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The hag came on, hands upraised and hooked. She paused at the beam, screaming and gibbering at him. More curses, but he dismissed them as he scuttled away, watching her warily.

Until he sensed something behind him.

A smashing blow, like that of a giant whip, slapped his leg, shot pain clear to the top of his head. At the same time, claws like red-hot nails sank into his neck. Strong arms leaned on the claws to shove him flat.

The whip came again, low, raking his knee. Sunbright squirmed to get under the claws without kneeling or being squashed on his belly, helpless. He couldn't swing Harvester behind him, nor free Dorlas's warhammer from his belt without dropping his sword, so he fought otherwise.

Sidestepping, he rammed his right elbow backward with all his strength. Something grunted and let go of his neck.

Slinging Harvester before him, Sunbright whirled and struck hard at whatever had attacked.

It was a black silhouette against distant daylight, but he recognized the pointed head, barbed spine and tail and knees. A barbed fiend, poised to strike.

But first came such a rush of fear that the barbarian paused for a near-fatal second. He didn't want to die, or suffer, to feel pain or be flayed alive or… Thoughts of death and mutilation rattled in his head, overwhelming him.

Yet part of him stayed cool, for he knew the fear to be induced by this creature. Another part recalled he'd fought these things by the dozens in the Nine Hells. One was not much threat.

Biting on his fear and swallowing it, still hampered by the low ceiling, he braced his off foot far back, took aim, and swung Harvester in a sizzling arc.

Overconfident with its spells and fearsome appearance, the barbed monstrosity was unprepared for an attack. Harvester's heavy tip slammed into the fiend's side directly below the armpit, where the heart would be in a human.

Sunbright didn't know if he struck the creature's heart or not, or even if it had one, but he proceeded as if he had. Twisting Harvester in the deep wound, he set the hook in the fiend's armpit and yanked. He expected a shower of blood, but got instead a gout of reddish glop like lava. Still, it was bloody enough. Hopping sideways and shoving, he plied Harvester like a pry bar to thrust the creature down, then leaned with all his might. If he could, he'd puncture the thing, run it through until Harvester bit dust.

But instead he stumbled forward, crashed to his knees, and almost sliced his own forearm. The fiend had disappeared.

As he should. Without looking back, he turned to bolt for the exit.

Teeth sank into his upper arm from behind.

The fangs were cold, biting to the bone. He felt his heart jump at the frosty touch. He had to get free.

Jumping, he grazed a beam with his head and wrenched his arm loose, losing skin and muscle in the process. The night hag hissed in frustration. Spinning, he found her racing to claw out his eyes, his blood bright on her long fangs and pointed chin.

A new wave of emotion flooded him. Not fear, but anger. He didn't know if it were induced or not: madness to cloud his thinking. But something within him snapped. This monster had probed his mind to find his utmost desire, then perverted it to lure him close and feast on his blood and meat. It was no more deceptive than a fox giving a rabbit's cry, he knew, but still it enraged him to have his mind raped.

Howling, forgetting even his sword, he swung his left fist and smashed the hag in the face. He struck her long nose, and broke it, pounding it flat. Another punch bashed her upper lip, snapping a long fang loose. A third in the throat gagged her. Sunbright howled, cursed, and raged incoherently, months of pent-up anger flooding from him, driving his fist to smash again and again. He could barely see for a red mist before his eyes and knew he'd keep pounding until the hag was black pulp on the mine floor.

But suddenly his fist struck dirt, then again.

Shaking his head, cursing feebly, he cast about for the hag. All he saw was a dark gray mist low to the ground that slowly trickled back into the black depths of the mine.

Shivering with cold and blood loss and the aftermath of battle fury, the barbarian turned and dragged himself outside, toward the sunlight and realm of humankind.

He emerged, squinting, into dim sunlight, only to find a war party awaiting him.

Grimy and blood-spattered, the warrior hefted Harvester in one fist. The easy way he toted the weapon gave the war party pause. There were nine in all, six orcs and three men. Five wore gray tunics with a familiar red splayed hand painted on the breasts. The others wore red armbands on both arms.

The lead orc, with a red-hand placard on his rusty helmet, asked, "What do you in there?"

Sunbright hawked and spit dust. "I stabbed a barbed fiend and smashed in the face of a night hag. Now, step aside."

They stepped aside.

Warrior's instinct on the alert, the barbarian didn't walk through them to invite a stab in the back. Rather, he stooped and picked up his blanket roll, satchel, and bow and quiver with one hand, then sidled around the party. A stream ran between the hills not far off, and he made his way toward it. This was climbing country east of Netheril, the farthest east he'd ever gone, discounting journeys to the netherworld. In eight months of searching, he'd quartered a goodly portion of the known lands, and some unknown. Only in these reaches, though, had he found a semblance of peace, for the hills reminded him of the foothills of the Barren Mountains above the Great Forest.

Stomping through yellow grass and buttercups-it was again late summer, with autumn's breath in the morning mists-he hopped to a rock to vault the small stream, set down his baggage, then placed Harvester flat on the grass close at hand. If the orcs and orc-men crossed the stream, he decided, he'd kill those he could and run. If they stayed on their own side, he'd leave them be, That they were nine and he one didn't bother him much: he'd faced bigger odds and survived. He'd remain wary but calm and in control.

It occurred to him, like a distant song, that as a lad he'd dreamed of returning to his tribe someday, a tall, scarred, confident warrior who feared nothing. Somewhere in his journeys, he'd become that man. And someday, he knew now, he would return, to settle old scores and rejoin his people.

After he found Greenwillow.

Scooching, not kneeling, he washed his hands and face and drank from his palms of the cold, clean water. Too, he watched the war party descend the slope, talking among themselves. They argued loudly, where conspirators would have whispered, so they probably were peaceful enough. But he didn't stray far from Harvester.

Keeping to their side of the stream, out of weapon's reach, they clustered behind their leader. Without preamble, the orc said, "One of us went inside and saw the tracks. You are a mighty warrior."

Two years back, Sunbright would have grinned cockily. Now he just smoothed his hair through his topknot. He knew what he was, no matter what others thought.

"You should join us," continued the leader, a hunchbacked orc with a gray muzzle, old to be campaigning. The others were a mix of seasoned and green. Two of the men appeared to be father and son. The last had scars enough to be a warrior. "We journey to the camp of the Lich Lord to join his army. It will be the mightiest army ever formed and will conquer the world from sea to sea. Now is the time to join, to share the glory and receive a goodly portion of land and wealth in the aftermath of peace."

There was no fool like an old fool, Sunbright thought. Joining a madman's army to grow rich and retire. The barbarian had already guessed their purpose, since they'd painted themselves with smeary homemade renditions of the Red Hand banner. But as he scrubbed dirt from Harvester's blade, he said, "I've heard of the Lich Lord's army. Do you really think following an undead ghoul will lead to peace?"