"Why have you come?" he asked. His voice was full of anger and sadness. "Why did you think to test a place that has stayed hidden for so long?"
Ardeth's hand found the pommel of her sword under the water.
"You hide powerful magic," she said. "Magic from Netheril. Did you think you could keep it secret forever?"
"Yes," said the man. "We did."
Ardeth burst from the water, swinging the sword around in a long, graceful slash. The ancient man made no move to resist her as the blade sliced through his middle. She gave him a quick, clean death, and he uttered not a sound until his body fell at the base of the standing stone. He seemed almost glad to die, weary from his centuries as a guardian.
Ardeth sheathed her sword. Planting a foot on the dead man's head, she climbed up the side of the menhir with the grace of a squirrel. Standing at the top, she stared into the source of the red light: a glowing stone object the size of a fist, and vaguely resembling a human heart. It rested in a small indentation at the top of the menhir. Ardeth leaned closer, the light bathing her pale features in crimson. She could feel the energies pouring out of it, washing over her. Ancient magic. Magic from Netheril.
Smiling, she reached down, plucking the stone from its resting place. She heard an audible hiss as she removed it—how many centuries had it laid there, undisturbed? It felt warm in her hand.
The runes on the menhir beneath her ceased glowing.
Ardeth could see Gunton, Gan, and Royce looking toward her from the edge of the Sanctuary, afraid to step deeper into the marsh. The area was missing its behemoths, but Ardeth knew guardians must be near. The man she had slaughtered had said "we."
She would have to finish this quickly.
Ardeth held the stone high in the air within her hand, its light glowing through her pale fingers. She saw Gan raise the greataxe in response. With her other hand, she reached into her soaked leathers and pulled out a crossbow bolt she had held in reserve. Never taking her eyes off her three unfortunate companions, she gripped the bolt and drove it into her palm.
* * * * *
"No!" Royce screamed as he watched Ardeth vanish from atop the menhir, but he was not surprised. He paced for a moment, then took Ardeth's empty crossbow and smashed it against the rocks outside the Sanctuary's edge.
"What happened?" asked Gan.
"You should appreciate this," said Gunton. "She betrayed us."
"No," the hobgoblin said. "No, that can't be."
Human figures appeared all around the Sanctuary. Eight men and women, each of them old and black-haired, made their tentative way through the marsh, bound for the three outsiders. Each was dressed in white robes that became neither stained nor wet as they progressed through the muck.
"We are not without resources, even with the Heart of Runlatha stolen," the nearest of them said in a weak rasp that was somehow projected across the marsh. "You will not be allowed to escape."
Gunton watched them draw closer. "Do we run, or do we try to bargain with them?"
"She would not betray us," Gan said, bewildered.
"Wake up!" Royce shouted. "She has done nothing but betray us! All of our deaths are on her head. That Zhentarim bitch has left us here to die and teleported back to Llorkh with her treasure!"
Gunton raised his short spear, alternating nervous glances between the folk of the swamp and the hobgoblin. "Must we argue, while..."
"Why don't you kill me, Gan?" cried Royce. "Ardeth isn't here to stop you now!"
Gan flashed back to the Fallen Lands, when he had first found the axe. He knew that it was a leader's weapon from the moment he saw it, as surely as he knew that he was no leader. Neither was Dray, that stupid Lord's Man he slaughtered on the plain of dirt. It belonged with Geildarr.
Such a weapon! Though he didn't understand all of what Geildarr had told him about its origins, he understood enough to confirm what he had always felt. This was a hero's weapon. What a privilege to wield it on a hero's behalf!
Doing Geildarr's work, he boldly brought the axe down on Royce. Like Dray, he struck the warrior in the shoulder, and drove the axe downward until the head was embedded deep in his chest. In the last flicker of his companion's eyes, Gan saw not the anger he expected, but sadness.
What have I done? he asked himself.
The hobgoblin's hand went out to stroke Royce's face. Gan felt a pain in his own chest and looked down to see the point of Gunton's spear protruding from it, driven through from behind. He stumbled, turning about. The axe ripped free from Royce's body and fell from Gan's hands, landing with a splash in the marsh.
Gan tumbled backward onto Gunton's spear, which snapped under his weight. The bloody spearhead emerged from his chest. He reached out to grasp it as his body twitched and rattled.
* * * * *
As Gunton looked down on Gan, he saw the hobgoblin's dying face was a mask of confusion and indecision. Some realization must have dawned on Gan in his last moments. Perhaps, Gunton thought, in those last moments the hobgoblin understood the full power the axe had wielded over him.
Gunton choked back tears as he looked at the mangled wreck of Royce's body. He turned to the white-clad men and women still approaching from the Sanctuary. He spread his arms wide to show that he was unarmed.
"He was a brother to me," he explained. "Do you understand what that means?" He repeated himself in Illuskan, more furiously.
"We never should have dealt with a Zhentarim," he continued in Common, not worrying that they might not understand him as they approached with steady steps. "That was our first mistake. It wasn't just Geildarr's coin we craved. He truly seemed to treasure the things we found for him. He seemed as passionate about history as we were. He was hard to resist. We were just as deluded as Gan. May Shaundakul accept our Souls despite our weaknesses."
Gunton made no attempt to run as one of the figures stepped out of the Sanctuary before him. It was a woman, her white face as gnarled as a tree branch, jet black hair spilling over her shoulders. She extended a hand, and the axe rose from the water and into her grasp.
Gunton turned his back to her and braced himself. "I am the only member of this expedition not killed by a companion," he whispered to himself, awaiting the axe's impact.
Instead a bony hand clamped onto his shoulder and squeezed. He yelped in pain.
"We have use for you," the old woman said. "You must earn your rest."
* * * * *
Two days passed before the Thunderbeasts arrived, their path clarified by Vell's descriptions. They passed Mount Vision to the east, passing through the forest until they found the remains of the Sanctuary. The strange, thin trees were slowly dying. The cold mountain water from the Heartblood River had penetrated the marsh, and its magical warmth was lost. With the behemoths gone, the region was empty and desolate. Vell's heart cried out when he saw it—it was not the living, vital preserve he knew from his vision, but a drab, ruined, and useless waste.
On the northernmost phandar tree, the crow-pecked remains of one of the invaders made a gruesome spectacle. He was tied high up on the trunk, his hands severed and lashed alongside him. His head, thickly bearded and with its eyes stolen by birds, rested between his two feet.
"A warning against further intruders," Thluna said, unable to bring himself to look at it for long. "But who left it?"
"The Shepherds," said Vell. "Whoever they are." He looked across the Sanctuary to the menhir and immediately saw the difference. "The red light is gone. The invaders stole it when they stole the behemoths. It must have been the source of the magic that preserved this place."