Hearing the warning and alarm from Caer-Konig’s shieldmaid about the attack of the orcs, Søngberg advocates altering course in order to aid the people of Ten Towns. Eira and Nevena are unswayed and convince their dwarf companion to avoid this diversion. Ardemis too is more concerned with settling his own score in Targos than battling orcs. If it is only a raid, they will have wasted much time and effort for very little gain. If it is a larger scale attack, what truly can they offer to a desperate situation?
The people of Bryn Shander already know Eira, Nevena, and Søngberg to be mighty heroes who have slain a dread Ice Hag, buried the troll-father Grendel, and silenced the wailing banshees of the Seldarine Tower. They would surely seek all the help they can get against the orcs of the Great Glacier. Hoping to avoid this pressure, Nevena leads the group to the south around Bryn Shander entirely, stepping warily around human and orc scouts alike. Tracks in the snow reveal that both are out on the prowl.
The proximity of scouts means the drums of war cannot be far behind. They all agree to press on through the night without rest, leaving Bryn Shander in the darkness behind them. A few miles outside of Targos, the weather worsens. Nevena and Søngberg agree this change is supernatural. The wind picks up to a storm’s strength, the temperature falls, and an oncoming snow drives down. Though they reach Targos, the blizzard does not abate. Something at the gate is waiting for them, its mind joins with theirs and speaks into their heads with a voice that is calm, genderless, and eternal,
“Turn back. Leave this place.”
Søngberg and Nevena ask questions of the presence. Through the whipping snow in the torch-lit dimness, only a robed figure can be made out. Their questions are turned aside, again they are asked to leave.
“I’ve seen your kind before. Time and time again. Every fleeing man must be caught. Every secret must be unearthed. Such is the conceit of self-proclaimed seekers of truth. But in the end, you lack the stomach for the agony you’ll bring on yourself.”
Insistent, they beg admittance to Targos. Again. Leave. The robed figure reveals that it is armed with a large sword. Turn back. The obstinate Nevena draws the figure’s ire with her refusals; in reply it surrounds them all in a fearsome cage of light. The figure throws off its robe, revealing itself to be a glorious, celestial angel. Its wings are spattered in blood, it wears a shining mantle, terrific and splendid to behold. It is the Angel Salvation. Nevena wears a stray feather from this being in her very hair. It killed her father. This night, it will kill her as well. The angel’s wrath takes the form of holy fire that issues in a beam from its sword. It ensures them all that their …
“… heroism here will be no more than a chapter in a tale of submission”.
One by one, the angel cuts down Nevena and Søngberg. When Ardemis dares to raise his arcane hand against it, unleashing a bolt of lighting, the angel decrees,
“No weapon formed against me shall prosper.”
Eira makes a final stand against the divine foe, her warrior’s instincts made nearly peerless by the Hammer of Tempus in her hands. She and the angel trade blows as Eira’s life is spared several times over by the unassailable boon of the Battlelord. Frustrated and sensing the power of the hammer, Salvation seizes Eira and carries her aloft, high into the polar gyre of the blizzard. Eira crashes several more blows into the being before it yanks the hammer from her grasp, leaving the woman to plummet, defeated 200 feet down to the hard surface of Faerûn.
Eira Ironvale, wielder of Myrnoch, lies broken and lifeless in the snow.
Nevena, the green elf of the north, enemy of Salvation is dead and run through at Eira’s side.
Beside them both lies Songberg Mountainsun of the Mirabar Mountainsuns.
He too is slain by the sword of Salvation.