Prologue

The water was still, a mirror for the vane sky. The "Kestrel's" silvery sails, the pride of Captain Jalor, hung worthless. For once, a leather cord kept Keth'sim's dark hair bound in a tail at the nape of his neck. Not one moisture-curled strand danced in the salty breeze. Which concluded the list of the nicer things on that day.

The elven caravel "Kestrel" took a heavy beating from a terrifying storm not a ten-day ago. Idly, Keth'sim remembered the wild ride when the sea turned rabid on them. Tired of being sick, he had left the confines of the hull wishing only to die outside, not in a crowded cabin. The green and black waves rose frightfully high, and crashed down on the "Kestrel"'s quarter deck he had crawled onto, rolling over it and washing away everything in their path into the sea. The drenched sailors had not bothered to hide their smirks, when they had yelled to the alarmed commander of Wisperbrook guards, that the Sea of Swords had 'ne'er been kind'. Keth'sim had tried to look unperturbed just then, even with his stomach heaving and him clinging to the lines for his dear life among the havoc.

Prior to escorting Whisperbrook family on their journey to Evermeet, Keth'sim had been wise enough to have kept his feet firmly planted on dry soil for the past three-hundred twenty seven years of his life. However, it never entered his mind to leave the ship and stay behind after the storm had passed, and the "Kesterl" sheltered in an estuary of an unnamed river, one of many that cut their way through the Sword Coast to join the Sea of Swords, with its crew attending to recutting and sewing the new sails, sealing the hatches, some mysterious woodwork near the stern castle and running around with ropes and ropes and ropes. They said: "Pull!" and he heaved with all his might, and held what had to be held, and worked forms with any of his men he saw idle.

Scrutinizing the blue expanse, Keth'sim missed the days of reprieve from the sea-going, if not from the sea-going folk. Keth'sim Dwin'anea considered himself a brave man - and in truth, he could not be anything but brave ever since the Moonblade was unexpectedly passed down to him by a twice-removed uncle; the sentient sword would turn on its owner, should he prove a coward. However, the mariners fatalistic attitude unnerved him: they weathered the storms and the quiet and went on after saying a prayer for those lost at sea and mending things as best as he could. A prayer to Umberlee, the Bitch Queen, and the Seldarine knew, it was not a misnomer! Now, the ship was becalmed - an entirely different weather, but no less capricious or adverse to the traveling elves.

"All hands at arms!" came the shout from the crow-nest, just as idle Keth'sim noticed the strange rippling. Keth'sim threw a quick look around to make sure that Wisperbrook men were running to their positions; they were almost eager. "Evereska!" he screamed, and two dozen men responded; it was almost comforting.

Captain Jalor barked out a command, calling for the wizard. Erevain, he explained to Keth'sim, when the sails first turned limp, could sing to the wind, to the fair Aerdrie Faenya. The spell was rare, and not to be used but in the dire peril. When Keth'sim looked back at the water, the ripples turned into waves, though there were not a breath of wind, and the unmarred blue was cress-crossed by the dark shadows moving underneath the boiling surface. The captain was right. The hour of need has come.

"Sahuagin!" yelled the man at the crow nest, confirming Keth'sim's guess, and loosed an arrow. The shaft went under, the water around it frothing with blood and movement: the sahuagin now knew that they were expected. More arrows aimed with the elven frugal precision found the targets under water, but the school broke apart and was encircling the ship.

Then Erevain sang, sending the "Kestrel" forward, giving Keth'sim heart. The prow cut the attackers into two groups, battering the ones ahoy, like a siege ram.

The offered resistance seemed to only invigorate sahuagin: the school picked up the pace, shadowing the the "Kestrel", and the first of the slick, tall shapes showed itself above water, and threw a grappling hook. It dug into the wood, lodging there, supporting a line. Busy with the arrows, Keth'sim thought that he heard the ship moaning every time it was struck by the merciless iron claws - and berated himself for a fool. Diriel, his second in command, leaned overboard perilously, desperately hacking at a line. He cut it, sending two sahuagin tumbling back into the sea, but there were three more ropes growing from the ship's side, as if tying it down to the water.

The shark-headed men in glistening scales, climbed the ropes with purposeful agility and Keth'sim imagined that he saw hunger in their precise, speedy movements and snarls. He threw his bow aside, the moment the first of the sharkmen reached the deck and bared his sword. The blade in his hand, almost an extension of himself, calmed him. He watched the first opponent run towards him and swung, testing the man's strength. They should be tired, after all, having swum after the ship. The trident that met the Moonblade's strike wavered, but only slightly, and the sahuagin's arm rose readily to return the attack. No sign of strained breathing either. Not tired then. And there were three or four of the creatures to each of the ship's defenders, including the gentle passengers. He heard the Wisperbrook's youngest daughter crying, and gripped the sword's foot-long hilt with both hands. Less finesse, but he would be able to put more strength into a strike. The blue pommel jewel shined brighter than his eyes, descending on sahuagin's shoulder, as Keth'sim risked opening himself to land a blow from the high guard. Moonblade was only a sword; the victory in a righteous battle excited it no less than an honorable death of its owner. Sahuagin groaned and his fingers fell open, letting out the wickedly spiked net. But he punched the trident forward, ignoring the pain, and loathing to die without bleeding Keth'sin Dwin'anea, even if he knew that the blademaster with a wicked blade crowned with the blue gem was beyond his ability.

