The green hills cradle an ice-cold stream that rushes its way to the River Mirar. All rivers and rivulets this side of the Crags flock to the great waterline. It is beautiful, dangerous, and completely unnavigable: the river is full of treacherous rapids and waterfalls, deadly pits and underwater currents that smash vessels into splints. 'The Mirar runs deeper than death', dwarves say.

Casavir dismounts and the other riders follow his lead. He walks down the rocky bank to splash some water on his sunburnt face – the summer mountains are merciless on fair-skinned people. He pauses to gaze at the crystalline water in his palms. What a formidable force can be comprised of tiniest contributions. Hopefully, this also applies to their work here.

The high bank at the influx is a naturally protected place: accessible from the west, sharp cliffs on the other three sides. The small nameless river can be conquered by a bridge; the Mirar is less violent here and it may let boats cross to the other bank. A garrison of fifty will be able to fend off a siege for as long as they have provision, and Casavir is always very particular about provision. If he does not have enough grain and salted meat and potatoes for a year, he simply does not hire. This is an unpredictable land; snowstorms and rains cut off roads for months, whole villages show up at your doorstep for protection, bandits target supplies to drive Neverwinter forces away. Casavir's hands ball into fists at the thought of how much the country loses at the hands of highwaymen who take instead of sowing. It is not even the crops or the cattle: it is the lives that Casavir mourns. The list of his successes as Commander is just as long as the list of his failures.

His mind travels back to the first weeks after Callum left the command over the fort in the Crags to him. It still amazes him how smooth the transition was. The soldiers did not blink an eye when the twenty-five-year-old paladin was put in charge. It was he who doubted his own authority and pretended to be sure and confident while second-guessing if his intonations were right.

It took Lord Callum three weeks to reach the capital and be anointed and five more weeks to nag Lord Nasher into the realization that the north-eastern border was of primary importance. In the letter that travelled longer than that Casavir was informed that he would have the gold to construct two more outposts and man them. Two had to grow into three when Casavir attempted to meet the requirement: safe passage for merchants and uninterrupted supply chain of marble and steel from Mirabar. The old fort was too high in the mountains and too far from the road to provide regular patrols.

This road offers magnificent sights. It follows the bends of the river on its right and creeps up and down mountain valleys that cascade from the snowy peaks on its left. It crosses small bogs overgrown with silky grasses that are inhabited by thousands of birds in the summer; it ventures into dense pine woods that creep up the river from the great and perilous Neverwinter Wood; it winds in wide loops up and down several small peaks that dent into the riverbed. Very often Casavir finds himself distracted by the views that change with every mile, each of them more beautiful than the previous one.

He also sees the glorious landscapes with a military eye: obstacles, defendable heights, vulnerable depressions, suspicious nooks, and convenient turns for an ambush. There are numerous opportunities to hide a lair or cover up a small force all over the trade route. Safety will be a costly achievement in this wild place. Casavir lets his imagination take him to the perfect world of the future where there are small settlements and inns along the way. He sees the inexistent pavement on the road, safe sites for caravans with sturdy log shelters, well-equipped wells, and high signal towers to let the garrisons know their help is needed. The young commander blinks and the signs of civilization disappear, but the feeling stays: the feeling that this unfamiliar land is now his, and the seventy leagues of the dusty road are now his responsibility.


Recruiting proves to be the biggest undertaking until Casavir figures out the trick: pick up the local youths on the way and train them well. Really well. Their job is too perilous for them to risk their lives at the banal cost of money; skill and self-esteem are worth so much more. He is surprised to discover that his personal attention is more valuable than gold, and it does not matter to scrawny peasant teenagers how much coin they are paid or whether they are paid at all if he promises to train them himself. They flock around him like little birds and he does not even notice how he changes everything he does into a lesson. Most of these 'child troopers', as Black Ballard names them disapprovingly, are not of much use now, but Casavir hopes that even if they do not stay as his soldiers in the future, his attitude and manner will rub off them and they will be able to protect their villages when Neverwinter cannot.

