A woman's scream tore through the tavern clamor. Chairs scraped on the bare board floor as drinkers turned to see why, but not a single patron rose to help.

Gorkin was backing out of the kitchen, dragging the serving wench under one arm. He strode toward a stair leading up to what Beldar assumed were coins-for-the-night rooms. The lass shrieked and struggled, but the half-ogre merely grinned.

The girl gave the apron-clad tavernmaster a terrified look of appeal. "Vornyk, please! He beat Quinta almost to death!"

The man shrugged, unmoved. "If he's buying, I'm selling."

Rage tempered fear on the wench's face. "So I've heard, from this one and a hundred like him!" she spat. "The sooner he turns me loose, the sooner the two of you can go about your business!"

Gorkin released the girl long enough to backhand her savagely across the face. "Watch your tongue, wench, or I'll cut it out and eat it," he growled, watching her drag herself dazedly up from the floor. "'Tis women for me, and none'll say otherwise."

"This woman isn't for you," she hissed. "I'll die first!"

The half-ogre sneered. "Makes little difference to me one way or 'tother."

The wench seized a heavy tankard from the nearest table and threw it at him, contents and all. Gorkin batted it aside, snatched her up and over his shoulder, and headed for the stairs.

Amid some cheers from around the taproom, the lass kicked, swore, and screamed, but never cried to patrons for help. Beldar decided she knew better.

Gorkin grinned and struck a pose, his prize struggling vainly in the curl of his arm. He made a show of starting to unlace the cods of his breeches, as men laughed and shouted lewd suggestions.

For a moment-just one-the young Roaringhorn noble weighed his life-long quest for an unknown monstrous ally against the sullying of a tavern wench's virtue. And then, with a disgusted growl, Beldar rose to his feet, reaching for his sword.

Another sword sang out faster. The taproom turned in almost perfect unison at the sound to behold an aging warrior in full armor, with the hammer and scales of Tyr bright upon the chest of his surcoat and his eyes shining with terrible wrath.

Holy wrath. A paladin of Tyr drawn by the screams, the doors of the tavern still swinging behind him. Beldar peered at the man. He seemed familiar, as if Beldar had seen him before. In Waterdeep, most likely, but…

The paladin strode forward, and the patrons of the Icecutter sprang to sudden life. Leaping from their chairs, they pulled tables aside in a trice to clear a battlefield of sorts. Bets were shouted, and coins slapped down on a dozen tables.

The paladin paid no heed. Crossing the room in a few long strides, he plucked the girl from the half-ogre's grasp as if she weighed nothing.

Gorkin whirled with a roar and found himself facing a raised and ready sword, the wench safely behind the man wielding it.

Without hesitation the half-ogre sprang back, drew steel, and then plunged at his foe. Steel clanged on steel, sparks flew, the old paladin's blade circled arrow-swift up and under Gorkin's guard, and the half-ogre spat blood in astonishment, stared at the ceiling… and fell, eyes wide in disbelief.

Beldar was tempted to applaud. Four quick, precise movements, done in less time than it took to count them aloud, and Gorkin lay dying. It was a marvel of efficient swordsmanship, if lacking the showy flourishes Beldar favored.

The holy knight wiped his weapon on the sprawled half-ogre, sheathed it, and swept the taproom with a slow, measuring glance. Beldar got the uneasy notion the paladin was judging each man there. His grim expression suggested he saw little difference between those who committed evil deeds and those who merely sat and watched.

Then the paladin looked at the tavernmaster. "The girl leaves with me."

Avarice battled fear in Vornyk's eyes and won. "Aye, as long as you pay her price."

The paladin's cold expression deepened into a killing frost. "Is slavery legal now in Luskan?"

"She has debts," Vornyk growled. "An indenture. Not the same thing."

"I'd sooner challenge a skunk to a pissing contest than argue ethics with the likes of you. Name your price."

That amount was ridiculously high, but the paladin paid it without comment and left the tavern, gently leading the girl by one hand. As she passed Beldar her expression was wary, even cynical, but she probably preferred her chances with a grim stranger than a drunken, violent half-ogre.

Her chances were almost certainly better, the noble thought bitterly, with a champion of Tyr than with Beldar Roaringhorn of Waterdeep, the hero who might have been.

Midsummer, The Year of the Unstrung Harp (1371 DR)

Taeros Hawkwinter strode quickly through Dock Ward, one hand on the comforting hilt of his sword and the other keeping an open vial of scented oil under his nose. Above the sagging rooftops of this lowest-lying, dirtiest part of Waterdeep, the summer sun shone high overhead, and its baking heat brought out an incredible mingling of stinks in the narrow streets. Even more incredibly, no one around Taeros seemed to mind.

On all sides, sweating dockworkers and fishmongers with unspeakable slime smeared on their bellies and boots were breaking off work to seek their midday meal, jostling under the cries of street-sellers hawking highsunfeast: thick-crusted handpies, wooden skewers of still-sizzling roast meat of dubious origin, handwheels of strong cheese, and plump twists of saltbread.

Taeros elbowed his way through them all until he found a particular building-no easy task, given the frenzy of dockside rebuilding after last year's fish-men war.

He tossed a coin to the sour-faced doorguard. The burly warrior gave the noble's black hair and storm-gray Hawkwinter eyes a slow, hard look ere nodding, waving a "fire not" signal to the crossbowman in a window across the street, and stepping aside.

Taeros sprinted up a long, narrow flight of stairs, eager to leave the scents and sounds of the Dock Ward behind. His ascent ended on a small landing before a massive door.

Black with age but richly carved from a single plank of oak, it was obviously a relic of some vanished, far grander building. Taeros took a large black key from a belt-pouch and tried its massive lock. It swung silently open on well-oiled hinges, and he stepped into the room that, he fondly hoped, would become a second home to him and his five closest friends.

This new lair was a far cry from the luxury of the Hawkwinter estates, but Taeros was well pleased with it. The room was spacious and lofty, open to the building's bare rafters and lit by rows of tall windows. Comfortable chairs were scattered about, flanked by small tables ready for tankards or friendly games of dice or cards. Polished wooden cabinets held a suitably lavish assortment of bottles, goblets, and tankards, and a keg of ale sat ready on a metal rack. White wisps of steam, like breath on a wintry morn, curled up from a pottery dish situated just beneath its oak staves.

Taeros nodded approvingly. They'd done well to entrust the furnishing of their new haven to Korvaun Helmfast. True to their family name, Helmfasts were steady and practical folk, and Korvaun bred truer than most. He'd forgotten nothing-including the perpetual ice-smoke, a common but very handy little enchantment that kept ale pleasantly cool and local alchemists in ready coin.

Leaving the door ajar, Taeros strolled to one of the west-side windows. The casements had been thrown open to catch the ocean breeze, and the room was pleasantly cool despite the midsummer heat. The sun had just begun its descent, which meant he'd arrived at precisely the agreed-upon meeting time. Even so, he didn't expect his friends any time soon. They had many virtues, but promptness was not among them. Taeros didn't mind; in fact, he'd been counting on their tardiness.