Thern Spinecracker watched the ambush through the sights of her crossbow.

When the doomed party first appeared the dwarf was laying at the lip of a wooded gorge, peering into the darkness at its bottom to determine if the narrow valley was inhabited. If not, she planned on inhabiting it herself. There was too much strangeness abroad that night - the sooner she could get herself under cover the better.

If the Abyss-cursed lights hadn't gone out back at Harper's Inn, she would have been there now, instead of laying there with a sharp stone digging into her stomach and her not daring to move off of it in case some sharp-eared demon lurked below. Sitting by the fire with a hot mug of cider, her chapbook balanced on one thigh as she struggled to finish her first attempt at verse in the tedious alliterative style of the Sea's Reach Confederacy. She'd heard that a poet couldn't trip over a stone in the Confederacy without turning up a dozen patrons, each one with a purse fat enough for an Adventurer's Companion to retire on.

But the lights had gone out. And then, to add mockery to mutilation (as they say), the night outside set to squeezing the inn with a fist of roaring sound. She'd gotten outside just in time to see the dragon flash by overhead. Body glowing angry as steel in a forge, eyes closed and body all back-swept wings and fire.

Now what self-respecting dwarf could have resisted giving chase in hopes of following the beast back to its hoard? Everyone knew dragons could only sustain flight for a short time, and as fast as that particular wyrm had been going, it should have been dropping out of the sky at any time. Unfortunately, the damned thing had the stamina of a rutting Bearkind. If it had come to ground, she certainly hadn't seen sign of it. The only things she'd seen all night had been trees and bugs. Lots and lots of bugs.

Had it been a dragon? Laying there now with that blasted rock carving a hole in her belly, it occurred to her that she'd never actually seen a dragon with its body glowing all over like that. The eyes, yes, and the mouth like a lit furnace just before a good flaming. But the whole body? Never.

No. It had to have been a dragon. Nothing that big flew except for dragons!

The gorge beneath her was lit only by Heaven's Eye, hanging where it always did, in the western sky, now directly across from her. Though it revealed nothing of what lay at the bottom of the valley, the shard of moon shed sufficient light to silhouette the party when it appeared. There were five of them, the leader clearly inexperienced: they stood for far too long gazing down into the gorge, easy targets all, before beginning their descent.

As the party of adventurers climbed down a narrow cleft in the cliff face she tried to determine their affiliation - always a dicey call in the field, where everyone carried pretty much the same equipment. Sometimes a Blademaster or Holy Knight might have embossed a more or less obvious crest on his or her great shield. A white hawk spreading its wings in the rays of the sun would tend to be borne by a Servant of Light, for example, while a white hawk caught and bleeding in the jaws of a Tri-horned Beast of the Pit would suggest the bearer was a Slave of the Abyss. No such luck now - not a shield among them. No religious talismans, tattoos or even birthmarks to hint at their ethical inclinations.

The party seemed to be led by their Mage: when the slender robed figure lifted an arm to snatch at a tree branch, a sleeve slid back just enough to expose the body-hugging mesh undergarment worn by every Adventurer, regardless of affiliation or profession. Thern had been dismissed from her last assignment for asking one too many questions about that undergarment. What was it made from? It looked a bit like pitch or tar spread thin and allowed to dry, with spines of something like copper, and yet also like brass, running all through it. Why did every Adventurer wear it? What did it do, if anything? What did it mean, if anything? Was it some kind of uniform? Or, as she thought most likely, magical armor?

Inquisitiveness wasn't a trait encouraged among Companions. Asking that many questions of an Assassin/Mage had been begging for trouble. She still didn't know if the ensuing rash had been caused by poison or magic, but she didn't doubt whose gift it had been.

A hulking Mamluk led the party's descent, followed by a Stripling - probably a Thief - and then the Mage. A patch-robed Sufi came next, and an Elfen Archer brought up the rear. Not a bad formation - right out of the book, though Thern would have moved the Sufi up behind the Mamluk, who would be the most likely to need healing, and sent the Thief to scout ahead of the party. The scout would be especially useful, given just how dark it was at the bottom of that gorge.

