Grey, shifting shadows and scarlet stains on brilliant white snow. Crackling flames, the ring of steel on steel, grunts, moans and screams of the dying and those struggling to remain alive. The smell of blood and charred flesh, mixed with the strong odors of sweat and fear. Sensations of a world suddenly turned upside-down.

The young girl huddled in the thin shadows beneath a raised porch, looking out at the on-going destruction of her village and childhood. Six dark forms ran past, flinging another smoking torch onto the blacksmith's roof. A heavily armored and cowled figure turned back in her direction until she could make out the squinting red-rimmed eyes of a mountain orc. He searched for any movement, any survivor of the sudden devastation that he and his fellows had wrought. Those eyes moved, shifting quickly from side to side. She held her breath and he looked away.

Another minute went by - torturous in its slow passage. The orc jogged away around the corner. The sounds of fighting were lower now, diminishing either with distance or because no one was left to kill. The girl chanced a slight movement to pull a wisp of red hair out of her mouth and eyes. She squinted and a tear left a bright track through the ashes and mud on her cheeks.

Ten minutes went by - then twenty. Her exhaustion dragged at her as she remained tense and terrified under the porch. The building behind her was smoldering - no threat to her position. The smithy was burning brightly in the morning sun. Warm waves rushed at her from the fires to combat the slow cold creeping up from the icy ground. The sounds of battle were gone and the sound of squabbling orcs was beginning to fade to the south. It was time.

The tiny girl-child crawled from beneath her parents' home, stretching the stiffness from her legs. She looked furtively around then ran for the forest edge just north of the village. She disappeared silently into the shadowed copse of trees. Under the porch snowmelt darkened a small tattered doll left in her wake.

The warm breeze of early autumn rustled the still yellow-green leaves. Grey clouds were beginning to gather in the north, but the sun was still bright here in the hills of Eastmarch. Abigail reached up absent-mindedly and pulled a wisp of red hair out of her mouth and eyes. She smiled faintly as she heard a hawk call in the distance. Pushing her hair back with both hands she reached to bind the thick tresses in a leather strap. Then, tightening the cinches on her saddle she raised an armored leg to the stirrups and mounted her roan. Long black blades were carefully sheathed on each side of the dull leather tack, placed for ease of withdrawal from on the mount or on the ground.

In the pass below her she saw the line of horsemen appear. She traced back up the slope along her intended route - noting each turn, each stone, each possibility of a snag. As the riders passed she made a faint clicking noise with her mouth and the roan began his careful descent. She wrapped the reins around the dragon tooth, which served as a saddle horn, guiding the roan with her knees. As they dropped towards the narrow trail below she drew both blades - holding them lightly to the sides of her horse, blades pointing to the ground. The horsemen continued through the pass, still unaware of her approach.

The narrow trail through the pass was lined with thick shrubs and tall stones. The only means to move to the side was the narrow way she had chosen, and it was not a clear or notable route. She had picked the place for exactly this reason. She remained out of sight of the horsemen - knowing their location only by their loud conversation and the jingle of their harness. Her own harness was woven of strong leather straps chewed for softness so that there was no squeak as the leather moved with her ride down the hill. She came to the edge of the trail as she had planned - just after the last man in line passed. That man - Jobal, sergeant of the Lyndyn guard, was her mark.

As her horse passed out onto the narrow trail Jobal noted movement and spun in the saddle. He looked surprised to see a young woman in black scale armor riding towards him. Then he noted the two blades and pulled his own sword. Abigail nicked the right flank of his horse with the point of her sword, just enough to startle and upset it. The horse reared with a loud neigh and Jobal was off balance. He nearly dropped his sword as he grabbed for the reins. As he was recovering and the horse was still on its hind legs Abigail chopped through the chainmail on his right arm, drawing a gout of blood from his upper arm and causing him to drop his sword.