Keth'sim fought the sahuagin growing in front of him, at his sides, lurching at him from behind. He desperately needed a breather, so he threw a few cautious glances around. The "Kestrel"'s lovingly repaired white pine deck was blood-soaked underfoot. No matter where he turned, the elves lay, their fine chains punctured and ripped like so much woolen rugs by the sharp tridents, their arms or legs or necks caught in the nets. Above, the sail smoldered hit by a firespell. Keth'sim's realized that most of his two-score men were already dead or dieing. The "Kestrel" was doomed. Her mariners, her crew, and her passengers – none of them would see Evermeet.

Keth'sim refused to hear their high-pitched, painful cries: theirs was not an easy passing, but it was better than what he'd get: Keth'sim's own spirit would be locked in his familial sword with the magic of the Moonblade, and would find no release to Arvanaith1 until the sword had fulfilled its purpose and extinguished itself: an unlikely event, since the sword was to go to the bottom of the sea, where none of Keth'sim's people would find it. These were cold thoughts, but he could not afford to think of the others - egoism, pure and ugly could keep him alive longer than laments and sorrow. Too many elves, he was taught in secret, succumbed to the communal pain when death reigned around them, taking their kin.

So, Keth'sim Dwin'anea did not shudder or relaxed his grip on the sword. Whenever the death would find him, it would find him as prepared as a man could be, and he would do what he promised to his weapon master two hundred years ago: "I will not go down alone."

The hourglass at the prow turned upside down, the enchantment still in effect, and wanted to sing the hour… but simple as it was, the sentient artifact tasted the elven blood that sprayed it and remain quiet. The agony was nearly over for the "Kestrel". Keth'sim Dwin'anea stood cornered by three ahuagin, his back to one of the "Kestrel's" tall masts; his sword was making a slow semi-circle in one outstretched arm, while the other held a dirk close, shielding his body. By his feet piled the two last sahuagin he had killed, giving off the smell of a rotting fish. The rest did not rush in, their swords aimed at his throat and gut, but waiting for something; perhaps for him to weaken, to shift from his posta2. "It will be a while," Keth'sim grinned unhappily. Pain of cuts and tiredness of muscles or not, he was trained to maintain the stance for as long as he stayed conscious. He schooled his face to the same stillness that marked his assailants'. Passion he reserved for love, not hatred.

He was staring at the predators, and they – at him, when a chant came from somewhere behind him. One of the attackers shifted his ugly, toothy head a fraction of an inch, as his eyes flickered toward the source of the noise. This momentary lapse of attention was the biggest opening Keth'sim Dwin'anea had since this last wearing down match had begun. The bladesinger thrust his sword forward like a rapier, into his opponent's chest. The flamberge3 blade encountered almost no resistance piercing the sahuagin's hardened hide, glittering scales and fibrous flesh. Dripping dark-red, the heart's blood, the ancient sword of the Elfkings came out and swung up to meet the steel that flashed toward the elf's own gut.

The impaled sahuagin folded, gurgling the last curse or prayer in his rough tongue, spitting it out with blood, and fell over. His companions paid him no heed, striking at Keth'sim Dwin'anea with renewed fury. Two quick parries, a thrust, a sword caught on the swordbreaker – and the trio returned to their watchful stillness, each aware of the others intakes of breath, the trembling in the swordhand or knees, and where their gaze fell. Such was a paradox of any fight, that the bitterest of rivals, the most vicious enemies were alike in their attempt to vanquish each-other.

The elf edged toward the fallen, disengaging his sword, resuming the long guard… and was thrown hard against the mast, as the ship lurched forward, sideways, at incredible speed, being rushed back to the shore by Erevain's voice. The world flickered black, as he hit his side and his head against the iron-cased wood, but the pain was not lethal. Luckily, it was just sharp enough to keep him conscious, if dazed.

Then the same voice, that chanted, now devoid of magical power, screamed at the top of his lungs, and despite his resolve Keth'sim's heart churned and he moaned groggily. Erevain was a good man and had done his duty. The "Kesterl" would run ashore, a monument to those who died, not go down to the bottom of the sea for sahuagin to desecrate. Someone would find the Moonblade… someone. Sucking air into his lungs, and compensating as best he could for the spinning and twining of the world, Keth'sim Dwin'anea leapt at the sahuagin, who lost their footing. The killing blows he had dealt them proved true another lesson of his early days – a fighter on the ground was as good as dead.

Keth'sim did not have time to savor his deliverance, or rest. "Rally to me!" he cried desperately, and "Evereska!" Then his honed instincts told him that something was coming from behind, and the commander spanned about, rotating his blade to divert the blow… so that which was aimed at the back of his head, hit him squarely in the face: a sphere of seawater, by its smell and look, but harder than a rock. The blackness rushed to swallow him, like a rising wave. A toothy scowl of a sahuagin priestess floated on top of it, the only thing that he saw in focus, becoming larger and fainter, turning into the only grayish spot in the dark and then he heard distinctively the quivering sound of his sword striking the deck and he knew that this time he would pass out for good. Another unnecessary blow landed, making the lightening explode in front of his eyes, the last trick of his stubborn sight.

1 Arvanaith is the Elven afterlife in FR mythology

2 Posta or guard is a position assumed by a swordsman.

3 A flamberge is a sword which had a "wavy" blade meant to aid in parrying