Somewhere, in the depths of an ancient forest, two gods met to discuss the affairs of the world. One seemed to be a part of the forest itself, somehow. He took the form of a man, young and lithe, but he was tall, and massive. Leaves grew from his green skin, and the grass reached up to caress his feet as he walked. "Perhaps the Sage will not aid us in this matter," the Green Man said. His voice sounded like the creak of an ancient tree battered by a storm.

His compatriot looked as out-of-place in the forest as any god could be. A warrior he seemed, clad in black mail, finer than any hauberk ever made by man or dwarf or elf. Swords hung sheathed at his hip on either side, and another pair hung across his back. Still more swords fluttered about him, of their own accord, or perhaps at his will. The Swordlord turned to his companion. "He has grown weak- as have we all, since the Veil was laid down."

"Lifting the Veil now would hasten the return of our old foe, the Ancient One. It could mean an end to elves and men."

"Then we shall have to be very careful," said the Swordlord.

A bat came fluttering into their glade. A sleeping unicorn, reclining against a tree, opened an eye, but decided it was no threat to the Lord of the Forest, or his compatriot. The bat landed on the Swordlord's outstretched hand, amidst the storm of whirling blades that surrounded him. "Is this one of yours?"

The Green Man shook his head. Swordlord peered at the bat, lips pursed, as if listening. "Ah," he said after a moment. "The Hooded Sage has done as we asked."

"Wyrding has a bearer?" the old sylvan god asked. It was not often that he was surprised, but the times were changing.

The Swordlord simply nodded as the bat again took flight.

***

Poiniard crouched in the dark alleyway alongside two thieves from the guild. He had brought along Wyrding, but kept it in his sheath.

"Did you hear about the death in the marketplace today?" Grimsley asked. "The old magician Bhenyamin."

Poiniard nearly choked. "That's impossible! I just spoke to him myself this morning."

"You really are bad luck, my friend," Furtim laughed. "Now it's rubbing off on to other people. Perhaps you should go to church more often."

"It's true, though," said Grimsley, who rarely joked. "They found him dead in his home near the Street. They say twas a horrible death, too- blood splattered on the walls, body torn, parts missing. Good riddance, I say."

"Sounds like old Bhenyamin musta conjured up one too many dark spirits," said Furtim."His soul is probably down in the Frozen Hells where it belongs. Thems who traffick with demons do so at their own peril."

"Hist!" whispered Grimsley. "Look sharp, lads." The three thieves withdrew into the shadows of the alleyway behind the Inn of the Dancing Bear. Their quarry had just appeared. He was a well-dressed man with a half-empty wine bottle in his hand.

"I give up," whispered Grimsley. Furtim rolled his eyes. The chest was too heavy and bulky for them to lift, and it was secured to the floor. If they failed to defeat the lock, they would have to give up. The night's venture would be a complete failure. Of the three thieves, Furtim was the best. He was a Journeyman in the guild. Furtim had already taken his turn trying to unlock the great iron-bound chest, with no success. He'd broken his best lockpick in the process. Both looked at Poiniard.

"You might as well give it a try, Poin," Grimsley said in disgust, handing him a set of lockpicks.

Poiniard had little thieving experience, besides picking pockets. He didn't even have his own set of thieving tools yet. All that he knew about mechanical locks was what little Furtim and Grimsley had taught him. He took the tools a little hesitantly, but not because he was afraid to try. If Furtim couldn't do it, no one would expect him to be able to pick the lock. Something else was bothering him, making his palms itch. He kept glancing nervously out the window to the empty, moonlit street below.

"Hurry up," urged Grimsley.

Furtim looked at him curiously. "Poin, what's wrong?"

Poiniard shrugged. He had no answer, but something was wrong. It wasn't guards, and it wasn't the drunk merchant. He was still snoring comfortably in the next room, passed out. Something was lurking outside in the shadows. He hadn't seen it, but he could sense it somehow. Poiniard didn't know why, but he drew Wyrding. The longsword made a little rasp as it slid from his sheath. Furtim and Grimsley practically jumped out of their boots. In an instant, their daggers were out.

Grimsley glared at Poiniard. "What in the Frozen Hells are you doing?"

Furtim breathed a sigh of relief. "Poin, you scared me," he said. The next room was silent, except for the snoring. "I thought someone was coming."

"You crazy nurker," hissed Grimsley. "Put that thing away before you hurt somebody."

Furtim nodded. "You'd better have a go at that lock, Poin, or else let's get out of here."

"I don't know why you brought that thing, anyway," muttered Grimsley.

