Chapter 1

Odd Job

The man stood perfectly still as he spoke, the thin shadow of his grey cloak's hood not quite concealing his effeminately beautiful face in the well-lit storefront. The skin was as fair as skin got, in these parts. Then again, Baldur's Gate was the sort of place you'd find people of any skin color imaginable. Ports can be like that. He was taller than the wizard, but that wasn't saying much.
"My name is Atanvardo."

"Well, Atanvardo, what kind of services can you provide for me?"

"Magic." His voice was low and quiet, with an air of secrecy about it. The old man could feel it.

"A wizard, are you? Not many wizards travel alone, as you do."

"I am no wizard, and I am not alone."

"Er... right. Well, there is a tower to the northeast of here, once owned by my great uncle. He's been dead quite some time, and I've not the stamina to make it all that distance to claim what's rightfully mine. He was a wizard, you see, and a good one, at that. An enchanter. I would like you to find and retrieve his spellbook, for me." The old man handed the adventurer a blue pearl, an inch in diameter. Atanvardo took it, revealing a leather gauntlet and pauldron. Steel studs gleamed in the light of the afternoon sun coming in through the windows. "That's a nuyar pearl, worth a hundred gold. I've more to offer upon your successful return." He looked at his younger a little suspiciously. "And anycompanions you may have will recieve an extra share. I'd like to see them, myself, of course."

"Only one share will be necessary." He pocketed the pearl.
"Very well. In addition, you may keep whatever you find. My great uncle was fond of enchanting weapons. I'm sure you'll find some interesting specimens inside. All I want is the spellbook." He began showing measurements with his bony hands. "It's about a foot square and three inches thick. The book's binding is steel, while the inlay itself is gold. If you're not a wizard, then the book's contents would be meaningless to you. I'm sure a lad as sharp as you would be more interested in magic swords and the like, anyway."

"This sounds far easier a task than one for an adventurer. What's the catch?" There was a monotony to his voice. Detachment, perhaps?

"Catch? There is no catch. Although, you may find a slight...er....hiccup." Handragath smiled sheepishly at the quiet man before him. "You see, my great uncle was fond of animating weapons to use as guards. There may be floating swords or axes or something of that sort awaiting you. Part of why I dare not go, myself. I'm old, you see, and not quite confident that they wouldn't suspect me a common burglar. But you'll be fine. Just be careful. I'm sure you're used to that, aren't you?"

Atanvardo turned and walked out without a word. Any simple apprentice mage could see the magic aura surrounding him. This was no ordinary adventurer.

Alone, there was no need to hide his heritage. He removed the cloak to reverse it, and his elven features were revealed for the surrounding forest to see. Long green hair flowed freely down to his waist. Pale shimmery skin and long pointed ears, the sign of a moon elf. He was naturally very beautiful, the trademark of his race. Reversed, the cloak was very different. The colors would flow, subtly altering to match the greens and browns of the elf's surroundings. This was magic at work. It was two hours until he reached the site Handragath had directed him to. The directions were a bit mistaken. Bad directions were of no concern now that he'd arrived.

The elf kneeled beside some of the rubble surrounding his destination, examining it. Much of the rock wall seemed to have been melted, long ago. The tower that was spoken of turned out to be little more than a few short walls, the broken remains of a once mighty wizard's abode. Something took it down long ago, reducing it to almost nothing. Few creatures in all the worlds could do such a thing. What sort of being would have such a quarrel with a wizard, and have the power to defeat him? Atanvardo walked around the ruins, looking carefully. Then he found it. Stairs, leading downward. It was the stairs to the basement, untouched by whatever had destroyed the rest of the stone home. He put the hood of his cloak up again, and started down the stairs.

His steps were quiet as a cat, even in his leather armor. All he didn't have was a helm. No light came from the open doorway at the bottom of the steps. He was only halfway to the lower level before he realised what it was he saw. There was a bit of light peeking out from behind a black curtain. Someone had deliberately been trying to hide the light. His two favorite daggers slipped from their sheaths, and it was as if the world itself had gone mute. The magic of the cloak made him almost seem as one with the shadows and stonework of the wall as he slipped into the room and past the curtain.

The curtain did its job well. The chamber beyond it was lit by two heatless torches. Continual Flame, it would seem. Three men in mail stood by the door at the far end of the room, past two rows of beds. Eight beds there, plus another two where the wall widens out on the right. The men had shortbows in hand as they conversed quietly. All Atanvardo could make out was something about a prisoner. He tried to slowly walk toward them, but the cloak didn't make him completely invisible. His instincts told him to duck, just as the flat of a longsword swung over his head from behind. The three by the door got a look of confusion, then quickly readied their bows. The elf let his left arm out from under the cloak, the blade of his dagger aimed down. One back swing and the fighter behind him doubled over, keeping himself from crying out. Three arrows flew in Atanvardo's general direction. One of them glanced off of his armor, and ripped a hole in his cloak. The hole sealed a few seconds later, during which time he ran back up the steps. He'd been set up. He must have been.

Back on the surface, five men in hooded half-cloaks stood waiting for him. The obvious leader of the group had a bracer with three long claws extending from it, and a viper coiled around his arm. The others all had crossbows aimed at the entrance. That made eight opponents, not counting the wounded guard. He held his nerve and stood ready to face whoever came at him. He was on the defensive. Not good. Not good at all. The leader spoke. His voice was almost a hiss.

"You've caused us quite a bit of trouble. Atanvardo. What a very elven name. We thought you'd be a human, honestly. Most of the more famous dragon slayers are. It's good to finally have you."

"The Cult of the Dragon." He glanced down at the sheathed broadsword at his side. "Where are your gods? Asleep, while you do their dirty work?"

"Hardly. The great ones of this chapter of our glorious order are quite busy, indeed. It's a rather complicated matter. It would be much simpler for us to show you."

"Show me? Very hospitable, but I think I'll decline." He moved a foot down one step. The guards kept the crossbows trained on him. The snake-like man laughed dryly.

"You don't honestly expect to have a choice in this matter, do you?" There was the sound of a blackjack striking, and the next thing Atanvardo saw was blackness.