Gentle eyes, floppy red hair, that adorable stammer. How long had Arrow said the Harpers would be gone for, a couple of weeks? Instead it had been months and where were they? She knew that the ranger had received letters from her adopted family but she would not share all of the content with Imoen. Some sort of secretive Harper business presumably. At least she had not seemed unduly worried that they had not returned to the city yet. That must mean that Khalid wasn't in danger. Though unfortunately it probably meant that Jaheira wasn't in danger either.
"Oh no, I didn't really mean that!" Imoen whispered quietly to herself, though there was nobody there to hear her.
She didn't really want anything bad to happen to Jaheira. Only for she and Khalid to wake up one morning, realise they were wrong for each other. Then the druid could happily dance off into the wood somewhere and never ever come back. She ducked under the covers and pressed her lips to the back of her own hand, imagining Khalid's face.
Ever since Arrow had turned up in Baldur's Gate with the news that Khalid and his wife would follow shortly after, Imoen had been unable to banish these sorts of fantasies. Of course it was hopeless. For whatever incomprehensible reason, Khalid was utterly devoted to his aggressive, nagging wife. His loyalty only made Imoen want him more. Yet knowing that they could never be together filled her with a gut-wrenching despair.
There wasn't even anyone she could really talk about it with. Freya had never met Khalid or Jaheira, and she did not dare to confide in Arrow. The Ilmatari ranger had views about marriage that seemed to have become rather more rigid in the time that they had travelled apart. More than that Arrow, who had not had a close relationship with Gorion, had come to view the half-elves as her adopted family. Imoen doubted she would appreciate hearing that she wished her father would leave her mother.
As she moved her hand away from her mouth with the intention of enjoying some personal time, Imoen thought she heard a shuffling noise. She froze. An occupational hazard of being nobility, which would never have occurred to her before, was the total lack of privacy. Domestic staff of both genders would come wandering into her room entirely without warning. Once, a pair of them had bustled in to tend the fireplace without knocking, while Imoen was flat out on the bed with a hairbrush handle between her thighs. She had been mortified, but they had simply ignored her, carrying on their business like she wasn't there and expecting her to do the same. When she had expressed her… confusion… the servants were at a loss to understand the problem. Apparently, this sort of thing happened all the time. It was as if nobles and peasants saw each other as a different species.
Keen to avoid a repeat of such an incident, she pulled down her nightgown and stepped out to investigate. There was nobody in the corridor, yet she was sure that she had heard something. At the end of the hallway a window was open and a curtain was moving, though the fabric was heavy and there was no wind. As she watched it, it swung to a stop. Strange.
She was sure she must be being silly and yet, she was scared. Her eyes darted to the door of Freya's bedroom. When they had been kids in Candlekeep they had shared a room, except on the nights leading up to full moon. Freya was so strong and confident that she had always relied on her to check under the bed for monsters. This was not entirely paranoia on young Imoen's part. Gorion had adopted multiple wards, all of whom were now dead except for Freya and Arowan. One of them had been a half orc who liked to collect 'exotic pets,' and another was a budding necromancer who practised on rodents. So, in fact, it had frequently transpired that there really were monsters under the beds. And Freya, being a monster herself, had always dealt with them for her.
She was not a child now but, feeling rather foolish, she rapped gently on Freya's door and let herself in.
"Hey Freya are you awake? It's me, Imoen."
Freya had not been awake, but she immediately sprang up in alarm. Imoen had known that the Hero of Baldur's Gate had taken to sleeping in full armour lately. This was for fear of a wizard stalking her, whom they referred to as the Hooded Man. What she had not known was that she also went to bed with her swords in hand. The six-foot-three semi-conscious woman slashed in a frantic, disorientated sort of way.
"Freya!" protested Imoen, flinging herself back into the wall out of the way of the slicing metal.
Freya's grey eyes shot open. For a moment she stared at the pink haired girl, panting and feral. Her long blonde hair was strewn in wild tangles over her face. It was disconcerting to see the Hero of Baldur's Gate so shaken.
"I- Imoen?" she gasped weakly. As she woke up properly, she seemed to get a grip on herself. "Don't do that. I almost transformed. What is it? Is something wrong?"
"I don't know. That's the problem," Imoen replied cryptically.
"What's with the whispery mystical voice all of a sudden?" demanded Freya, standing on the bed and folding her arms.