He soon learns that unprejudiced attitude can win him some skilled recruits from older folks – widows who have no spark to keep farming alone, half-orc bastards who live antagonized and disrespected among their luckier relatives. Though many of the soldiers who started with Callum are clearly puzzled by his choices, they have the wisdom not to question them, and nothing settles personal issues better than climbing out of danger as a team.

There are days when Casavir finds it difficult to talk to people – the very thought of opening his mouth seems strange and heavy sometimes. There are so many interesting things he wants to think about, and he is never alone and never has the time to think them through. He piles the ideas up in a corner of his mind and sifts through them before sleep, on the road, in the rare moments of privacy. This constant exposure is the most tiresome aspect of this mission, but it is also necessary for a paladin to inspire and lead by example, so Casavir does his best. He puts on his better, charismatic personality and engages in small conversations, pays attention to personal progresses, listens to the problems that his officers, soldiers and recruits want to share. He knows how a young swordsman can bloom inside with a little praise. If he is not very generous with words, he makes each of them count.


The promised money dries out into half the size as promises morph into signed papers. Nevertheless, the tasks breed and grow. The road to Mirabar must be guarded and guarded well. Casavir has a vague apprehension that this is either a task he is supposed to fail or a task nobody really expects to be completed. He pulls up the maps again and takes a mental ride along the seventy leagues they are to protect. He tries to categorize the expenses and assign priorities. No matter what he cuts off the list, he needs these three forts.

Casavir knows he is out of his depth when his ideas on construction must turn into drafts and he struggles to break the images in his mind into simple shapes. He attempts to calculate the volumes of necessary materials and admits that he has no notion how to approach the matter. He has only ever erected temporary defenses to keep the enemy from charging completely unhindered; walls and towers and ramparts are beyond his competence. He looks through his budget again and finds it more than 'moderate' and suspiciously close to 'inadequate'. He vaguely remembers there was some architects' guild in Neverwinter. Requesting that kind of help is obviously out of the question: his correspondence with the treasury leaves no doubt that no paid labour is supposed to be involved, and his soldiers are expected to be all the workforce he has at his disposal. Casavir takes a glance at the waning moon that has risen high already, rubs his temples, folds the papers neatly and goes to bed.

He falls through one dream into another. In some of them, he labours through impossible tasks alone – hauls shipbuilding lumber, pushes tons of rock uphill, digs a colossal pit for a castle's foundation. He wears his hands to raw flesh and protruding bones; he can hear his backbone creak under the weight. In other dreams, he wanders between random strangers and tries to convince them to help: angry villagers with hayforks, mine dwarves with gaping holes in their skulls, bandits with red-hot pincers in their hands, the stern monk from his early days at the chapterhouse, passing merchants that give him disapproving looks, street beggars wailing for his alms.

Distant yells tear him from the nightmares. As he hurries to the courtyard trying to shake off their unpleasant afterhaze, he strings their meanings like beads on a thread. He can strain his back all he wants, but the construction is an impossible feat on his own. He will need to ask for help, but who might be interested in assisting Neverwinter forces? He pauses and corrects himself: who might be interested in a safe road to Mirabar?


The commotion proves to be peaceful. A dwarven caravan was attacked but kept their goods and profits. They carry two wounded mercenary guards though and ask for shelter for the night. Casavir dispatches his sergeant to arrange a late meal for the travellers and stays to assess the injuries of the wounded.

As usual, he must choose one of the two. The first dwarf is a healthy young man; an arrow punctured his lung, and Casavir leans over him and listens to the whistle in his chest as he breathes. No gurgling sounds, thank the gods. It seems to be a clean wound. The other is an old warrior, scars welt all over his skin, and blood soaks the linen cloth drawn tight over his stomach. Casavir pulls the bandage aside, registers its questionable origin and frowns over the cut – deep and low in the right side of the dwarf's stomach. He contemplates his choice for a second. It is not really a choice. The young dwarf will live on, healing would merely save him two months' recovery. The old dwarf is slipping away: healing may pull him back from tomorrow's grave, or it can do nothing at all.