The horsemen in front of Jobal were beginning to notice that something was going on as Abigail swung with her other sword and neatly decapitated the still surprised sergeant. His horse bolted forward as warm blood flooded onto its back. His headless body remained in the saddle for a few moments then toppled, adding to the confusion. The trail was too narrow for the panicked horse and falling corpse to pass around or between the other riders easily. Other horses began to rear and start as they smelled the thick blood and were splashed with it. The knights near the front of the line rode well-trained warhorses, used to such things, but they could not pass through the confused crowd. By the time some modicum of order had been restored in the ranks several minutes had passed and Abigail was well back up her side trail and heading over the hill top.

Lord Almand ordered a force to follow, and they gradually worked their way free of the press of horses and then up the narrow track. The armored horses and armored men were much heavier than Abigail, making the loose trail more treacherous. By the time they could make it to the top of the hill Abigail was long out of sight in the dense woods and hills. They turned back to inform Lord Almand that the red-headed slayer had escaped once more.

In the squalid mustiness of a wharf-side warehouse Abigail examined the small leather pouch in her outstretched hand. The brown-stained leather was rough and worn, and clearly showed the outline of the heavy gold coins concealed within. She pulled back her hand and placed the weighty bag into her larger belt pouch. Smiling she turned her back on the woman who had handed her the money, and she walked out into the foggy evening air. Jobal's widow was happy to see the slayer go, but happier to know her cheating and abusive husband would bother her no more.

The thick aroma of slightly rotten fish, old urine and salt-cured wood planking assailed Abigail's nose as she moved through the ancient wharf district. The slap of waves and the creaking of hull-wood against dock-wood laid down a background beat of recurring sound behind the pulsing babble of voices raised in drunken song, heated argument and lustful lying. Dogs barked in the distance, sheep bleated from the pens near the docks and ships' bells rang softly as the wind and waves rocked masts back and forth.

Thin fogs curled around her shoulders and dampened her cheeks as she sought out the one particular side street where the Seaman's Inn lay. Finally pushing her way through the swinging outer doors Abigail glanced about at the thickly layered humanity crowding the common room. Lanterns hung from rafters and clinging precariously to walls lit the room with a glow that might have been cheery if not for the thick smoke, which swirled around the room. The great fireplace in the back wall threw a flickering glare through the room, adding to the illumination, but not improving the mood.

Looking around the room she saw mostly humans drinking and messily eating at the tables. In one corner there was a small table with two thin folk in green cowls. They looked elven, and their longbows leaning against the wall supported that image. One of the armored adventurers at a table to her left was a thick-bearded dwarf. He drank dense brown brew from a heavy pewter mug and tore massive chunks of pink meat from the burnt leg of some small animal. Abigail crinkled up her cheeks as she saw him and nodded in his direction as he glanced up. She turned away as he nodded back at her. She was here for other business and had no time to chat with old friends.

Thrusting her way through the sweltering crowd Abigail only had to slap back grasping hands twice - once from a man who mistakenly thought she was a serving wench to be groped and once from a cutpurse who pulled back two broken fingers. The groper realized his mistake, but she didn't hurt him much. Finally she reached the bar and caught the eye of the busy barkeep. He smiled and drew a honey-mead before he walked over.

"Here y'go. Enjoy lass."

"Thank you, Ned." She threw back her head and drew a deep draught from the mead, then continued, "I need to pick up a package."

The bartender nodded and pulled a brown paper packet from beneath the bar.

"Got it right here, lass. Figured you'd want it right away."

Abigail slid the packet under her cloak quickly, took another long draw on the mead and handed the barkeep three golden coins - far more than the price of a beer.

"I'll see you real soon, Ned", Abigail lied.

She smiled broadly and turned to the room once more. With a slight sigh she thrust herself back into the throbbing crowd. The bump and shove of tight-packed humanity jostled her through the room. At the outer door she turned for a brief moment to look back over the room, then with a thin smile she turned away from it.