She cocked her head to one side and looked at Imoen in an evaluating sort of way. The pink-haired girl knew that look and groaned inwardly. When they were children, two Selunite monks from the monastery in Athkatla had come to live in Candlekeep, at Gorion's invitation. Their job was to help Freya to control her lycanthropy. This had required over a decade of therapy, as were-infections were not easily controlled. An unfortunate side-effect of being raised by therapists was that every so often she would try to inappropriately psychoanalyse people. Imoen found it a bothersome habit.
"Ever since you started studying magic with Duke Janneth you've been talking weird," Freya went on. "Is it because you feel insecure about starting your magical studies relatively late and you're over compensating by trying to sound the part? Or is it a subconscious expression of your fear of failure?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Imoen sniffily.
"Well knock it off," said Freya, jumping down from the bed with a cocky grin. Now that she had woken up properly her normal bravado was returning. "It's getting on my nerves."
Imoen said something distinctly unmystical in reply. Of all the Bhaalspawn that Gorion had brought to Candlekeep, Freya had always been her best friend. It made her a bit guilty to think of this because all of them had thought they were her best friend. This was because, until recently, the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn had been totally unaware of each other's existence. Their father's memory spells had tricked almost everybody, including the Bhaalspawn themselves, into believing that they were all one person.
It had led to some bizarre situations, but with Gorion's death the truth had gradually emerged. Sadly her childhood friends had perished one by one. Only Freya, the Hero of Baldur's Gate, and Arrow remained. Imoen worried about Arrow a lot. Stronger, cleverer and more likeable Candlekeep Bhaalspawn than her had all gone to their early graves. Or would have done if Bhaalspawn had graves. Unlike Freya, there was nothing special about Arowan that would keep her alive where the others had been slaughtered. It preyed on Imoen's mind.
"Maybe I'm just jumpy because of what's been going on in the city. There are so many people here running from that crusade in the North" sighed Imoen. "I heard noises coming from outside my room. I was worried something was happening."
"Noises?" Freya barked, "What kind of noises?"
Freya reverted back to panicked mode. Imoen knew what she was thinking. For three months there had been no sign of the Hooded Man but she had not forgotten what he had done to their dead brother. It made Imoen nervous too. The Hero of Baldur's Gate was a werewolf, armed with the best equipment gold could buy and with abilities drastically enhanced by magical tomes. There was not much in Faerun that frightened her, but this Hooded Man had her petrified.
"Footsteps. Maybe muttering. It was probably just a servant. Hells, now I feel silly," Imoen admitted. "Wait! There it is again, do you hear that? I'm going to go check it out."
"No, I can't hear anything, but I can smell people!" said Freya urgently. She looked around the room but there was nobody there. "They're not guards or servants. I don't recognise them. Stay here Imoen, and don't come out unless I say!"
Swords readied, Freya padded into the hallway that separated her bedroom from the one that Imoen and Arrow shared. The pair of them had been given the floor above Duke Silvershield's which was usually reserved for visiting ambassadors. Freya got the second room to herself as a matter of practicality. Half of the room was lavishly furnished and decorated, but the other half had been stripped bare. Where the second bed would normally have been, the Grand Dukes had installed a steel pole set in concrete. Thick dwarf-forged chains were draped around it. A reminder to Freya, both of the looming spectre of full moon and the fact that her new allies did not really trust her. Understandable. Some days she did not really trust herself.
There was nobody in the hall or in the other bedroom, but the nose did not lie. Sensitive smell was a constant for Freya in both forms, but directional smell required her to be a wolf. It was a concept that she had some difficulty in getting the Flaming Fist to understand on their missions to root out the last of Sarevok's supporters. As a human she could smell 'what.' Only as a canine could she smell 'where.'
"Freya!" cried Imoen from the other room, "Something is happening! There are people here- help me!"
"Imoen!" yelled Freya, sprinting back into the bedroom, where four assassins had emerged from the shadows. They were surrounding her friend, cruel daggers drawn. One of them was dripping with poison.
"Stay back, stay back or I'll…" screamed Imoen. They did not stay back. One of the assassins lunged with his blade and a half-summoned missile in the mage's hand fizzled out. She gave a wail and collapsed as the daggers sliced into her arm. They were only flesh wounds but the poison was potent and she passed out almost instantly.
"The Bhaalspawn is here! Take them!" cried one, spotting Freya.
"I'll wipe your filthy lineage right out of the realms!" hissed a second.
