The tiny flames flickered as they warmed the small pot of tea flavored with mint, dried mushrooms and a bit of berry for his breakfast. Night was just beginning to fall to the hint of dawn, even deep in the forests of southwest Cormanthor, the darkness prepared to flee from the rays of daytime. He scrubbed yet again at the spot on his sword, and wondered yet again if it had grown larger?

The darkness only heightened the sense of helplessness that had overwhelmed him. Only a week ago his friends, those that remained after the chance meeting with a large Drow patrol, used the portal stone to return to Semberholme, and the healing pools that awaited. Kelenia would live, recover from the grevious wounds she had suffered while trying to keep Jelsa and his sister Telsa alive, the twins devasted by a strider’s poisoning before the rest of us cut it too pieces, but not before Renisia died under the blades of a dark ranger. Three dead and five wounded of the friends who had taken the oath to search for the traitor, or Kymil’s sister, whomever they found first. Only his closest friend and occasional lover, Petralia, her twin blades and mithral armor protecting her, along with the strenght of her knight’s vows, had remained unwounded in addition to him.

He tried not to think of her wounded eyes when it dawned on her that he had tricked her into leading the wounded and dead through the portal, the look of pain as well as understanding as he uttered the command word closing the entry near the springs of his family’s ancient home, and the healing that his father would offer. Now the portal stone was just a polished piece of jade, beautiful, but meaningless beyond its stark green lines.

He had been foolish to lead his friends into the depths, with know real direction other than a feeling. Three had paid the price, and he would not risk any others but himself.

He had moved before the scream fully settled into his mind, the warning cry of an eagle, Vaelorn, his eagle, awakening him to a nearby threat, realized by that screech of pain and anguish.

While he may not have finished his training, he was no neophyte and the cries gave him plenty of direction in which to head.

As he crept through the shadows of the giant trees, towards the bubbling creek to the west. It didn’t take long before he witnessed the horrorific site, four orcish monsters dismembering the body of a dryad as if they intended to harvest meat for dinner, with another dryad pinned to one of the large oaks by two daggers through the meat of the shoulders, her painful moans interspersed with sobbing as she was forced to watch the brutal slaughter and skinning of what could only be a friend or relative.

Rage suffused his body at the violence against such lovely creatures, the anger powering the first javelin that buried itself in the butcher’s skull, dropping him onto the bloody remains of his victim. The second javeling had been on its way before the first orc fell, but the second target moved just enough to catch the weapon in its eye, letting out a squeal before topping unmoving at the feet of the living dryad.

He charged, screaming to Rillifane for strength, slashing through the third orce before the monster could even pull its blade. The fourth proved tougher, weilding a club with great strength as it slammed into his right shoulder, the pain so powerful that his hand spasmed, all feeling lost as the spell that had been dancing across his fingers dissipating in a useless burst of sparkles.

He barely parried the next blow with his sword in his left hand, but the strength of the blow driving him to one knee. As the creature lifted the club high for a crushing blow, he dove forward, head butting the foul creature in the nether regions. With the momentary respite, Kymil slashed open the orc’s guts, before leaning on the sword to shove it through the squirming creatures throat into the ground.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled his sword loose, moving to the still hanging dryad, who was nearly hysterical in her cries, although her fey langauge was so garbled he could not understand what she said.

He pulled the first dagger loose, apologizing over and over in elven for the pain as he pulled the second loose, catching her with his free arm, which jerked painfully, already swelling from the massive bruising it had suffered. At first he didn’t comprehend the fear in her eyes, and it was only the piercing eagle’s cry of warning that allowed him to turn with sword raised just enough to knock aside a thrusting weapon before diving to the side, encumbered by a bleeding dryad and sword, graceful it was not. Nor fast enough as the slashing weapon sliced through his leather armor and the meet of his back, a burning pain that shocked him even as he attepted to roll to his right to come to a knee with his weapon held in a defensive stance.

Only a momentary glance provided all the evidence he needed that he should have gone through the portal a week ago. The Zhentarim knight’s powerful swing arced down towards him, and he knew that his strength was insufficient to block the blow, let alone win. Whether coincidence reigned or Rillifane granted him luck, the blow struck the blotched edge of his weapon, his sister’s weapon, the family weapon handed down for thousands of years. Shocking pain pierced his eye, and a second sun rose near that nameless burbling creek in southwest Cormanthor as the Sword of Thorns, exploded.

Darkness came instantly. . . .