Sent by the spy master of Neverwinter to investigate a group of rebels, Rucas Sarfael finds a worthy adversary in the beautiful fencing master Elyne. Matching wits and blades with the rebel leader, Rucas strives to prove himself and rise in the rebel ranks in part 1 of this four-part novella set in the renowned city of Neverwinter by fan favorite Rosemary Jones.
Waterdeep. You are lucky the business there took so little time and I did not have to leave it undone.” “So there is no more gold for the Sons of Alagondar?” “Not from that merchant. No matter his birth in Neverwinter, he values his business in Waterdeep too much these days. And some cur, or so he called me when last we met, let too many of his trade secrets slip to his rivals. It will take him a long time to recover his wealth. What he has left, he needs at home, not funding rebellions
of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness. A LAND OF UNTOLD ADVENTURE There is nothing more necessary than good spies to frustrate a designing enemy, and nothing more difficult to obtain and to control as you wish. —Dhafiyand of Neverwinter 1478 DR THE OPEN GRAVE
youth called Montimort. His wrists are thin, his shoulders stooped, and I think he may be the most tricky of the lot, because, being a wizard, he would not depend upon the blade to defend or attack.” Another murmur among the students confirmed his guess as correct. “Enough,” said Elyne. “Turn and pick an opponent and a weapon.” He spun in place and pointed at the brawny youth with an angry flush mottling his cheeks. “Let him use his broadsword. And, as an apology for any insult to her honor,
enough attention to me or my quick feet.” The boy grunted, circling left and then circling right. Sarfael stayed still in the center of the floor, tracking him only with his eyes. “I’m an old man,” he explained, pitching his voice so all could hear, “so I’m not given to such rushing around as you prefer.” Parnadiz feigned an attack from the left, and Sarfael did not move. The boy grunted then drove forward. Sarfael lifted his left arm at the last moment, let Parnadiz’s blade slide harmlessly
so close?” “Some blades are enchanted, and the enchantment makes it worth carrying a lesser sword. But not this, I think. A well-forged rapier, nothing more, made for a smaller man or a woman.” “It was a woman,” he admitted with the utmost truth. Lies he always told with honeyed-tongue ease, but, for Mavreen’s memorial, the sword’s story never varied and his voice always sounded rough when he told it. “She died and I did not.” It took Rucas Sarfael four days to attain an invitation from