"Wait! This is the wrong one!" cried a third anxiously. "This is the werewolf, we have to get out of-"
He never got chance to finish his sentence, before Freya's sword sliced open his throat. He collapsed in a fountain of blood and she cursed inwardly. The smell of human blood would linger in the wood for months. She would have to sleep somewhere else from now on.
Two more assassins ran at her at once with their poisoned daggers, but their skill was no match for her sheer strength. They ducked and wove but before they could get close enough to strike she lashed out in a great arc with both swords at once. Against a normal opponent the move could have been parried, but Freya was both a lycanthrope and had a body enhanced by magical tomes stolen for her by Gorion. Their daggers were swept irresistibly from their hands and the two swords buried into one abdomen each. She pulled them out, and the assassins crumpled to the floor. They were still moaning. Swords to the gut were invariably fatal without a healer, but they took a long time to kill. Freya put them out of their misery, hoping that when her own time came the warrior who bested her would do her the same courtesy.
That left one more. They were hiding in shadows again waiting to backstab her.
"Well this was pointless!" growled Freya. "Did the Hooded Man send you? I suppose Arowan was your target? He must have known you'd never be able to take me like this."
"She was, but you're just as good!" hissed the assassin directly behind her. He gave away his position because, like his fellows, he had underestimated her strength. Normally a backward stab with a sword would require the wielder to bring their arm forward first to get some momentum. The assassin was banking on her not having time to do this before he struck. Unluckily for him, with her artificially enhanced body, Freya could skewer him from a standing-start. He dropped the dagger that he had been about to plunge into her back, blinking in agony and disbelief at the bastard sword upon which he found himself impaled. With barely a grunt of effort, Freya pulled it out and he collapsed to the floor.
"Still think that my metal pyjamas are paranoid Imoen?" she growled. There was no reply. "Imoen? Immy?"
"Freya! Are you here? The palace is under attack and… oh hells." A scowling woman with short brown hair thrust her way into the room. She was wearing the Flaming Fist insignia on her armour. It was a symbol that Freya normally welcomed the sight of. Except on Captain Corwin…
"Yeah I'm still alive," snarled Freya. "Don't look too disappointed."
"You alright?" Corwin asked, in a tone that made it clear that she'd prefer the answer to be 'no.'
"Imoen needs a healer!" barked Freya.
"A healer should be on their way," replied Corwin indifferently, making no effort to check whether a healer actually was coming. It crossed Freya's mind that if she were to quickly stab the stuck up cow with a fallen assassin's dagger, nobody would be able to prove that she hadn't been killed by one of them. "The palace has been penetrated," Corwin went on, redundantly. "I tried to reach you before they did but… well."
Freya gave her a sarcastic smile. It wasn't exactly that Corwin had no legitimate reason to dislike her. Admittedly, originally, the fault had been hers. Before the fall of Sarevok, Coran had been tricked by Skie's revolting boyfriend Eldoth into putting on an enchanted girdle, turning him into a woman. Corana's brief existence had resulted in many unfortunate consequences. The worst being that 'she' and Freya had slept together, earning Safana's eternal enmity. However, in addition to this, their efforts to cure him had involved burgling Duke Silvershield and tricking Corwin. Their actions had shed Corwin in a bad light and earned her a temporary demotion.
So, to be fair, Freya could not blame Corwin for the fact that they had got off on the wrong foot. Yet it had been funny, months had gone by and since then she had been fully vindicated and promoted to Captain. Despite this, Corwin continued to speak to Freya as though she were something she had scraped from the sole of her boot. The wolf had tried to be friendly, she had tried to make amends, but Corwin had a stick wedged so far up her arse that even Freya was not strong enough to dislodge it.
"My friend is hurt," said Freya tersely. "Would you please go and get a healer?"
"The palace cleric will be here soon," said Corwin, idly inspecting her fingernails. "He's working his way up. Healing the sick as he goes. Of course, I realise that the lives of a few dozen guards with families to feed are not as important as a friend of the Hero of Baldur's Gate." Freya winced. She was not fond of that title, but she particularly disliked the way Corwin said it. "Your friend doesn't look too bad."
There was a crackle of energy and a dimension gate opened. Out of it stepped Duke Janneth, flanked by a pair of uninjured guards. Freya liked this Duke. She had been mentoring Imoen, teaching her how to spell sling. She was happy for her. Imoen had always wanted to be a mage but Gorion, who couldn't stand the sight of Imoen, had refused to pay for her tutor. Freya tried to shake that thought from her head. She had loved her adopted father Gorion, and she loved Imoen. Yet there was no denying that while she had been his little princess, he had treated his only real daughter very badly indeed. Freya tried not to think about that. Doggy love tends to be unconditional, and the canine in Freya did not cope well with conflicting loyalties.
