Deep in the Wildlands and south of the Ironwood, a lone man rode a grey stallion.  With his fiery-red hair, fur cloak, long fur boots, long wool kirtle of a green hue, and thick leather belt, Munzil was the perfect image of an Ilarchae warrior.  Like many of his brethren inhabiting the Wildlands, he wore no breeches and kept his hair tied behind his head with a strap of leather pierced by a bone needle.  And, of course, he carried weapons: a knife in his left boot, an axe tucked into his belt, and a broad sword in a scabbard at his side.  Of average size for an Ilarchae man, he knew from his travels that he would have impressed folk elsewhere as a large and intimidating figure.  But Munzil was not like most other Ilarchae, a fact that presented itself to him every day in the waking world.

To begin with, he was alone.

Being alone meant he had to be wary.  Munzil was long used to watching his own back.  He had not survived this long by being a fool.  Not that it made him feel any easier now.  He was entering the territory of the Blood Spears, a tribe known for their ferocity and bravery  The Blood Spears were among the largest tribes of the Ilarchae in the Wildlands, and they had won great renown in battle over the years.  Tales of their warriors' deeds reached the ears of the other tribes, and the cry of their war horns inspired fear and confusion in their foes.  Yet, if what Munzil had heard proved true, none of these facts would save them.

He had come to see for himself.  If the rumors did not err, this could be the time.  The man they spoke of could be the one.  Munzil had to see him first to know.  He needed to see the man in action.  The coming battle was an opportunity to do just that, and he had ridden many miles through many dangers to witness it.

In order to avoid capture by other tribes, he had stayed closer to the Ironwood than most would have dared.  Any number of things on its fringes - wolves, nightgangers, trolls, aglaks, elves, or one of the forest's lonely, twisted monsters - could have killed him.  But the gods had spared him.  Most would have feared the dreaded Ironwood too much to undertake such a journey, but death could take nothing from Munzil.  In whatever form it came, he would greet it like an old friend.

Several days ago, when he reckoned he rode nigh the territory of the Blood Spears, he had turned south toward the lands in which folk dwelled.  Since then he had met not one living soul.  Plenty of the dead, though.

Three villages of the Blood Spears he had ridden through, each like the others: burned to the ground and filled with corpses.  The stench of war was familiar enough to Munzil - the smoke and the rotting bodies - as was the gathering of carrion crows and buzzing flies all over the slain.  He did not mind the company of the dead.  The lone god, Siedvar, would see to them all, as he had so many Munzil had known over the years.  In fact, each village's charred ruins had brought a grim smile to his lips.  He might be the one.  He just might.

It had been easy to make his way toward the brewing conflict.  The burned out villages were like an arrow pointing in the right direction, a trail of death leading to his destination.  And now, on the horizon, Munzil could make out the gathering of crows and the four columns of smoke promising battle.  Not yet begun, perhaps.  At least it not over yet.  He dug his heels into the horse's side, and it sped into a gallop.  Time to see if the tales are true.  Lets see what the man's made of.