Eyes wide with terror he watched from the dark edge of the forest, his snared rabbits falling lifelessly from his trembling fingers.  The warband of armoured horsemen flowed through the small hamlet of Bhram.  The only real path through the village, nothing more than a dirt track, ran with the blood of the slaughtered…a flash of lighting revealed a chaotic orchestra of swords, spears, and shields…rising, falling, rising…a cacophony of unrestrained hatred and bloodlust that played to a background rhythm of screams and cries of the agonized dying villagers.<br/><br/>Plow horses burst from the burning stable, manes alight, eyes mad with fear while above the boy in the forest, the carrion birds gathered squawking in anticipation of the feast to come.  He didn’t know how his legs had carried him so far so quickly, he ears were deaf to the pleas of the wounded, his legs carrying him over the bodies of the fallen.  Then something struck him hard in the leg and he stumbled, landing face first in the blood-soaked mud.  Looking out from the mud through dimming eyes, the young boy saw the hooves of the mighty black steed above him, time stood still as a rivulet of blood fell from the hoof only to briefly splash before being consumed by the mud.<br/><br/>The lighting flashed, once more illuminating the scene of death and destruction and the boy saw the face of terror unbound.  A visage that would taunt him for weeks and months…forcing him to recall the cries of the shattered hearts of parents who lost their children, the fearful denials of the dying, the burning village, the burning bodies…to relive the moment his terror gave birth to Rage.<br/>_______________________<br/><br/>The coins, jewels, necklaces and other treasures poured through his fingers, a virtual king’s ransom, before he slammed his gauntleted fist on the creaking wooden table.<br/><br/>The other men in the room recoiled in fear; some would claim in later years that they could see tendrils of smoke wend their way out of the breathing holes in the Blackguard’s helm.<br/><br/>“I was told that the ring would be in the village.  But I see it not amongst these baubles,” A black, steel encased finger shot out like a spear, “Jalu, explain why I’m not holding the ring?”  The gravelly voice dripped menace and promises of tortures unimagined.<br/><br/>The one named Jalu, a bear of a man with a wide girth and size that once indicated great strength, now turning to fat took a step forward.  His bearded face smeared with an insolent scowl.  Dropping the chicken leg he had been gnawing on, he opened his mouth to speak.<br/><br/>The Blackguard spoke but a word, “Die.” And the great Jalu, victor of a score of vicious bar brawls, murderer, rapist, and looter fell dead on the spot.  Eyes wide open in shock at his sudden demise.<br/><br/>Examining a strange sigil on the back of his metal gauntlet, the Blackguard spoke, his words barely a whisper, but they carried clearly to all in the room. “Find me the bitch wizard and bring me the ring.  If you fail, you’ll suffer a fate worse than Jalu.”<br/>_______________________<br/><br/><em>Octania</em>…the word sounded good on her lips, it reminded her of good fortune, although she was unsure why.  Standing on prow of the good ship<em>Octania</em>, she watched as the small barque cut through the water, the canvas sails snapping in the stiff off-shore wind.  Straining her eyes, she could see the smudge of land…only a few more hours and I can be with her…if she is still here…<br/><br/>Standing in the shadows of the massive ironmongers building, she watched as four guards clothed in the full livery of the Lord of Waterdeep lounged about the gate leading to the castle.  Their helmets and cloaks lay forgotten as they strove to stave off the midday heat.  They smoked their pipeweed and laughed as a small cask of wine was passed from hand to hand.  Her attention was momentarily caught by children laughing and playing in a nearby stream, as the water babbled in the joyous yet indecipherable tunes of such a small meandering waterway.<br/><br/>A lone horseman wearing a luxurious red doublet rode leisurely through the gate, nudging his horse to the right and towards the sprawling buildings of the city of Waterdeep.  Slipping from shadow to shadow, she followed the horseman.  Her information had been correct – the slave trader had set up shop in Waterdeep, masquerading as a petty noble from Cormyr.  He would know where her love was…and he would tell her, even if it cost him his life.<br/>_____________________<br/><br/>“So the civil war is to end?” asked Rogr hopefully<br/>Andir scoffed. “I doubt it.  The next in line is his nephew, Nesel.  Being a knight…” he left the sentence unfinished.  They all knew well the warlike tendencies of the various lords of Tethyr and their vainglorious desire to be crowned the next king.<br/><br/>William decided now was the time to make a stand. “I think we should support Laurence as the next heir to House Bolare.”  