The instant Duke Janneth entered the room, eyes full of concern for her stricken student, Corwin's whole demeanour altered drastically. Instead of callous indifference, suddenly the Captain was on her knees beside Imoen, stroking back her pink hair with one hand and holding her fingers with the other. Freya had to fight down a snarl.
"The assassins' blades are coated with a mystic poison," said Janneth, "But I believe I can save her."
"Oh, thank the gods!" cried Corwin. Freya's fist clenched and unclenched. She was really hamming it up for the Duke's benefit. Had she even managed to summon some fake tears? Duke Janneth smiled at the Captain reassuringly. Thinking of how transparently uncaring Corwin had been before her superior entered the room, Freya felt a prickle of fur start to erupt down her back. It had been a difficult morning.
She closed her eyes, focussed on Selune, and took in a deep meditating breath. That was a mistake. It filled her nostrils with the scent of fresh blood. Shit. Focus! Breathing in counting slowly… and out on six. In and out. Ignore Corwin. When she opened her steely grey eyes again the fur had retreated. Nobody else seemed to have noticed her brief lapse. All of their attention was on Imoen.
"What can I do?" asked Freya in a constricted voice. The Duke looked up at her pityingly.
"The best thing you can do right now is to accompany Captain Corwin downstairs and ensure that the palace is secure," she replied kindly. Freya nodded and saluted reflexively. Though she was not a member of the Flaming Fist, she had been around soldiers continually for months on end. She was starting to pick up some of their habits.
"Of course mi'lady," said Corwin. She rose from Imoen's side and, with her back to the Duke, shot Freya a look that wished the other woman nothing but ill. Freya followed her. Before they rounded the corner of the red velvet staircase, she gripped Corwin's arm to stop her. The Captain glared at her furiously. She opened her mouth as if to shout at her, but Freya shook her head.
"Let me go first," whispered Freya. "There are more of them down there I can smell them."
Corwin nodded and notched an arrow in her bow. The werewolf charged into the room ahead of her. She did not entirely trust the Captain not to accidentally-on-purpose shoot her in the back, but this was the suite that Skie shared with her father. Freya was not about to risk any harm coming to her.
Fortunately, the Silvershields were not in their apartments but the intruders were punished severely for their choice of target. Both Freya and Corwin would protect the Silvershields at all costs. It was one of the very few things that they could both agree on, and soon the assassins were lying in pools of blood on the floor.
"I'll check the rooms in case there are more of them," sneered Corwin, sweeping into the Duke's room while two of the guards went to inspect Skie's. "You stay out here. There are important documents in here and you're not to be trusted."
They strode away, leaving the werewolf to look idly around the room. As always, her eyes were drawn to an enormous gold-framed portrait at the head of the table. A long-deceased Flaming Fist general, who bore a striking resemblance to the current Duke Silvershield, stood with his hands rested on the shoulders of a doe-eyed young harpist. Maire Silvershield. She had died long before Freya was a twinkle in the god of murder's eye, and yet she owed the Duchess a great debt.
Freya ground her back teeth but she did not have long to savour her irritation at Captain Corwin. As soon as the Flaming Fist were inside the rooms, more assassins stepped out of the shadows and kicked the doors shut, trapping them inside. Freya was left in Silvershield's dining hall as they advanced on her around his magnificent twelve-seater oak dining table.
"Alright, alright!" cried Freya. "We can do this, but just try to die tidily ok? Silvershield is already mad at me for getting mud on his Evereskan wool rug. He won't thank me for adding bloodstains!"
The assassins ignored her, but from Freya's perspective this was a genuine concern. She sheathed her swords and ripped a leg from the table (not realising that it cost far more than the carpet) to bludgeon them with without leaving stains. There were three of them. The first two fell at the swing of her makeshift club, but she managed to dodge the third's blade and catch her by the scruff of the neck.
"Who are you working for?" Freya bellowed.
"Fuck you, you disgusting freak!" the assassin replied in an Amnian accent, spitting in her face. Freya's eyes narrowed once more. The assassin might have been referring to her lycanthropy. She might have meant that she was a Bhaalspawn. Yet Freya's experience with Amnians led her to suspect differently. After she received her bite as a little girl, Gorion had hired two monks from the Selunite monastery in Athkatla to help her to control her transformations. Selune was the patron goddess of non-evil lycanthropes and in fairness they had done their job well. She could control her condition… more or less… but when the subject of dating had started to come up in the therapy sessions, she had discovered that attitudes to gender roles were rather more rigid in the South.
