Chapter 1
The only sound within the small, richly appointed office was the soft scritch of a quill pen upon parchment, broken only by brief interruptions as the chamber’s sole inhabitant paused to dip the pen into the crystal vial of ink set slightly off to the side in front of him.
At first glance, the man seemed like a prosperous clerk. His face, lined by the passage of fifty years or so, showed nothing but a quiet concentration as he wrote, and the pen did not waver, did not make so much as a single error as it left a trail of letters across the page. A careful observer might have noticed more, however; the fact that the writer’s shirt was silk rather than linen, or that the small pin at his throat was solid gold rather than gilt.
The man finished his writing, and after blotting the text he folded it efficiently, reaching out to dribble wax from the candle burning on the front edge of the desk. He drew out a signet ring from a small carved wooden box to his right, and pressed in into the wax, marking the missive with a seal.
The door opened, and a soldier came into the room. He was a man in his early twenties, clad in a hauberk of steel scales, a longsword with an ivory-inlaid hilt resting easily on his hip. There was more than a subtle similarity in his features that bespoke a relation to the man at the desk, even before either spoke.
“You seem upset, Carzen,” the seated man said, placing the sealed parchment into a tray that lay on one corner of the desk. An identical tray sat on the opposite corner, empty.
“It’s that bastard Jakkanis,” Carzen said. “Father, that man is insufferable! You should hear what he said to me this morning, in front of the—“
“Jakkanis is the Commander of the Moonguard, and your superior officer,” the older man interrupted, cutting Carzen’s sentence off as neatly as a knife. The young soldier opened his mouth to counter, but his father continued over him, adding, “Just because you are now my heir does not mean that I will tolerate any shaming of our family name.”
The statement obviously stung, and the soldier bit back an angry retort. Instead, he said, “If I were magi, like Ahlen, you would say different.”
“If it were simply a question of magical talent, I would have made your younger sister my heir,” the older man said. “You have made your choice of profession; now you must follow its rules, and excel. That is what is expected of a member of the house of Zelos.”
The young man’s lips tightened, but he did not directly challenge the man seated in front of him. The older Zelos sighed, and held up the signet ring. “Do you see this? Do you know what it is?”
Carzen nodded. “It’s Lord Markelhay’s sigil,” he said.
“It is. And while the Lord Warden is in the distant south, I wield it in his name.” He paused, just for a moment, a contemplative interval that a casual observer might have easily missed. “The Markelhays have ruled Fallcrest since its inception, long before our family first came to the Nentir Vale. A long time. But few things last forever, do you understand?”
The youth nodded; for a moment he looked much like his father. Slightly subdued, he said, “You sent for me, father?”
“Indeed I did. Vhael has arrived with his party in Fallcrest.”
“Already? But I thought he was coming all the way from Albestin.”
“One of the things you must learn, Carzen, is to always question one’s assumptions.”
“I still don’t see why we need that scaly to deal with this.”
The old man rose out of his chair. “That is why I have this,” he said curtly, holding up the signet, before he put it back in its box. “And you will refrain from the use of that term, even in private. The Zelos do not resort to crass racial slurs, regardless of our inner feelings.”
Carzen’s expression darkened further, but he held his tongue. There was a knock at the door behind him, and a servant entered, bowing his head to the elder Zelos, acknowledging the younger with a nod.
“M’lord, General Vhael has arrived with his companion.”
“Have you asked to their comfort?”
“Yes, m’lord. They indicated that they would prefer to meet with the Lord Warden’s designee at once.”
“Please ask them to join us in the South Hall,” Zelos said.
The South Hall of Moonstone Keep was only a fraction of the size of the Great Hall below, but it offered a striking view of the town of Fallcrest, spread out in tiers along the banks of the Nentir River. Today the sky was a brilliant azure that stretched from horizon to horizon, broken only by a few pale wisps of clouds above the mountains to the south.
Lord Zelos and his son entered through the side door even as the main doors opened to yield the servant, accompanied by Vhael and his escort. The two of them were about as mismatched a pair as one could ever hope to encounter. Vhael was only a scant inch or two taller than Carzen Zelos, but the dragonborn warlord’s shoulders were broad enough to present him with difficulty at some doorways sized for humans. He was clad in a simple tunic of faded blue over a hauberk of dwarf-forged links of silvery mithral. He was not carrying a weapon, but the claws and teeth that were a product of his draconic heritage made him look utterly dangerous nevertheless. Several visible scars creased the scales covering his head and hands, which were a deep coppery hue, tinted slightly with red under his jaws and on the pads of his hands.
The dragonborn’s companion was a half-elf woman. She looked to be in early middle age, at least as humans judged such things, but her body sagged with the weight of a deep, ingrained weakness. She wore a habit of dark blue cloth and a robe that concealed her from neck to ankles, but even those bulky garments could not conceal the damage that her body had suffered. Faint lines of scars were just visible at the edges of the cloth that framed her face, and she moved with the slow deliberation of one who felt pain. Like the dragonborn, she bore no weapons, and the only decoration she wore was a bright silver sigil of Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon, which shone upon her chest in the light streaming through the slit windows of the hall.