Abruptly the darkness fled from a small pocket of forest almost directly beneath her. An orange glow, too steady for torches or a campfire: it had to be magical in nature. At the moment its exact source was hidden by an ancient knuckle tree, but by the angle of the shadows it cast she could gauge its location well enough. She sighted it along her crossbow, waiting for whoever or whatever had summoned it to reveal himself or herself or itself.

A low buzzing rose up from somewhere near the source of that glow. Like bees, almost, but lower pitched. Like a big bee, maybe. A really, really big bee.

The buzzing stopped, and someone started cursing in a voice that was not only undoubtedly humanoid and more than likely female, but which also spoke in a language immediately known to her. It was an Adventurer's language, one of the more common ones: Arabic.

"Idiot," said another voice, rough as only the voices of lifelong 'bacco users were rough. "You've got about thirty seconds to get that charger up and running before those Sprites get here."

Sprites? Thern had never heard of a colony of sprites in that part of the forest -- though it wouldn't surprise her if a tribe of the little buggers had shown up. This was a busy bit of wilderness -- crisscrossed by a dozen short-cuts that she knew of -- from Harper's Inn to the Druidic Circle, from the village of Nightshelm to Ogre Valley, from the Mount of the Oracle to the City of the Grieving Dead. A pack of sprites -- or brownies, for that matter -- could make a good living on what they could lift from travelers.

Maybe that was a team of exterminators down there, she decided, though why they spoke an Adventurer's language was beyond her.

The voice stopped dead. Something crashed through the underbrush, making its clumsy way toward the sorcerous light.

She scooted herself forward a bit. This should be interesting. Two parties meeting in the night, one wielding a strange magic. Or had the strangers behind the knuckle tree discovered something there in the gorge? She might see a real battle, a fight to the death, victor claiming some ancient artifact and all its awesome power.

There's an epic in that, she mused. In darkest dusk, the daring deed draws near….

The Stripling stepped into the warm glow of what Thern now thought of as "the artifact."

"Hail and well met," he squeaked, craning his neck upwards. Whoever he was addressing was tall - a human, or possibly a troll, judging from the angle of the little man's neck. Human, if it was an Adventurer.

There was a whispered exchange between the still-hidden strangers. Then the voice which had been cursing only seconds before spoke. "Go away."

The woman's tone was less than friendly, and the Stripling shifted his feet, clearly uneasy. The Mamluk stepped from the shadows and rested a protective hand on his fellow's shoulder. "What was that?" he growled. His chest puffed out and his hand dropped to hilt of his sword. In case those signals had been too subtle, he growled again, just for good measure. Typical Mamluk. Always spoiling for a fight.

"I told your friend to go away," the voice said. "Now I'm saying the same to you. Go away. Before you get hurt."

Oooh. Wrong thing to say. The Mamluk stepped back from the Stripling to give his sword arm room to operate. He drew a very serious looking blade from his belt and lowered it at the stranger. A dagger appeared in each of the Stripling's hands, and from the darkness behind them came the low creak of a bow being drawn.

Thern's breath caught in her throat. Should she intervene? But how could she? Affiliated with the Light as she was, she could kill only Slaves of the Abyss, or face dire consequences. She'd put a quarrel into an Unaffiliated Seaman once. He hadn't been able to dance a jig for weeks, and she had suffered a serious migraine for nearly a month. Never again.

With no other avenue of action open to her, she set to composing.

The merry Mamluk, mightier than most mortal men,

sword in sight and strong arm steady….

Wait a second, "mightier than most mortal men" - that had to be too much alliteration, even for Sea's Reach. And "merry"? This guy most definitely wasn't merry….

A slender hand wrapped around the wrist of the Mamluk's sword arm, and the Mage stepped into the light.

"Hold now, fellow sojourners," she said. "Needs we must cross swords this night?"

What a peculiar way of talking, Thern thought. She couldn't place the accent -- it was definitely old fashioned, so some border province, likely. Adventurers almost always sounded like they came from the border provinces.

"Ah," said the voice from the shadows. "A real person. Now that's unfortunate."

What was that supposed to mean, "a real person"? The Mage looked as confused as Thern by the expression. She squinted into the light, as if she couldn't quite make out the features of the man addressing her.

