Chapter 1

A lone figure sits on the rocky side of a small hill overlooking a wooded valley. It is the middle of the night, that darkest hour when spirits are said to be about; the full moon gives only feeble, murky illumination though heavy clouds.

Looking up, he wonders, perhaps for the first time, "Who am I? How did I get here?" His clothing registers a battle; he is dwarven, of the hill clans. Nothing more is forthcoming.

Lightning flashes across the roiling clouds as a storm bursts across the valley. The lightning brings insight to the young dwarf, too. In bursts and fits, flashes of memory appear before his eyes; in a jarring but relentless stream that seems to explode inside his skull.

Beneath a towering oak tree, he faces an angry lynch mob from the back of a horse; the noose around his own neck. Aurin, the kings slow-witted but loyal personal guardsman, is running to his rescue -- but the faster he runs, the less ground he covers.

An innocent young noblewoman, Maria, dying from a gash in her throat so deep he could see the bone -- and even though he knows she should be dead, still she clutches to him as to a protector, crying 'Save me, please, help me!'

Kelemor, the kings vizier and closest advisor, watches expressionlessly as the lynch mob overcomes Olaf and his companions in a flurry of shovels and pitchforks. Porda, the fat, ever-so-proper royal healer, wrings his hands as the war between guilt and confusion plays across his face.

Muddled and overwhelmed, he holds his hands against his head, trying in vain to stop the flood of images. A brief flash of lucidity: 'My name is Olaf. I was a part of a small group of mercenaries for hire. My companions' ... but he doesnt know where his companions are. The memories continue in a flood.

A solid stone room, its walls impossibly twisted and bent, bleeding from every mason seam. Stacks of books, bubbling cauldrons and jars of strange animal parts seem to twirl in an exotic dance as they float in a slowly growing sea of blood.

His king, his liege lord, hangs from the canopy frame of the royal bed, done in by his own hand. Esmar, the most sought-after noblewoman in the county, whose only fault is jealousy, sobs into a crumpled wedding gown at his feet.

Denier, the greedy manager of the local gambling hall, stands before the castle with a hundred peasants and thirty of the kings guard. In a voice that must surely deafen all present, he accuses Olaf and his companions of murder.

The memories are clear although oddly distorted, but they make no sense. 'I aint no murderer -- and if that all happened,' Olaf thinks, 'I'd be dead now.'

The rain arrives at this side of the valley, so Olaf picks himself up and makes his way down the rock-strewn hillside towards shelter. He keeps his head down, paying careful attention to his footing on the wet stones, so he doesnt notice the tree until he is at the bottom of the hill, almost under it.

Then he sees, and an instant later comes to realize he is sitting where he has just fallen. Another flash of lightning clearly illuminates for a split second and there, swaying in the wind like a macabre set of wind chimes, are the bodies of his companions -- and next to them, his own. The image was brief but burned into his brain -- eyes bulging, tongues hanging out, ropes cutting deeply into their necks, dried blood from a thousand small cuts and the dark marks of violence on every body. Olaf is sick under the tree.

When he regains his equilibrium, he gets up slowly and approaches the nearest. It's Tassadar, the only elf Olaf ever thought he could stand for more than five minutes. Despite his silly love for the woods and woodland creatures, he knew when to join the races in battle -- when the time and the cause was right. He was a man of his word in a day when honesty was rare and hardly prized. Olaf counted on Tassadar; fought back-to-back with him in many a tight squeeze, trusted him where he trusted few.

Next to him hung the wizard. This had to have been hardest on her, closeted by her family, then protected from any real harm by Olaf and his companions. Closemouthed to the point where no one even knew her name, she earned the nickname 'Fizzbanana' from the others. A strange magical surge once caused her to create a field of foaming, overripe bananas. Olaf smiled even now -- that had been years ago, and the transport she had intended to create was much needed with goblin hordes in hot pursuit. They were almost captured from laughing too long, and none of them had ever forgotten.

Simon hung behind these two, ropes straining from the weight of the plate mail he polished nightly until it gleamed. Gone were his prized sword and battleaxe; the Gods only knew with whom that battleaxe was conversing now. Olaf thought Simon dumb as a brick, and was often pleased to pull one over on him. He wished now that he could take some of those pranks back, for Simon was a good fighter and a loyal friend. He deserved a far better end than this.

Olaf turned with trepidation and forced himself to look at the next body. Demetrius Fishkill, his roguish, reckless best friend, with a love of the sea as big as the water itself. Demetrius, with whom Olaf braved the darkest caves and rankest dungeons, the tallest peaks and most forbidding of temples -- with whom he shared countless furtive adventures, sneaking into places neither of them should have been and taking things neither of them had any right to, now lifeless and still. As a halfling, the only one who shared Olaf's height. Olaf mutters aloud to the silent corpse.

"What have they done to you -- to all of us? I don't understand. Is this some sort of weird dream?'

Olaf reaches to touch his friend; this time his brain is too numb to even register shock. His hand passes right through the body! He tries again with the same result, then throws his carved dwarven hammer to the ground and threatens the sky.

"I can't even bless him?!? What have you done to me?!?"

Olaf grows angry and tries once more to place his hand upon his friend. Finally, this time, it works; he barely registers resistance, but it is there. He murmurs a short prayer for each of his companions in turn, thankful that he is able to do that much. Brief rites concluded, Olaf approaches his own body when movement distracts him. The thunder has drowned out the approach of a well-armored knight on the far side of the tree.