Poiniard looked at the sword in his hand, unsure of himself. "I'm sorry," he said. He couldn't explain why he'd drawn it out, either. He turned to look at the lock on the chest. His palms were still itching. But now that he had the sword in his hands, he decided to test the words of Bhenyamin. Cautiously, he touched the tip of Wyrding to the lock. The lock sprang open! The three men stared in disbelief.

"Well I'll be buggered," exclaimed Grimsley.

"You must have gotten it after all, Grim," said Furtim.

Poiniard nodded, but he wasn't so sure. He handed the tools back to Grimsley, and sheathed Wyrding. Grimsley still looked dubious, but they didn't have time to worry about what had happened. Quickly, the three thieves emptied the chest and divided the spoils. Then they went out the window and down their black rope.

Poiniard felt some approaching peril, and dropped to the ground. "Be on your guard," he warned. His two companions looked back at him, bemused. Poiniard's warning of impending danger came just in time. An unearthly chill seemed to descend on the dark alleyway. Three men appeared out of the shadows, moving towards the thieves.

Then, two figures appeared at the other end of the alleyway- a grey-cloaked woman in leather armor and a tall man with a black beard. The woman cried out something in a language Poiniard did not recognize, but by her tone, he knew it was a challenge. The three attackers turned as one to face her, and she drew her blade, a slim, curved sword. Poiniard suddenly recognized the woman as the one he had bumped into outside the Dancing Bear.

Her tall companion was with her. The bearded giant raised his staff and uttered ancient words of Power. There was a sound like splintering wood, and the strange chill went away as suddenly as it had arisen. Poiniard looked up, and saw that one of their attackers now lay dead, while the other two stood dazed. Their forms, outlined with purplish, ghostly flames, twisted and grew, until they no longer appeared to be men.

"Trolls!" exclaimed Furtim.

"No such thing," Grimsley countered, but he dropped his pack and drew his dagger nonetheless. Poiniard could not believe his eyes. Trolls were creatures of legend, evil shapechangers and servants of wizards. His heart froze. They had come to retrieve Wyrding!

"Attack them now," ordered the bearded spellcaster. His voice sounded strained. "Quickly. You must kill them while I have them forced into their true forms."

The thieves glanced from the wizard and his companion to the three trolls. Furtim and Grimsley cowered back, their daggers held before them, waiting for a chance to flee or strike. The woman leapt forward, her sword glittering in her hand. Poiniard hesitated a moment, then drew his own sword and followed her. Taking advantage of the distraction, Furtim and Grimsley ran off into the night, leaving their packs behind.

Poiniard and the woman with the sword faced off against the two remaining trolls, standing side by side. The woman's blade was a silver blur just outside his field of vision. His brief training as a mercenary helped him little, but Poiniard had no time to think as he fended off the attacks of the troll. Wydring seemed to move almost on its own, fending off the troll's claws. Poiniard heard nothing, only the rushing of his own blood, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He had just managed to wound his troll when the other troll went down at the woman's feet. She quickly turned and finished the second.

"I must dispose of these bodies," said the woman's companion, coming up behind them. The cloaked man knelt over the three slain trolls, doing something with his hands that Poiniard thankfully couldn't see.

Poiniard saw that the woman wore ornate leather armor of curious design. She moved gracefully.

"Troll bodies have to be destroyed or consecrated," she explained, "else the foul magic that gives the things life would return. That was very brave of you, but foolish," she said. "You should have fled with your companions. Trolls are very dangerous."

Poiniard knelt to pick up Furtim and Grimsley's packs, watching her from the corner of his eye. He didn't need to ask what three trolls had been doing in the middle of Culhaven. He shook his head. "If I had run, they would only have followed me. It was me they were after."

The woman eyed him curiously, and his sword. "What is your name?"

"Poiniard."

She smiled. In the fading light of the wizard's purple flames, it was the most beautiful smile Poiniard could remember. "My name is Mheren," she said. "And this is Brandt."

The bearded mage was finished with the trolls. "Hold out your swords," he ordered. Mheren obeyed without question, and she nodded to Poiniard, indicating that he should do the same. "They must be cleansed as well," Brandt explained. The wizard muttered a few words Poiniard could not make out, and he touched each blade in turn. The wizard's eyes widened as he touched Wyrding, but he said nothing.

"We need to be away from here," Mheren warned, sheathing her sword. She glanced over at Brandt, who nodded. "Poiniard," she asked, "how would you like to come with us? We are staying at the Dancing Bear."

Poiniard wondered what kind of danger he might be putting them in. "I suppose," he answered. "Move along, little man," Brandt said with a chuckle.