The Hesitant Blade of Amn: Chapter 1

''“My adventures in Faerun have been all but pleasant, and since the destruction of my homeland, I have been in a great turmoil with not only the strange and unsettling beings I have encountered here, but with myself, probably my greatest enemy. The hesitation to do wrong and the drive to perform virtuous feats are, what I have come to realize, as actions to cover up the self-reproach that I am dealing with. When the mysterious mage that identified himself as Sorin cast the meteor upon my world, I came to realize later that I had to power to stop him. It all lied in a small stone within my pouch. “-''Hector’s Monologue, Kythorn of 1479 DR

Hector’s breath enters and leaves his body in heavy gasps and branches and small twigs snap underneath his feet as he runs through the moderately open terrain. His pursuers are on his tail, but they are unable to gain any ground on him. Hector is a sailor and the years on the open sea has given him many opportunities to swim, probably the best form of endurance training. His body is in peak shape, and the hostiles that follow behind him consist of two goblins, a kobold, and a chained Maztecian slave, all of which are not known for their endurance, or, in the case of the slave, are only as fast as their weakest link.

However, the barrier of mountains and volcanos is what stops Hector. The Small Teeth mountain range stretches as far as the eye can see and Hector may have been able to outrun his pursuers in open terrain, but he knowns that he can’t out climb them. He stops and turns to his foes.

The hunting party stops and bends over to catch their breath; one of the goblins looks as if they are ready to collapse. After a few short moments, the kobold, whom is wrapped in a dark cloak with poorly concealed daggers underneath, speaks. “You have nowhere left to run. Heading into Muranndin is as good as a death sentence!"

Hector paces a few steps to the right and unsheathes a slightly curved blade. He twirls it in his hand and feels how perfectly balanced the sword is in his palm. Before he entered Faerun, his weapon of choice was the rapier, but once he discovered the scimitar, he has rarely ever used another weapon. It is as light as a shortsword, but as precise as a rapier, and he is able to make fluid slashing movements, a type of fighting style which her prefers. Almost on instinct, Hector is already searching every enemy for its vitals; he notes where their chest rises and falls from their heavy breathing and the location that their heart beats. His training with his recent instructors has revealed to him not only the locations that kill swiftly but the areas that hurt tremendously.

Although Hector knows the answer he still asks “What do you want with me? I want nothing to do with you.” The longer Hector can stall, the longer he gets to develop his strategy.

The slave bangs his spear on the ground and mutters a string of his native language, to what sounds like gibberish to Hector.

Hector redirects his direction and takes a few paces to the left. “Now you're using your slaves for your dirty work. It disgusts me really,” he says absently still analyzing his foes.

The lizardfolk lets out a slight chuckle. “Possessions are meant to be used; it is no different than that blade you wield.”

Hector returns the laugh. “If this blade was sentient then I would let it do as it wishes, however I believe it would enjoy slaying those like yourself.”

“This man can barely think for himself, he can't even get his name right, something a practitioner of magic can teach their dogs!”

“Then why don't you test the loyalty of your slaves, “countered Hector.

“Possessions don’t have loyalty you fool!”

This last remark greatly irritates Hector. He raises his scimitar eye level with the lizardfolk. “Stop blabbing and get on with what you came here for!”

“As you wish!” The kobold looks to his goblin companions and orders “Kill him and bring him back to the master!”

The two goblins advance on Hector who waits for the perfect moment to strike. When the goblins are within five feet, he takes a quick step forward and slashes the throat of the first, and, in a blur, he is already on top of the other one, piercing it through the torso, through the vital spot he has been observing the entire time.

The kobold roars in anger and hides behind his slave. “Kill him you mangy bastard!” he tells the slave.

Hector makes eye contact with the Maztecian, and gives a slight nod, but the slave only cocks his head in confusion. The kobold yanks his chain, signaling for the slave to attack. On command, the Maztecian raises his spear and hurls it with deadly precision, but the swashbuckler easily sidesteps the attack.

Hector reaches into his pack and pulls out a weapon of his own. He doesn’t want to kill the slave, for he doesn’t deserve it. Besides, killing these slaves is why he left his refuge in Athkatla anyway. He brings forth a jar of sand, bought from the markets of Calimshan. The sand is multicolored and has a scent that could put the most robust beasts to sleep; in Calimshan, it is called slumber sand.

Behind Hector, a thunderous reverberation pervades the air as a great plume of smoke rises from the Small Teeth mountains. Hector looks behind him nervously, but instantly redirects his attention back to his aggressors.

The kobold lets out a shrill laugh. “Did you forget how to fight or are you afraid of my slave? Does even he outclass you?”

Hector smirks and tosses the sand a couple inches from his palm and lets it fall back into his hand. “Oh, I’m not even trying, “with this remark, he pitches the jar of sand at the slave who fails to dodge it, not because he is unreactive, but because the enormous chain around his neck hinders his movement. The jar shatters across his skull, and the scent of the slumber sand puts him soundly to sleep.

The kobold looks at his slave in astonishment and indignantly throws down the chain. “I will take him myself then,” the kobold draws a dagger from under his cloak.

This time, Hector takes the initiative. He sprints at the kobold, and takes an unsuspected tumble to the right of the creature, slashing with his scimitar at a surprising angle. However, the kobold’s small size gets the best of Hector, for he weaves around the scimitar, not with ease, but with luck. Hector rolls to his feet with his back turned to the kobold, and the little dragonkin, seeing this as an opportunity, attempts to backstab Hector, but the swashbuckler whirls around the dagger and its wielder and ends up behind the kobold, where he smacks him with his pommel.

The earth rocks violently and distracts both combatants from their fight as a large fiery hunk of rock slams into the earth not twenty meters away. Both Hector and the kobold stare at it in awe.

“This fight is over. If we stay here, we will both die,” says Hector to the kobold who nods his head in agreement.

They turn around to see another object fall from the sky, not a rock, but a winged elf. The injured creature is barely able to stand, but he is able to spit out the words “Dragon. Destroyed my city. The army of Muranndin is upon us!”

“Muranndin? They wouldn't dare venture into your lands and break their treaty!” shouts the kobold.

But, before the kobold can utter another sentence, a fiery boulder crushes him, drawing from him the life Hector was going to spare.

Hector hears a roar from behind him, and he looks over his shoulder to see an army of giants and goblinoids making their way to him. He picks up the Myztechian slave and makes his retreat back into the heart of Amn with the winged elf right on his heels.