Chapter 1
It is a curious thing, when one comes to think on it, how for a man to secure his own survival he must be ready to take another man’s life. Perhaps it was a vestige of some half-animal instinct left by ancestors of a forgotten age, or perhaps it was an inane desire, fueled by warfare and conflict for hundreds of generations of men, dwarves and elves.

This thought crossed through the mind of the young blonde mage mage Cyrix as he urged his dapple grey around the bend and came face to face with a bandit gang.
Of course they were bandits—even without recognizing the seemingly coincidental meeting, where the road bent around the crook of the cliff to continue northward, one could tell by their ragged, filth-smeared furs and the stench of unwashed bodies.

Cyrix reached to his girdle and loosened his dagger in its sheath. The leader of the small game, a large burly man with close-cut, wiry black hair and a scraggly goatee, stepped forward, smiling to reveal several teeth missing from his dirty, yellowed mouth.

“Oi! Look chaps,” he urged to his two comrades, “looks like somebody wants to use our road: an Imperial City nobleman by the looks of ‘im.”

His likewise filthy companions joined him in an ironic chuckle.

The trouble was, Cyrix did look like a wealthy nobleman. His close-cropped golden hair fell to his shoulders, onto his blue-trimmed white robes. He had tried to mask this appearance by donning a worn traveler’s cloak and hood, but still his cloth-of-gold
girdle and the jewel-hilted dagger at his side shone from within its folds. It was not with steel that he was most destructive, although the scars of many foolish enough to test his ability proved his skill, his true talent lay in his command of sorcery.

He had studied in the Imperial City’s Grand Library, with its many scholars and sages, since he was young, learning the ancient secrets hidden in dusty tomes from long-forgotten ruins of some lost civilization.

Much of what he had learned, his ability to draw upon cosmic powers, was of a dark and blasphemous nature. It was this powerful magic that he knew was required of an adventurer such as himself, and he was not a fool as were others who feared the darkness that they understood not.

He dismounted and pulled back his dark hood, daring the bandits to make their move with his smoldering blue eyes.


The bearded bandit leader lunged forward, the tip of his steel poniard meaning for Cyrix’ gut. With a flash, his own dagger was out and he parried the blow aside like brushing away a gnat, sending the bandit stumbling forward.

Before he hit the ground, Cyrix brought his knee up to meet his attacker, leaving a bloody mash where once was his face.

The robbers hesitated, doubt smearing their expressions.
He looked down at the red stain that marred his white robe.
“Now I’ve got blood on by robes,” started Cyrix, “I suggest you hand me what gold you have as compensation. You wouldn’t want me to have to sift through your ashes to find it, would you?”

With that he snapped his fingers, conjuring a swirling ball of flame to his hand. It seemed not to burn his pale, open palm, but it simmered, reflected in the bandits’ eyes.
Dropping to their knees, they threw their weapons down in a desperate plea for their lives.

“Yes, gold, anything! Let us live, sorcerer!” they cried.

They cast their thin purses at his feet. The clink of the few coins inside indicated how poor a choice of profession highway robbery was.

“Begone, knaves! And prey our paths cross not again,” the sorcerer spat.

The men took off down the hill running. Cyrix looked at the ball of hell’s fire still simmering in his fist, then at the backs of the fleeing robbers.


The air smelt foul of burning flesh as he mounted his steed.


The rest of the way to Wovendale was less eventful. He filled the time with thoughts of Namuwei, whom he was to meet there at the Inn. It had been many years since they had shared a drink together. Their adventures in his youth, before he had taken up studying at the Imperial City still brought a gleam of excitement to his eyes.

He did not know why Namuwei had summoned him, nor why he had chosen the back-country village of Wovendale for their rendez-vous. All the note said was that there would be a vast sum of riches involved.

At first, Cyrix was quite surprised that his old friend had taken the time to learn to write, considering his utter contempt for schooling. No, Namuwei was, and Cyrix knew always would be, an Adventurer; a sell-sword, a soldier of fortune, or a treasure hunter, even a thief would make a fitting title for the shrewd fellow. It was not careful planning and deep knowledge of his situation that saw Namuwei through dangerous times, but his quick thinking and clever confidence.

Perhaps it had been this quality that had attracted their friendship, nay, their brotherhood. Perhaps it was also this quality that had seen them part ways, for Cyrix had no faith in luck and quick wits to see him through. He preferred to know his enemy and the stakes on both sides before making the move that benefited him most.
Together, there could not have been a better team.


As evening set in, so too came rolling up dark clouds, their rumbling thunders a bellowed omen of the heavy rains that so often soaked the countryside. Ahead, the Sorcerer could see the village. Presently he pondered the possible meaning of “a vast sum of riches will be involved…”

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