PROLOGUE

Church of the Radiant Heart
Athkatla

The dawn broke and the first rays of the morning sent shafts of subdued amber sunlight through the sole open window of the room. The chill of the recent night still remained, swept on a gentle breeze that rustled softly against the robes of the barrel-chested man standing before the window ledge. The man was lost in thought, the weariness on his weather-beaten face matched only by the resolute strength in his eyes. His appearance belied his true age, in spite of his white hair and beard which was lightly streaked with slivers of black. His rapt contemplations were interrupted when a familiar and distinctive knocking sounded on his heavy oaken door.

"Come in, Sir Guylain von Serra." said the man, still gazing out through the window, to the streets of his beloved Athkatla, slowing bustling to vibrant life. The door swung open soundlessly on its oiled hinges, and a middle-aged man with gray dusting his chestnut brown hair strode the few paces to genuflect before the man at the window.

"Father Confessor, Torm's light bright and true, bless me as I request.", said Sir Guylain, kneeling on one knee, with his hands clasped on the other.

"Blessed are thee, loyal paladin of Torm. The faithful shall never waver from their duty." the Father Confessor said as he turned to face Guylain, laying a callused palm on his head. "Now get up on your feet, Guylain, and dispense with the formalities. You know how I abhor it, when I am forced to face those effete nobles and merchants who revel in such pointless fancy."

Guylain rose on his feet, a knowing smirk spreading across his rugged features. The Father Confessor continued, "And I'll not suffer ceremony from one of my dearest friends and most trusted companions," Guylain smiled briefly, and just as he was about to speak, the older man said, "But as for you, Guylain, I'll make an exception!" At that, the two men bellowed heartily, filling the room with their gruff laughter, clasping wrists vigorously like common mercenaries in a tavern.

"Arethor, you old dog. I had imagined that your ample years would have spirited you right smack into senility and dotage. However, it seems to me that you still have a bit of fire left in that shrivelled wreck you call a body." Guylain said with a mischievous glint in his eyes, faintly outlined with crow's feet. However, his grin faded when Lord Arethor du Aelar, the Father Confessor of the Church of the Radiant Heart and a veteran of countless crusades, quests and adventures, wrapped his palm around one of Guylain's shoulders and started applying substantial pressure on it.

"Your humour is refreshing, Sir Guylain, and the faithful are blessed to have a lauded paladin such as yourself amongst our ranks." Arethor grinned, as Guylain grimaced.

The lighthearted banter went on for a while, as old friends do after long periods of being apart. The friendship between the two aged men was obvious; forged over many years and cemented by the adventures the two of them had embarked together, with they often facing insurmountable odds and fighting back-to-back against all manner of evil, rabid creatures. Their merry fellowship continued as they caught up on each other's affairs and exchanged news of old friends and riveting tales, but it soon faded and ceased. Guylain's visage grew serious, as if remembering some ill-omened memory already long passed.

"You know why I am here. Arethor. I would have not come personally if the matter were not of such pressing importance. Your messenger, Persephin, has since hasted to bring the news to the prelates outside Athkatla, and I myself have not spared any speed to carry out your directives." Guylain said, any sign of mischief or laughter already fled from his eyes.

"I know all too well the reason for your presence here, my friend," Arethor said grimly, fixing Guylain with a steely-gray, focused gaze. "Report."

"Your missives have been delivered, in person as you had requested. The prelates of the churches who share our cause understand the need for such urgency and have promised their fullest assistance in this grave endeavour. Even as we speak, as a testament of their staunch support, carefully-chosen warriors of noble heart and steady sword-arm are being assembled and dispatched to the ends of Faerun on this perilous quest."

"The need is reason enough for such a move of the church, as much as I loathe to admit it. A time is upon us like no other in memory, Guylain, and if our efforts are insufficient, there will be no army on this earth that will have the power to counter this threat." Arethor said solemnly, rising from his seat to stand before a suit of armour and weapons of unparalleled craftsmanship.

Guylain followed after Arethor to stand by him to behold the display of armour and matching sword, and though he was present at their forging, the exquisiteness and intricacy of their craftmanship still filled him with a sense of awe and respect. The blade still gleamed bright and silver as if freshly forged from the smithy, and the armour was like a burning star in darkness, carrying not a single nick or scratch on its gleaming surface.

"You remember this still, do you, Guylain?" Arethor said, with an unusual tremor in his voice.

"I shall never forget, for that time will be burned into my memory forever."

"Aye, as it shall with me. It was the darkest day of my long life, my friend. Yet, it had to be done. There was no other way, was there? There cannot be hope without sacrifice, nor victory without loss." Arethor continued, his eyes distant and misty.

"Aye, my lord. There was no other way, and our brothers gave up their lives willingly to go into Torm's embrace, Arethor." Guylain said.

Arethor ran his fingers slowly across the breastplate, and whispered, "The blood of a hundred faithful servants of the Loyal Fury, given willingly, to forge all this. A hundred! The blood of a hundred brothers and kindred, to defeat a single, twisted shell of what once was a man." Arethor grasped the sword, hefting it, feeling it balance perfectly in his hand. Cromwell's finest work, and the sacrifice of the finest of men, he thought bitterly. Arsandir, the sword of sacrifice and redemption.

"The Blade of Broken Saints, I hear the people whisper. A sword to rival Casomyr in legend and deed. Never will our brothers' sacrifice be forgotten or be in vain, Arethor. Never." Guylain grasped Arethor's forearm, still thickly corded with muscle. "It shall never happen again, not if we are able. Not while there is still life in our hearts and a blade in our hands. I will not allow it."

"I admire your passion, Guylain, but the immensity of the task ahead of us is a terrible burden on my soul. Do you realise how much is at stake here? It is not merely the lives of those brave paladins I have sent on their quest, but the lives of all those who live free in all of Faerun! If we fail, the consequences are too dire to even contemplate; the outcome will determine the very balance of good and evil for time to come."

Arethor turned to face Guylain, who could only stand still in silence as he considered the sheer importance of the tasks Arethor had him perform in the recent weeks. Guylain nodded slowly, the realisation of the veracity of Arethor's words begining to dawn upon him.

"The Bhaal-spawn must be found." Guylain whispered, a tendril of fear creeping into his voice. Arethor was right - the very foundations of Faerun would be rocked and toppled if the Bhaal-spawn were not found and dealt with. If it chose to assume its birthright to ascend to the throne of the former God of Murder, the repercussions would be terrible to behold. The Time of Troubles would pale in comparison to the magnitude of death and destruction if such a fate damned Faerun.

As if echoing Guylain's thoughts, Arethor nodded and said, "Yes, it must be found, or else all we have fought for will be lost. If the spawn ascends to Bhaal's throne, the blood of the faithful will flow like ceaseless rivers and their cries will fill the skies to reach Torm's ears himself. All will be lost, if we fail." An infinite weariness was evident in his voice, something Guylain could not fail to notice.

"Torm guard our hearts, and guide our blades."

"Amen."