"Real person?" Her lips drew down in a scowl. "Listen, we're supposed to stay in character. I'm a mage, mighty sorceress, and you're…whatever the hell you're supposed to be. I paid a lot of money for this - I'd appreciate it if you'd play properly!"

Thern understood none of that, but she heard the irritation in the Mage’s tone.

Someone stepped forward into the light. She'd been right - a human - but she could tell nothing of her profession from her clothing. A single garment, shirt flowing seamlessly into trousers, covering all of the woman's body.

The Mage was, again, as confused as she. "Who are you?"

The woman was shaking her head. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you on your way to Guest Services?"

The Mamluk and the Stripling shared a glance and lowered their weapons. They clearly understood as little of this encounter as Thern.

"You're from Misr Entertainment? What are you, maintenance?" The Mage dropped her gaze to her feet, abashed, or at least making an effort to look abashed. "I'm sorry. I was going to head for the island in the morning. It's just…I saved a long time for this. And after tomorrow it'll all be gone forever."

"It's gone forever now," the woman said softly. And then she struck.

Thern didn't see what he did to produce that flash of power. Its effect staggered her, horrified her more than anything she'd ever seen - and in a life of adventuring she'd seen horrors enough.

Adventurers were protected from most sorts of harm - everyone knew that. At the end of whatever training they underwent, magical shields were cast upon them. They could be struck, and if struck often enough their limbs would seize up and they would fall.

But they never bled. They hardly ever bruised.

They certainly never did what the Mage did right then. Light flashed from the stranger's hand, and the Mage howled in agony as a hole appeared in her middle. Another flash, and a bloodless wound gaped in her throat. Her hands fumbled in the air for an instant, as if trying to sketch out a sigil of invocation, but she was already as good as dead. Smoke poured out of her wounds, filling the air with the stench of roasting meat, and she slumped to the ground.

"By the Silver Hawk of the Light!" the Mamluk bellowed as he leapt for the stranger. The Stripling flipped one knife underhand at the woman who had just murdered the Mage, and from the cover of the forest a sing-song chant arose, the Sufi finally getting around to casting a spell. An offensive one, Thern hoped - she could see healing would do the Mage no good now. From the forest also came the twang of a bowstring released.

Dagger and arrow struck almost simultaneously, and the stranger stumbled under both blows. And bled. So much blood! She an Adventurer, and so much blood! What was the world coming to? Something black and solid dropped from her hand. It looked a bit like the pistoles those Southron Corsairs liked to wave around in taverns. But solid black and heavier looking somehow, more evil looking somehow.

Released from her own uncertainty by the Mamluk's battle cry, Thern aimed her crossbow at the shadows near the stranger. She was clearly done for already, but her companions had yet to reveal themselves or their abilities.

The wounded stranger staggered back, her voice ripping out a string of unintelligible words, made high by panic and burred with pain. Another voice cried out from just behind where the woman had stood - unfortunately its source was protected from a bolt in the throat by the thick-boled knuckle tree. "The Sprites! Where's the datakey…ohgodohgodohgod….why didn't we suit up? Where's that damned key?"

"Shut-up." The 'bacco-stained voice, calm yet coiled with threat. "The datakey's here."

The Mamluk charged the knuckle tree, and Thern's heart leapt into her throat.

Under the Knuckle Tree…there's a poem in that somewhere, Thern thought.

A man stepped into the light. Slight, balding -- a clerk if ever she'd seen one. In his hands he held something…not a weapon…a jewelry case, a rod, something in between.

Thern's finger tightened on the crossbow's trigger, and --

The man's fingers danced across the object in his hands. Thern felt the jolt of the crossbow's release against her shoulder, but as she fired she saw the man take another step back. Damn! The bolt would miss. She'd have to reload, or haul out her axe and go skidding down into the gorge. Probably break her neck in the process.

Something hummed deep in her chest. The Mage's party stopped, stunned expressions on their faces. The Mamluk clutched at his chest, looking for all the world as if he were suppressing a belch.

The humming in her chest became a vibration, vibration blossoming into searing heat.

Then darkness fell.