Seven faces turned to stare at him, most showing confusion and shock…William never spoke, much less about matters political.  Amidst the ensuing chuckles because they thought that William had made a joke, a serving maid entered the room and deposited several goblets and a pitcher of honey-wine on the central table before abruptly hurrying out.<br/><br/>William poured himself a cup and held it between his thumb and forefinger, the only remaining digits on his left hand. The cup was made of almost half a pound of polished silver. Maruc, their host this evening, loved showing off his wealth.  “But Laurence isn’t even of noble blood!” argued Maruc.<br/><br/>William sighed deeply, “Lord Garek’s marriage to Lady Alicia Bolare technically makes the entire Bolare family royalty.  Laurence has guild connections – that’s what we need, not another warmonger!” William took a long draw of his wine in order to calm himself.  Emotion was for weaklings.<br/><br/>The hours dragged on, filled with random plots and implications. William once again kept to himself, knowing the pointlessness of such conversation. He had the Nobles. The people would follow. He would win.  William looked towards a seemingly empty corner and smiled.  He saw the small puff of dust as a foot scuffed the wooden floor.  Excellent, his son had used the entry of the maid to gain access to the room as he had instructed him to.  The boy just had to learn patience.<br/>________________________<br/><br/>The two score of horsemen continued riding through the rain. They had left in a hurry, taking almost no baggage and only three reserve horses. At their sides and in their packs were halberds, spears and swords carried openly along the road. Only the largest or most careless groups of bandits would dare attack forty armed and armoured men on horseback on even terrain. Near the centre of the loose group rode Sir Aeric Boeruine, a middle aged knight cloaked in a muddied red cape embroidered with the emblem of the Royal House of Tethyr, a sword driven deep into an anvil with a single thornless rose wrapped about its hilt, commonly referred to as the Sword, the Soul, and the Strength.<br/><br/>It had been over a decade since he had worn his cape, a garment that denoted his rank as Knight-Marshal of the Realm.  The kite shield strapped to the flank of his chestnut stallion bore the same heraldic device.  At his right, upon a powerful white gelding, rode Sir Hierl Diem, former commander of the Royal Guard.  The two men were leading their small force to rendezvous with the force that William had gathered.  Soon they would be storming the citadel and proclaiming a new dawn for the Kingdom of Tethyr.<br/>___________________________<br/><br/>The beautiful young woman had reached the last few verses of her song…<br/><br/><em>Sûne I challenge thee<br/>As demons dance and angels sing<br/>Let us fight for our destiny<br/>Let us contest Heaven's key</em><br/><br/><em>So did Lims-Kragma decree<br/>Upon the Banks of the River of Truth<br/>To the lowly mortal knight<br/>Who stood before the Dark God’s might.</em><br/><br/><em>The man clutched the brilliant Sword<br/>Of Ao, the Lord of Lords<br/>This soldier fought with Lims-Kragma<br/>A lord of thrice deadly sins.</em><br/><br/><em>The ground shook as fate clashed<br/>As magic flowed and white blade slashed<br/>Sûne smote down the lord<br/>Sealed his fate to the sword.</em><br/><br/>The audience of the young woman was mainly young children and a few men taking the day off, applauded. Most, of course, really did not understand anything about Lims-Kragma, the dark lord of conquest, of whom the song was about. Most simply came to hear the music, played on an old lute by the graceful fingers of the young woman whose mane of hair shone like strands of platinum.<br/><br/>The older children came up and deposited small coins in her basket. Some of the adults gave larger silver coins. The young woman, a travelling minstrel who had called the quaint little village of Darmond in central Tethyr for nigh on two weeks, knew that she would have to move on soon.  She noted that many of the adolescents had left earlier, disinterested with the rather slow-moving ballad that, in their opinion, really contained much less violence than it ought to.  She quietly grunted in distaste. These people had no appreciation for the truly great deeds of the past, mostly wanting to hear about the tragic love affairs of the current nobility.<br/><br/>Her father had once worked in the Hall of Kings, and as such learned all the old songs and stories. Nobles, at least, had an ear for greatness. The minstrel remembered her father singing tales of Cathin of Nethir and tragic Princess Ambur to King Garek VIII in the great stone hall. The memory of the King standing to applaud her father still brought tears to her eyes. The king let them stay in the castle for as long as they desired. She often walked about the castle marveling as he remembered the great deeds that had been done before those walls.