"I'm going to ask one more time," sighed Freya. "I won't ask a third. Who are you working for?"
"I serve the Shining Lady, bitch!" replied the assassin. 'Bitch,' directed at a female werewolf was a particularly offensive term, and the woman had not really answered her question. The gods would surely not fault her for sending her to the afterlife after her colleagues. Nevertheless, Freya snatched her weapons, freed the Flaming Fist Officers from Skie's bedroom and handed her over to them.
"With me!" she ordered. "We need to make sure Skie is alright."
She took the stairs three at a time with the guards behind her, dragging the captured assassin. The werewolf smiled at the sound of muffled banging behind her. She had 'accidentally' neglected to release Captain Corwin from the Duke's study.
The Dukes of Baldur's Gate, all four of them, were waiting on the ground floor. Duke Janneth, who must have teleported from Imoen's side, mouthed "she's ok!" Flaming Fist officers swarmed around them like ants protecting their queen. The room was regally decorated with gold leaf decorations and grand portraits of past leaders of the city. Since Freya's arrival, some of the fancier furnishings had been placed into storage. She was not good at remembering to wipe her boots on the way in and out, and the once-red velvet carpet that lined the stairs to her room was now a mottled brown. The Dukes were safe, but it was not them that the werewolf cared about. Panic welled in her chest as her eyes swept the room.
"Skie? Where's Skie?" Freya called urgently.
"I'm right here silly!" laughed Skie, popping out of one of the side rooms. She ran out to the Hero of Baldur's Gate, as light on her feet as a ballerina. Freya pulled her into a relieved hug, and the young heiress petted her golden hair affectionately.
Skie smiled, revelling in the raised eyebrows moments like this provoked. She did prefer men, it was true, though if she were to date a woman Freya would certainly be her girl of choice. Tall, strong and widely held to be one of the most stunning individuals that the sword coast had ever produced… if only she were male! Yet despite this obvious limitation, there were some definite perks to the whole city knowing that Freya was in love with her.
Skie herself had been aware of this for a long time, but it became public knowledge when, on the night of Sarevok's election to Grand Duke, he had invited doppelgangers to the celebration party. Freya had saved her father from their assault, but one of the monsters had held back from the main fight. After the battle was lost, it had cunningly taken on Skie's features and kissed Freya in an apparent spontaneous gesture of gratitude. Right before stabbing the werewolf through the stomach.
Though at first Skie had felt rather embarrassed and sorry for Freya, she soon began to find that the incident had elevated her own social standing. Her father was somewhat unpopular these days, whereas the Hero of Baldur's Gate was adored by all. When she went out on formal occasions, the crowds responded very differently to the Hero's love interest than they did to the Duke's daughter. People started throwing flowers at her in the street instead of rotten vegetables. Gentlemen who before had never given Skie a second glance suddenly seemed to have decided that there must be something extraordinary about her to have captured the demi-god's heart. She wouldn't mind if people kept associating the pair of them for a while.
But there was something else about her rumoured involvement with Freya. Something even better than the attention of men and the respect of the public, and that was that Daddy absolutely hated her!
He was glaring at her now, and if looks could kill then the werewolf would be reduced to a smouldering pile of ashes on the floor. A more unsuitable consort for his daughter was unthinkable. Eldoth would have been better. Well, perhaps that was a slight exaggeration, but a Bhaalspawn, a lycanthrope and a woman! The possibility of his heirs not being his biological grandchildren. Worse than all of that she was a commoner who hung around with a pack of thieves and had once broken into his own apartments to steal from him. He conveniently ignored the fact that they had been blackmailed into doing this by his own daughter, Skie, who held the key to Coran's girdle of femininity. Skie smiled innocently at her furious father. He was incandescent with rage.
"Ha!" Skie thought triumphantly. "Try marrying me off to one of your inbred noble friends with Freya around. She'd chop him up into wedding favours for me before you could say 'I object!'"
Meanwhile, Corwin had managed to escape from the barricaded room. This had clearly required some physical exertion on her part because she was out of breath and her dark hair was plastered over her flushed and furious face. She joined Duke Silvershield in glaring poison at Freya, but having established Skie and Imoen's safety, the Hero's mind had turned to other concerns.