He rises to his feet and orders the first stretchers to be carried to the medical ward. The older dwarf has no time for such luxury. Casavir looks around helplessly, all his thought already in the prayer, and a sharp teenage girl – one of his 'child troopers' – pushes soap in his hands and pours some water from one of the kitchen-branded jugs. He forgets to send her a grateful look for having the wit to get them ready.

Divine magic has an incredibly special fabric. The words of the prayer have little power on their own. What knits wounds together and melts bones whole is the soul that summons the gods' help. Casavir rests his fingers on the dwarf's belly and is flooded by a sadness first: the warrior has weathered through a lot of battles; his life must have been full of cold hungry nights and pain. He whispers the prayer and his soul swells with compassion and love: this is a living being, this living being is in pain, nobody deserves pain and death. He stumbles on a thought that this dwarf probably has sent many souls over the boundary, but he pushes through this doubt. This living being is in pain, nobody deserves this pain. Let him be whole again, mighty Tyr, let flesh be healed, let pain subside. In the minutes it takes for the healing to set, Casavir loves this nameless mercenary with all his heart, one human being who stopped to appreciate the flame of life and conscience in another.

The same girl, Tena, is there to steady the commander when he stands up and loses his footing for a moment, drunk on this peaceful magic, blood drying on his glowing hands. The paladin turns to her and smiles – a full, open smile, so unfamiliar on his face; it makes him too young and too vulnerable. The girl is awed. The girl suddenly experiences a fierce need to protect him from harm, and this need grows and grows and bursts into a larger need to protect in general. She walks the commander to the bench by the horse trough, touches his sleeve stealthily as a promise to his god, and runs back. The dwarf's companions lifted the unconscious warrior and carried him into the building, and the girl remembers it is better to clean the blood off the ground before it dries. She carries a heavy bucket from the well and all her soul sings with the resolution: one day, she will become a paladin.

Casavir's head swims with the combined effects of the magic, the nightmares, the troubles; some sparkling laughter is rising in his throat on top of it all. An answer scrapes at his skull through the thick fog in it. An answer he lets form on his lips before he remembers what the question was. Mirabar. He stretches, rolls his heavy shoulders and gazes into the cold obsidian sky. The Seven Sisters glimmer over the downhill forest in the north. It is Mirabar that needs a safe road to Mirabar.

Two days later, Casavir and a small group of the Graycloaks set off to the north with the caravan. They travel slowly, and Casavir uses the opportunity to learn about the dwarves and this mining city, to discuss the road with the merchants, to test his considerations against their criticism. These are the very people whose safety he is determined to ensure. Their trip is uneventful, but Casavir's outriders report that there were lookouts on the way. They do not face any trouble because the trouble decides to stay away from such a large group of armed travellers. Casavir toys with the idea of escorting all the caravans and dismisses it as too costly.


Mirabar is an impressive stronghold on the surface – with thick sloping walls and sturdy low buildings. Its most magnificent structures, however, are concealed in the underground, and Casavir admires the effort and skill that went into these masterpieces of engineering. Everything about the city screams unspectacular, reliable wealth. There are numerous people in the streets, but one can see that the true power lies with the shield dwarves. The charcoal cloaks of the Axe, the city's militia, are everywhere. There is trade and crowds and so much life that Casavir is lost for a moment. It has been a long time since he could remain anonymous in a crowd of strangers.

One of the merchants of the caravan accompanies him to the headquarters of the Council of Sparkling Stones. On the way the burly dwarf with a sly glint in his eyes interrogates Casavir about his impressions, and Casavir does not make any effort to conceal his amazement. The merchant soaks up every word as if he has erected the city on his own.

The caravan owners obviously vouched for him, and by a miracle the paladin is granted an audience with the resident members of the council within a week. He spends the time putting his request and plans on paper, making copies for the ten elected members and the marchion, and learning what he can about the crafts that the city is proud of. There are veritable wonders at the markets, and he warily admits it would be… nice to own some of these things.

