Waterdeep

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The patrol had been from Marsember, charged with protecting the coastal farms around the tear-shaped grove called Hermit’s Wood. The sergeant, Ogden the Hardrider, was one of Cormyr’s best, well known for keeping his sector free of brigands.

Twelve riders had served under Ogden. They were typical soldiers: a half-dozen youthful good-for-nothings, two drunks, two good men, and two murderers. Ogden gave the dangerous assignments to the murderers. Predictably, the pair was insubordinate and had made a pact to add Ogden to their short list of victims—though neither one had ever gathered the courage to attack the sergeant.

Now, they would never have the chance. Ogden’s patrol lay a hundred yards north of Hermit’s Wood, dead to the last horse. The Purple Dragon, the crest of King Azoun IV, still glimmered on their shields, and their armor still gleamed whenever the moonlight slipped past the stormclouds and played over their corpses.

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