Abigail moved quickly through the thin fogs. This time she stayed in the deeper shadows and watched for followers. She made her way to the western gate of Camator, moving ever uphill and away from the coast. An hour after leaving the Inn she reached that gate, but did not go through. The gates were shut at night. Guards would take careful note of anyone wanting to pass through them at this hour. Instead she made her way up the narrow stair leading to the fighting battlements. No guards were posted up here, thirty feet above the outer flagstones.

Cloudy skies and a near moonless night made the thin woman in black scale armor very nearly invisible. She kept low nonetheless and moved to a break in the battlement. Sliding through a narrow slit that a fully armored man could never have negotiated she dropped suddenly and caught the edge with her hands. Her toes, wrapped in soft but tough leather caught her and kept her full body from slamming into the stained stones of the outer wall. She stretched her fingers and body until she was in full contact with the wall, giving maximum friction, then she released her grip and slid down the near vertical drop - catching each groove and seam with her toes to slow her slide. It made a lot of noise, but it was over very quickly.

When she hit the ground she let her knees fold and she rolled backwards, tucked into a tight ball. This absorbed a bit of the impact and it served to move her away from the wall and into the shadows of the wooden building across the street. She was now in the outer village. She rose quickly and faded around the small wooden building. Fetid mud and pig slops lined the alleys of the peasant village. She moved quickly through this area to the edge of the fields beyond. The thick odors faded as she moved out into the cornfield with its brown, leaning stalks. The harvest was nearly done, but the standing corn stalks still hid her passage quite well.

Three hours before dawn and she was already clear of Camator. She moved into the wooded fringe above the fields and looked back over the dark city. Flickering lantern-light sparkled in only a very few windows. The light breeze brought the last vestiges of the aroma of the sea, now three miles or more away. Turning, she jogged into the open forest. She passed beneath towering Linden and Elm following a path she knew very well. Another ten minutes brought her to the small camp where Vamp, her roan gelding, was hobbled and sleeping. She sat quietly and leaned against the broad roots of a spreading birch tree. Her eyes closed and she let herself sink into a light sleep.

Warm sunlight woke her. It was at least three hours after sunrise - six hours of sleep left her rested, but running later than she had intended. She rose quickly and brushed sticks and leaves from her armor. Then as she chewed on waybread and raisins she brushed the leaves and knots from Vamp's mane and coat. A visit to the underbrush finished her morning ritual. She saddled and mounted the roan and departed the familiar camp. She rode hard for an hour - moving westward with the sun rising at her back. The cool northerly breeze brought hints of colder weather on its way and she was glad that her path would soon lead far to the south.

Once well clear of the vicinity of Camator she slowed the horse and let him walk westward as he would. She sat back in the saddle and pulled out the packet that Ned had given her. She examined the brown parchment wrapping. It was sealed with a wax seal and an indiscernible stamp. It looked just like every new mission she had ever received from the nobility of Camator. That was just as she had wanted it, for this was not a new mission, but something far more dangerous.

She opened the packet, lifting the wax seal carefully instead of breaking it. Inside, as she had known there would be, she found fine vellum instead of the common parchment used by merchant and noble alike. Only the richest wizards and the royal family had access to papers of this quality. She never trusted wizards.

This was a Royal Decree. It had the gold-foil embossed stamp of the king of Eastmarch right on the bottom edge. It was a writ, which identified her as a diplomat traveling at the command of the king. In the eyes of any civilized ruler, noble or merchant in the known world this letter would make her untouchable, a diplomat above the law. In the eyes of any thief, cad, spy or low-life this letter was her death warrant. If any of the folk in the Seamen's Inn had known the contents of that simple brown packet they would have taken any measure to waylay her and relieve her of the letters - right after relieving her of her life.

Abigail, the waif with no last name, rode on westward, then southward, heading for the Seven Cities and the city of Atalon. She had an appointment with a man who held her future in his hands. Her life as a free-lance slayer in the Kingdom of Eastmarch was over. The life in front of her was an enigma - she had no clue as to what she was to become...