Casavir is not one to spend money on trifles. He knows his limits and his luxuries. A sturdier backpack, a better knife, a basin of warm water, a roof for the night are the things he can have and can wish. Other things are things from other people's lives. Furniture, for example, is the possession he will not own – when he passes by the market stalls, he can appreciate the craft and the skill of the carpenters and upholsterers, but he never pauses to look at a bookcase or an armchair twice. They are alien to the life he chose. This ascetic modesty sometimes leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but Casavir dismisses it easily. He has never had a home; he is not going to have one. His office at the main fort is merely a shelter and another person will take his place seamlessly should he fall in battle. Casavir imagines himself on the large map that changes through the time. He cherishes the dull pain that the realization of his own insignificance always brings him. It is sobering, human, and his.

The day of his audience arrives, and Casavir steels himself. If they refuse, they refuse. It is his responsibility to ask for help because it can save lives of travellers. He does not want to show off his service, he is not in need of fame or praise or rewards or money. His mission is honest and clear as a church bell. No shame can stain his honour.

He is walked along magnificent halls and he knows his boots are too old and shapeless to step on these lush carpets. He sees the members of the council and he knows one ring off their hands costs more than all his belongings, including armour and weapons. His cloak is worn from washing and still features old blood stains. He is a crow in their midst. They study him as if he is a ridiculous messenger from another plane.

Casavir has heard that Neverwinter does not have diplomatic relations with Mirabar because the ruling shield dwarves distrust all humans and prefer to pay Luskan to ship the marble from their quarries to the rich cities of the South directly. He has no illusion that his appeal is mad and comes out of the blue sky and the wild hope that the interests of his country and this mysterious clan align.

He speaks of the road and his ideas; he lists the things they have already done with the small forces at his disposal; he answers all the questions with blatant honesty. He acts on his own. No, Neverwinter does not request their help officially, for Casavir has no authority to represent Neverwinter. A question is asked if humans are better merchants than dwarves, and Casavir is puzzled at that. He considers the question aloud and concludes that the skill of a merchant is a talent married with experience as much as any other trade, so it is a matter of personal gifts and inclinations, and race has nothing to do with it – as usual, this is a misconception to cover up for the inequality that many struggle to accept as their own fault. The marchion seems to be amused by his answer. He is dismissed and promised an answer tomorrow.

Casavir walks out of the building and takes a deep breath. He hopes he did not just ruin centuries of diplomatic contacts.


The council decides against Mirabar's involvement in fort construction without a formal request from Lord Nasher and the Lords' Alliance of the Sword Coast. However, the council also decides to recommend free trading companies to provide aid and proper finance to his endeavour. Casavir must travel to Mirabar by the autumn session of the next council in a year and report what use the assistance was put to.

Casavir returns to the Fort at the Crags with a veritable host of dwarf masters and a caravan of supplies bought for the forts by three merchant companies. Most of the construction will be complete by winter storms, and the next spring will see the three star-shaped forts ready.

Casavir breaks his soldiers into nine squads and they start regular patrols the following summer. He chooses the Middle Star Fort as their main residence. His heart is gladdened every time he catches a glimpse of their safe walls, watchtowers, and high parapets on their return from another raid to a lair of bandits or a confrontation with orcs. The soldiers keep the roads clean of fallen trunks, cut down the trees that obscure the turns, pull down logs and roughly cut planks to improve safer routes around small bogs, haul wood and freshwater to the network of high campsites, measure the road into seventy equal segments and erect roadstones to mark the way.

They are short of recruits, and Neverwinter seriously underestimates the cost of food in this land, but the trade route grows safer by the month, and at the end of the first year Casavir's report to the full Council of Sparkling Stones is looked upon benevolently. The villages enjoy the peace and plough more land; many of the bandit clans choose to move elsewhere. His 'children troopers' grow into fine young soldiers. The land is still tough, they still bear losses, there are still terrible days and awful tragedies unfolding in the Crags, but the improvement is visible.

By the end of his third year as a commander, Casavir is named 'A Friend of Mirabar'. He is presented a dwarf-crafted warhammer – a perfectly balanced, deadly weapon he accepts from the hands of the marchion. Shield dwarves never sell weapons of this quality, they can only be obtained through black markets or murder, and Casavir struggles not to feel pride bloom in his chest at this unprecedented sign of respect.

He is twenty-eight, he has done something right in his life at last and he is finally comfortable in his own skin.