Dead as it looked, Moanda and Kovost approached it warily.

“Are you all right?” the dwarf asked Halladon.

At first, too winded to speak, Halladon merely nodded. “It stuck me a few times,” he wheezed at last, “but not too deeply. What about you two?”

“The same,” said the barbarian, hand pressed to the cut on her brow.

Kovost peered down at the rapidly dissolving carcass. “What in the name of the Keeper’s beard was this thing?”

Moanda snorted, her usual response to anything she considered a foolish question. “It was unpleasant, and now it’s dead. What more do you need to know?” She turned to Halladon, inclined her head, and grumbled a phrase in her native language three times over. Then, when he peered at her in puzzlement, she gave him an exasperated scowl. “That’s how my people apologize. Don’t you cityfolk know anything?”

“I’m sorry, too, lad,” Kovost said. “We should never have doubted you. I’ll carry the shame of it to my dying day. Tell me how to make it up to you.”

Halladon grinned. “Depend on it, it will be a long, arduous process. But after we tend to one another’s wounds, you can make a start by building up the fire and cooking me a gigantic supper.”

Strange Bedfellows

“Fair travel, Captain Aidan, ‘tis a chill wind blowin’ this eve,” called the young guardsman, his purple cloak drawn tight against the cold.

Aidan turned to face the officer standing within the guard post of the Upper City Gate and grunted. In the dancing light of the torches, he could make out the lad’s beard’ess face. No matter how hard he tried, Aidan couldn’t shake the feeling that the Purple Dragons recruited younger every year.

“Luck yerseif,” his gravelly voice carried across the deserted stretch of the Gateguard Road, “sunrise is still a fair bit away.”

With a gruff laugh, he turned and continued somewhat unsteadily up the road into Tilverton proper. In truth, the Dragonet was right-the night air carried a chill bite. Aidan could feel his old bones throb under the wind’s lash. Still, winter’s bluster couldn’t touch the warmth that flooded from his recollection of the past.

Tonight had marked his last official day as a captain in the Purple Dragons. He was mustering out, and the memories of his former companions-many of whom had spent the evening toasting his health in the taproom of the Windlord’s Rest-covered him like a comfortable quilt.

He’d come a long way since leaving Skull Crag and wandering the West Reaches of Cormyr-certainly further than he had ever dreamed after signing with the Dragons in Greatgaunt. For the past twenty seasons, he had made Tilverton his home, working hard to keep peace and uphold law. He loved the city and felt that, in his own small way, he had helped make at least this part of Faerьn a better place. It was tough to put that behind him.

Aidan sighed and turned off the main road, wending his way through back alleys toward his home. In the distance a cur barked, and the captain’s hand strayed reflexively to the dagger at his belt. The weapon was new, given to him this very evening by Commander Haldan Rixnmersbane, and its weight pulled unfamiliarly at his side.

A slight scuffling sound brought him to a stop. He peered into the shadows, the dagger drawn almost without thought, and waited.

Nothing.

Cursing himself for a beardless cadet, Aidan relaxed. It took a few moments for him to realize that he still held his weapon. The dagger felt natural in his hand, almost like an extension of his fingers, and he marveled once again at its gem-inlayed hilt and razor-sharp edge. Truly it was a noble’s blade, a gift he had received this very evening from Commander Haldan. It was a token, Hal-dan had said to him later, of Lady Alaslyn Rowanmantie’s appreciation for his “unswerving dedication to Cormyrean justice.”

He chuckled out loud at this memory Haldan always did have a flair for the melodramatic. Even when they were cadets struggling through training, Aidan had thought his younger friend had missed his true calling.

Still, the dagger was a great gift, and he would carry it with pride as a reminder of his service to Cormyr.

Ahhh… you’re still drunk, he thought.

Aidan sheathed the blade, hawked, and spit before resuming his weaving journey. The taste of Thungor’s bitters lay heavily in his mouth, and he still had a fair distance to go.

The tight alleyway eventually turned, opening into a slightly wider street. Aidan walked in the center of the road, careful to avoid the refuse and offal piled on either side. Rats were common enough in Tilverton, but the captain had seen enough savaged corpses to know that other creatures sometimes lived on the castoffs of civilization.

The shadows in the lane suddenly shifted. Several cloaked shapes melted out of the darkness, quickly forming a wide circle around him. His attackers moved forward slowly, tightening the circle. Aidan once again drew his dagger, grateful for such a practical gift.

“What is it that you want,” he asked, pitching the question like a command.

The menacing figures stopped their advance, and for a brief moment he thought he had a chance to control this situation. A voice spoke from deeper within the alley’s shadows, and he knew that these were not common foot-pads, frightened by the first display of resistance.

“I believe you have something we require,” the voice said.

Aidan shook his head and started to protest, until he remembered the dagger. Even in the pale moonlight, its gems burned incandescently, like a beacon to every greedy eye.

“Ahh,” the voice said again. “I see we understand each other… captain.”

Aidan’s mind whirled. This was no chance robbery; the thieves had come for the knife. He could hand it over to them, in which case they’d probably cut his throat and be done with it, or he could make them think twice about ever tangling with another Purple Dragon. Either way, he didn’t expect a fair fight-only a quick death.

With a silent curse, Aidan made his decision. “The only way you’ll get this dagger,” he shouted at the shadows, “is by pulling it out of your own chest!” Crouching low, he сentered his balance and tossed the dagger from hand to hand.

Silence greeted Aidan’s declaration, punctuated only by the rapid beating of his own heart. After what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke again.

“You have made an unfortunate choice, captain.”

The twang of a fired crossbow propelled his body into action. Aidan dove to the side, feeling his heart race as it pumped the blessed fire that sustained him through a lifetime of battle. He rolled to his feet and met the first of his cloaked attackers with a thrust to the gut. His dagger cut through the figure’s leathers and bit deeply. He turned the knife and withdrew it quickly, ignoring the thief’s dying gurgle. Several more attackers rushed in, and he soon found himself parrying a flurry of kicks, punches, and sword thrusts. Grizzled muscle and old bones no longer moved as quickly as they used to, but Aidan’s years on the battlefield kept him alive-at least for the moment.

Gods, I can’t keep this up for too much longer, he thought desperately. His breath came laboririgly now, like a desert steed’s on its last length. Another sword swept close to his head. He ducked under the swing and lunged forward, scoring one of his opponents across the leg, but the move left his flank exposed. Aidan turned quickly, trying to shield the vulnerable area-and wasn’t fast enough.

He cried out as a blade pierced his side, shattering the bones of his ribs. Another sword raked across his thigh and he fell to the ground, dropping his dagger. Aidan lay on the floor, struggling to breathe, to move, to grab his weapon, but to no avail. His limbs were cold and sluggish; he was no longer their master. With great effort, he looked up at the cloaked figures approaching him with their swords drawn. They moved slowly, unhurried, almost calm. That’s when he heard it, a roaring in his ears like the raging of an ocean of blood. It grew louder, drowning out the creek of leather, the cries of the wounded, and even his own heartbeat. This is it, he thought, this is death.