In “the five hundred and first year of the Age of Ruin,” the line between good and evil is so diminished that most are convinced it no longer exists. It’s every man for himself, and every woman as well, whether he hails from filthy Dorminia or she from lavish Thelassa. To wit, heroes and villains are artifacts of the past; fossils of a sort, all frail and friable... which is damn near a definition of the way Brodar Kayne has been feeling recently.
The so-called Sword of the North has “killed more demonkin than he could count, dire wolves and trolls by the dozen. Even a giant that had wandered down from the Spin the autumn just past.” He knows, though, that his monster-slaying days are numbered. The years have taken their toll, of course; he’s grown “old and weak: that was the truth.” Yet as inescapable as his increasing weakness is, Kayne thinks he has one last mission in him.