"Where in the nine hells is Arowan?" demanded Freya.
"I'm not sure exactly. Out with the refugees I suppose?" shrugged Captain Corwin indifferently. The werewolf rounded on her.
"Well find her damn it!" Freya ordered. She paced back and forth in the foyer. "If I have to lead another expedition to go rescue little sister because some stinking beggar she was helping turned out to be a ransom gang, I swear by Selune's shining arse that I am going to-"
"I think it's really nice of Arrow to try and help those people," chipped in Skie. Freya stopped criticising Arrow abruptly, and at once her heart felt like fluttering lead. Seeing Skie Silvershield every day was both the best and worst part of living in the Ducal Palace.
Not that she really had any choice in the matter. She and her sister Arowan, the last survivors of the ill-fated Candlekeep Bhaalspawn were being hunted by a powerful wizard. They had no name for him except the 'Hooded Man' but they had seen enough of his torturous experiments on their dead brother to know that becoming his prisoner was not a fate they wanted. Freya had met him face to face only once, at the docks of Baldur's Gate. She had been forewarned that he was coming, and met him with half of the Flaming Fist army at her back, yet between them they had barely managed a scratch.
That army was all that prevented the Hooded Man from carrying Arrow and Freya off whenever he felt like it. Were either one of them to leave the shelter of the Flaming Fist they were toast, and they both knew it. Yet despite the risks, Arrow insisted on going out in disguise to help the refugees.
"Never mind Arowan," snapped Duke Silvershield. "We can start without her and fill her in when she turns up. She's hardly the lynchpin of the operation."
"Start what without her?" blinked Freya.
"What do you know about the so-called Shining Lady, Caelar Argent?" asked Duke Eltan slowly. He said everything slowly these days. The commander of the Flaming Fist was getting on in years and rumour had it that he meant to retire soon. Certainly, he had been shifting increasing amounts of responsibility for the day to day running of the Fist to Duke Silvershield. The general consensus was that Eltan had been rather better at it, and nobody was looking forward to seeing the handover complete. Except perhaps Corwin, who Freya noticed had slunk her way into the conversation without being invited.
"I know Caelar Argent started the crusade that drove all the refugees to Baldur's Gate," shrugged Freya. "Didn't know about the pretentious nickname. The 'Shining Lady?' Really?"
A half-smile crossed Duke Eltan's wizened face. Corwin huffed impatiently, something about the 'Hero of Baldur's Gate' being in no position to throw stones. Silvershield smiled at the Captain indulgently, like a favourite daughter. A few times Freya had heard it rumoured that Corwin had been known to date other females on occasion. Good looking, a bit gay and in uniform. It would be a dream come true for Freya were it not for the woman's hideous personality. It was a real shame.
"I examined the body of one of the assassins. A sun cresting the horizon was branded on his forearm," Duke Eltan said. "The symbol of Caelar argent and her blasted crusade."
"The crusade? I assumed that they were working for the Hooded Man," frowned Freya. Though the last thing she needed was more enemies, this news came as something of a relief. "I thought the crusade were only active North of the Winding Water?"
"They were," said Duke Janneth darkly. "Something has changed."
"The crusade has disrupted trade all along the Sword Coast," said Duke Silvershield. Freya thought that she detected a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "Hundreds, thousands have been driven from their homes. Their fields and storehouses ransacked!"
"Duke Silvershield decided," began the fourth Duke tersely. He was a quiet, shadowy little man. Freya always struggled to remember his name. "That it would be a good strategy to dispatch a hundred Flaming Fist officers to join with soldiers from Waterdeep and Daggerford to march on Caelar's stronghold- Dragonspear Castle."
"WHAT?" cried Freya. The Fist were already stretched extremely thin and their strength combined with her own had only just been enough to drive the Hooded Man from the city. If they were down a hundred soldiers, she and Arrow were sitting ducks.
"It won't be enough," said Eltan, with a stern glance at Silvershield. "The crusade's ranks have swelled. The Flaming Fist is stretched perilously thin as it is. Even so, we are sending every sword we can muster North. We would have you join them."
"The Hero of Baldur's Gate is once more called upon to defend her city," Captain Corwin chipped in. If the Dukes picked up on her dripping sarcasm, they did not show it. What choice was there? Without the Flaming Fist, the Hooded Man would have her. If the troops were heading North, then so must she.
"I stand ready," Freya replied.