<br/><br/>Now his daughter was singing tales to bored ears in a muddy square and pacing about the wattle walls of her filthy sunken hut.  After she had collected all the people would give, she said farewell with a flourish and walked inside. In the corner lay a disused wooden chest, beside her straw pallet. She went directly to the chest. This business about the coronation of a new King was disturbing. She opened the chest and carefully removed an old unbound book, the pages simply stacked neatly in a quaint box. Very disturbing indeed. She removed the book, turning it over in her arms. Her treasure.<br/>________________________<br/><br/>The young female acolyte sat stiffly upon her horse.  Its flank twitching as its nostrils detected the smell of burnt flesh, her ears assaulted by the cries of the carrion birds.  Gripping the reins tight in her gauntleted hands, she nudged her horse forward, knowing what she would find in the small village.  Her mind wandered back to her meeting but two days ago with Bishop Cigal of Waterdeep…<br/><br/>He had been sitting in his study, pouring over scrolls on various birds and beasts. He had always had an interest in lore of this kind, preferring the study of subjects in their natural environment, free from sin or virtue, to the history of men and lands and great deeds. He owned almost thirty books on the subject, not to mention scores of smaller writings. Other Priests of Sûne often criticized Cigal, as his extravagant taste for knowledge had cost his diocese almost thirty pounds of silver. However, he had never built castles or gathered armies, as other bishops sometimes did, and was on the whole considered a just and holy man, truly blessed by Sûne, for he had a passion that some claimed equaled that of the Flame Haired Goddess.<br/><br/>He had originally been a friar in a rather small diocese in the lands known as Avanil in the Blackmoore Baronies far to the south, but was still in his early thirties, and had a promising career ahead of him. The young acolyte knew that Cigal fancied he could become a Deacon's assistant, or even a Deacon, in his life.<br/>She had watched in silence as the Bishop had fed one of his many pet birds, before he finally turned to her.  His eyes travelling the length and breadth of her body, as if he considered her physical attributes to be as important as her spiritual zeal or martial prowess.  Finally, he took a seat and indicated for the young acolyte to do the same.<br/><br/>“I have received an instruction from Archdeacon Gelir in Suzail.  He wishes for an item to be retrieved and believes that it is Our Lady’s interest that Holy Mother Church possesses this item.  This item is believed to be in the possession of the mayor of the village of Liazia, two days ride to the west.”  The Bishop paused to sip at his wine goblet and the acolyte was struck by how handsome he was and she idly wondered if his preference included women.<br/><br/>Cigal continued, “I have hired a small band of warriors to accompany you to the village.  If you are able to secure the item then you should return here immediately.  If you can’t then I shall leave it to your discretion how you continue, but you should send missives when you are able.” Cigal picked up two scrolls from a table beside his seat and offered them to the acolyte.<br/><br/>“The first is scroll with six magical Sending inscriptions, use them carefully should you have to travel further than the village to keep me appraised.  This second scroll contains images and a description of the item the Archdeacon requires.”  With that the acolyte had been dismissed to her duty…<br/><br/>…the carnage was total.  The village nothing more than a collection of burnt ruins.  Dozens of bodies lay scattered about in postures of violent done-to-death.  She could see that they hadn’t stood a chance and whoever had performed this massacre were professionals although there was a sign that the violence had degenerated into an orgy of death and destruction.  Ignoring the putrid stench of burnt and rotting bodies, she quickly organised a search, knowing that a simple retrieval had become a lot more complicated.  She was considering her options, when one of the warriors accompanying her called out, “Priestess! There’s a live one!”<br/><br/>She quickly dismounted as two warriors carried the mud and blood encrusted form of what appeared to be a young man towards her.  She removed her gloves in anticipation of needing to use Sûne’s healing power…the warriors lay the man down gently and the acolyte could see that he was more of a boy, perhaps not much younger than she, rather than a man.  She knelt by his side and splashed some water from a skin on her belt onto his lower face.  She was startled when his eyes snapped open and his hand gripped her wrist like a vice.  With a fire burning in his eyes, his hoarsely whispered, “I will kill them all…”<br/>