The pair came forward, the woman’s arm resting upon that of the dragonborn, the priestess looking almost like a fragile glass carving in contrast to the sheer vitality of the warlord.
“General Vhael, on behalf of the Lord Warden, welcome to Fallcrest,” Zelos said, coming forward to greet them. Carzen followed, but he kept a short distance back.
“General no longer,” the dragonborn said, his voice deep and heavy, though he spoke the common speech without a trace of accent. “The days of great armies and desperate battles are past.”
If Zelos was surprised by the comment, he hid it well. “There is always a need for strength of arms and the wisdom to know when to use it,” he said. “This is my son, Carzen.”
The dragonborn’s nod was barely noticeable. He indicated his companion. “The Lady Draela Silverbow, priestess of the Platinum Dragon,” he said. “We had expected to find Lord Markelhay here. The letter we received was sent in his name.”
“Sadly, the Lord Warden has been detained longer than expected at the conclave of the great lords in the south. I am empowered to represent him in these matters, in his absence.”
The dragonborn’s stare, from eyes recessed beyond ridges of bone, weighed him for a long moment. Finally, the half-elven priestess shifted her hand slightly on Vhael’s arm, and he said, “Very well. I understand that you have a problem with raiders.”
“Slavers,” Zelos clarified. “A foul band, that calls themselves the ‘Bloodreavers’. They have been a thorn in our side for quite some time, but their attacks have grown increasingly brazen of late.”
“And your own forces? Lord Markelhay retains a considerable garrison, or so I have heard.”
“That is true, but the Nentir is a large place, and we lack the troops to garrison the more far-flung settlements, or even to actively patrol the back roads and trails. The slavers are not fools; they avoid large parties of armed men, and dissolve like the fog before the sun when we shift our troops about.”
“So what do you expect me to do about it?” Vhael asked.
“The raiders must have a base of operations. We believe they have at least one outpost mountains to the northeast, on the edge of the Vale. They cannot fly, and even minor parties leave tracks. A small company, comprised of veterans, would be more effective than an army, in this case.”
Vhael glanced down at the woman on his arm, who met his gaze with her own. He turned away, and walked a step, then two, looking out through the windows at the town below. Carzen fidgeted a bit, but Lord Zelos waited patiently, his hands folded in front of him.
“A small company,” the dragonborn finally said.
“Soldiers from the garrison, and a few men from my own personal guard,” Zelos said. “My son, a capable fighter.” Carzen drew himself up slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though his expression had not shifted from the slight frown he’d worn since coming into the room.
Vhael’s eyes slid over the young fighter for barely an instant. “Supplies. Horses would be more hindrance than help in the mountains, but we’ll need pack animals.”
“You shall have everything you need.”
“What about…” Carzen said. The young soldier looked at Draela, at the sagging, frail outline of her form, but his words trailed off before he could finish his thought. His father’s eyes shifted to him, boring like cold augurs, but he finished lamely, “It’ll be a hard journey.”
Now Vhael’s look was openly hostile, but as he walked forward the half-elf woman placed her hand again on his arm, forestalling him. “I will remain here in Fallcrest, and serve as liaison between the civil authority here and the expedition,” she said.
“I will need whatever intelligence you have gathered regarding these attacks,” Vhael said.
Zelos nodded. “There is a pair of halflings from the west, whose village was the latest victim of the Bloodreavers. The slavers carried off a number of their people. They seemed intent on tracking them, even alone if necessary, but I prevailed upon them to wait for your arrival. I believe that one of them is a veteran of that nasty business with the hobgoblin warlord Dal Durga, a few years back.”
Vhael absorbed the information, but it was clear that the dragonborn was ready to depart. “We leave with the dawn,” he said, his words directed in the general direction of Carzen. Then, with the faintest of shifts that might have been a nod at Zelos, he turned and departed, the servant opening the doors for them as the pair exited. The servant hesitated for a moment, then at Zelos’s gesture he departed and pulled them shut behind him.
“Well, he’s big enough, but he didn’t seem all that special to me,” Carzen said.
“As I told you before, assumptions can be deceiving,” the elder Zelos said. “You heard the General; you had best make your preparations, if you are to be ready for the morning’s departure.”
For the moment the two men shared a quiet stare. Then, with a slight click of his heels, accompanied by a curt nod, Carzen turned and headed to the door. For a moment, he hesitated, his hand on the handle. He glanced back.
“Do not disappoint me,” the elder Zelos said, not turning from where he stood at one of the windows.
Carzen departed without a word, leaving his father staring in silence upon the town below, his brow furrowed with the weight of private thoughts.