him to kill the old man. What good was a sword, after all, against a bolt of unerring fire that could incinerate the man where he stood? The luminescence of spell casting formed around his hands, gleaming off of his silver scull cap and golden tooth as it consumed the components, but it was there that his life ended.
The world erupted into noise and light, causing every horse on the road to rear up with a terrified chorus of whinnies. It was only a moment after Talindra and Randal hit the hard ground that she knew her horse had thrown her. As she rolled to avoid the hooves of the fleeing beast she saw the charred remains of her troublesome mage still fused to the corpse of his mount. It seemed that she had found a way to rid herself of him after all.
The lighting bolt that slew Mandrake was as much a surprise to Dartrick as it was to Talindra, blazing forth with a deafening crack that nearly knocked him from his feet. The natural concealment of tall grasses and rank weeds that he had been kneeling behind was burned away in an instant. It was at about the instant that Talindra hit the ground that he realized the lightning bolt had come from the Dust Devil. As he watched the swirling dust wink out of existence he understood that Chadrick had imbued the familiar with the ability to cast that spell, as well as the one it used to wisk itself back to his side. Depending on how this battle turned out, he would either have to thank him for killing the dangerous mage with that spell or sucker punch him for not telling him about it. He knew that no plan would long survive contact and combat, but one thing was for sure... the lightning bolt was the point at which his plan fell apart.
"Aliston!" Randal bellowed as he pulled himself to his feet "I'll rip your heart from your chest!"
Dartrick was unsure whether the big Zhent thought that he was himself or Anton, but was totally sure that it didn't matter at all to the dark warrior. Flecks of spittle flew with his curses as he charged forth, sword swinging over his head. Behind the Zhent he saw determined mercenaries crawling toward the side of the road under the cover of their shields. Five of them lay dead, bristling with arrows, but the rest had some fight in them. Talindra was taking her time getting to her feet, simply looking at him with an unblinking and inscrutable expression. Styngian evaded a fleeing horse and charged down the embankment that Dorc had rolled down after falling from his mount. Dartrick dropped his bow and drew his longsword just in time to meet the charge.
As a flurry of clanking blades surrounded his vision he realized that his chances of beating Lord Randal Scepter in a fair fight were slim. The Zhent was a killing machine, heavily armored yet moving nearly as fast as the leather-garbed ranger. The strategist in him realized that he had won victories. He had blocked their escape, killed their mage and both leaders of their mercenary soldiers, reduced their numbers, and divested them of their mounts. They were still outnumbered nearly 2-1, and the most dangerous of them still alive. This point became infinitely clear when Talindra muttered a few words and disappeared, distracting Dartrick so much that he did not parry the thrust that cut deeply across his ribs.
"Dartrick!" Shael yelled and whirled to fire her bow on Randal, but her arrow fell undrawn from her fingers as Vhaner pounced from the underbrush and drove his dirty knife into her back. He wrapped one arm around her breast and with an evil leer began to twist the knife. No one had noticed him slip away in the chaos, which was how he had always done his work.
"That's it, pretty... lets just take it slow." He said with obscene tenderness.
Largon had just finished casting his spell to heat the metal of a mercenary's armor when he whirled around to help his comrades. Two daggers struck him in the chest and a third buried itself in his stomach. He groaned and slowly slid down the small fruit tree he had been using as cover, his breath coming in raspy gurgles. From the middle of the road Deneiri the Daggermaster blew mockingly on his fingers, then reached to his daggers to finish the druid off as he strolled leisurely toward him.
It was total slaughter all around, as even the other side of the road had degenerated into a melee. Onlar and Buchanan had charged forth with their swords drawn, showing themselves more than a match for those wounded and dispirited members of the Crimson Lion. The mercenaries fought on, ignoring their flaming comrade. Styngian strolled up the embankment with Dorc's severed head and threw it at the feet of a big mercenary before running him through. On the other side Shael planted one foot firmly and bent at the waist, pulling the surprised thief over her shoulder and sprawling him ungracefully in the dirt. Deneiri whirled to defend himself from the ornery, cussing halfling who threatened to cut his legs off and sauté certain tender parts of his anatomy with the intention of feeding his canines with them. Onlar battled two mercenaries, his slim elven sword ringing against their steel.
Randal gave Dartrick another shallow wound and then came down with a mighty stroke that forced him to one knee. The chaos of the battle shattered all semblance of plan and order, becoming little more or less than an overwrought bar fight. Dartrick was a veteran of such chaos, though, and it was the presence of mind experience brings that saved his skull as two blades clashed mere inches from his forehead. Randal bore down on him with 250 pounds of muscle and plate armor, driving the ranger down and pinning his waist between his legs as he drove the swords closer to his face.
"You're the ranger, aren't you?" Randal grunted through a wicked smile "Do you have any idea how long I've waited to kill you?"
The struggle played out painfully slowly, causing the clanking and screams around to seem very far away. Dartrick's sweat stung his eyes even as Randal's dripped from his curly hair in fat droplets. The swords did not move an inch, but he could see the razor-sharp edge of the Zhent's blade beginning to shave a curly sliver of metal off of his own.
"Do you have any idea how many times I've had to hear your name? How many nights I've had to... hear... about... YOU!?" Randal's frustration buldged in his eyes, making him careless.
Dartrick suddenly released his resistance and twisted out of the way, causing the Zhent's blade to drive into the ground beside his head. With a quick twist of his arm he tore the handle from the dark warrior's grasp, seeing it fly end over end toward the road, but lost his own grip as well. The world became a cloud of dust as the two men grappled on the ground, each vainly trying to get to Dartrick's fallen sword. Dartrick felt the handle of his belt knife in his hand, and acted without hesitation or thought. Pulling the armored form close, he reacted exactly how he had been trained to fight heavily armored opponents. The flashing blade slashed and stabbed in the series he had practiced and memorized when he was 13 years old. Elbow, armpit, invert the grip, throat, groin, recover. Randal Scepter was in hell before he even knew that he was dead. If there had been any life left in him, it was driven out when Styngian's sword came down in a vicious coup de grace on his twitching form.
It was then that Dartrick realized the pain he was in. It was if it suddenly exploded from an invisible box inside his mind. He saw that Styngian's left arm hung limp and blood ran in streams to drip from his fingertips. Onlar lay dead, tangled with the corpses of his enemies, his sword far from hand. Buchanan bristled with daggers, driving his small sword into Deneiri again and again even though the Thief was obviously dead. Largon lay propped up against the tree where he fell, his lifeless stare taking in the horizon of the Featherdale lowlands. Blood pooled into muddy puddles everywhere. Shael kneeled and wheezed sobbing breaths as she gripped her sword with both hands. It was buried nearly up to the hilt in Vhanar's chest, pinning his recumbent form to the ground. It was too quiet.
"Talindra!" Dartrick hollered, pushing his pain aside once again.
"Dartrick..." Shael began softly.
"Where is she!?" he growled, grabbing the front of Styngian's tabard in a clenched fist.
"I saw those bushes part, and could swear that I saw something for a moment..." Styngian said and pointed, but Dartrick was already moving. He could see the disturbed brush right where he had said, and if he could find her trail he could track her to the ends of the earth. Behind him, Styngian slumped to the ground.
"Lets go get that whore." little Buchanan snarled, waving his bloody sword.
"No." Dartrick said.
"What?" Shael whirled around and gasped.
"You all stay here." Dartrick commanded as he took his hand axe from the rucksack he had concealed in brush, heading toward where the priestess of pain's trail began.
"She's mine." He said without looking back.