Part Two – Making a Living or Making a Killing?

8 – The Last Frayed Nerve

"Swords! Not words!" –Minsc


Mirtul 10, 1368 D.R.

From the narrow mouth of a cavern at the center of the Valley of Tombs three ragged figures emerged. They covered their faces at first, wincing away from the bright glare of the midday sun. Two of the figures were women – girls really – in their late teens, maybe close to twenty. One of the women was a half-head taller than the other, with long black hair that had spilled out of a once neat ponytail quite some time ago. That hair was now greasy and clumped in places with dried blood, and bloody grime streaked her pale face beneath narrow, ice-blue eyes. She wore stained splintmail armor that was nicked in over a dozen places.

The shorter woman had copper-red hair that had once been straight and shoulder-length but was currently a tangled mess. Her face was also smeared with blood and muck and she wore black leathers and a torn purple-and-black-trimmed cloak.

The third figure was male, with the sharp, angular features of a moon elf. He wore relatively clean, high collared purple robes that hung awkwardly on his emaciated frame. His brown eyes were sunken, dark underneath and red rimmed. At his brow a gold and amethyst circlet held back his long brown hair, and at his belt hung a longsword with an ornate moonstone pommel.

As the sun washed over his face the elf closed his eyes and turned his head upwards, soaking up the light. After a time he spoke. "Ah, I thought I'd be trapped in that dismal vault for the rest of my life." He inclined his head towards the two young women. "I thank you again."

The girl with the black hair – Ashura – was leaning against the wall of the cave. "Sure," she said with a shrug. After a pause she added: "Could have gone better on our end."

Xan shook his head. "You cheated death, and that's all that counts. Each and every day. We even seem to have completed our missions in a roundabout way."

"I suppose we should report to Berrun?" Ashura asked. She held a vial of the liquid the kobolds had been using to taint the iron up to the light. "Show him this?"

"Indeed," Xan said with a nod as he surveyed the landscape. The soil was dry and sandy here, specked with golden scrub grass and a few cacti. "Judging from the conversations between Mulahey and Tranzig this valley is somewhere at the northern edge of the Cloudpeaks, east of Nashkel. North then west should take us back. Eventually."

They began to march through the dusty valley and soon found themselves on a path that sloped up and up. "You have any spells ready?" Imoen asked Xan. "Just in case?"

He frowned. "I do. There were a few spells I was not able to attempt on the orc since he kept my hands bound. But as I told you my specialty is magic of the mind. That does little good against things that crawl out of…tombs."

"We'd best be leaving quickly then," Ashura said.

The path out of the valley was clear, but it quickly turned from an uphill march to a climb over sandstone boulders and slopes of jagged rock. Sweat began to wash the bloodstains from Ashura's face as the high mid-Mirtul sun beat down and she crawled and clambered her way up. When they reached a stony plateau above the valley they stopped a moment to rest and reclaim their breath.

Ashura was bent over and panting a bit when she heard a shocked gasp. Imoen. She stood and whirled around to see what was wrong with her friend. There was a woman wearing a hooded cloak and boiled leathers standing behind the redhead. She carried a bow, the string pulled and an arrow knocked and aimed at Imoen's back.

Her hands were at her sword hilts but Ashura found herself letting out a weary sigh. Of course they'd be ambushed by bandits as soon as they left the caves. Was nowhere on this whole bloody planet safe?

There was a cough from a nearby boulder and a second woman in leathers stepped into view. She held a small throwing knife in a ready position, her eyes fixed on Xan. There was a second knife in her other hand. Something green and faintly luminescent clung to the tip of the knife; a sure sign of magical poison. "Nice and slow," the woman hissed as Xan raised his hands.

Two more women stepped into view from behind boulders further along the plateau. These two were armored more heavily, one with a platemail breastplate and grieves and the other in a long chainmail coat. The surcoats over both sets of armor depicted twisted black antlers on a red, triangular field. The holy symbol of Beshaba.

The priestess in chain approached from the left and the one in plate from the right. The first woman raised her arms in preparation to cast a spell and the second hefted a mace and rested it on her shoulder before she spoke.

"Ashura, I presume." The priestess' voice was deep and mocking. "Rumor was that you traveled with a much larger war-party. I see the Maid of Misfortune has been giving you a lot of attention."

Ashura just glared and Imoen spoke up. "Oh, the others are on their way. Six-"

The priestess in plate shook her head. "Don't bother," she said. "Our augers told us you would be passing through here this afternoon. You can't hide your numbers from one who can see you across time and space."

"Did your augers tell you exactly how I'm going to kill you?" Ashura asked with a low growl.

The priestess ignored the threat. "Now, we just want you Ashura. Surrender and we'll take your head off nice and cleanly and send your friends on their way. Or," she addressed Xan, "you could hand her head over to us. Just-"

There was a waver in the air and Imoen simply vanished. A glass vial fell from the spot she had been standing and shattered on the ground.

The hooded woman with the bow glanced around, snarling. With a thump she fired her knocked arrow through the space where Imoen had been but it bounced harmlessly off stone.

At the same time Ashura charged the priestess in the chainmail coat. Her opponent had her arms in the air now, swirling as she chanted a prayer to bring all manner of misfortune down on Ashura's head. Before the chant was finished Ashura leapt across the last few paces between her and the priestess and drove the bottom of her boot into the woman's abdomen with enough force to send her stumbling backwards. The priestess' arms pinwheeled and the magical energy that had been gathering at her fingertips crackled and went out.

Something bit into Ashura's back and she winced but kept pushing forward. Almost there. With a slash of her sword a deep gash appeared across the Beshabin's cheek. Another kick and priestess was flailing wildly and grasping at air as she plummeted backwards off the edge of the plateau. She struck a rock on the way down, bounced, struck another.

Ashura turned back in time to see the archer aiming her bow. There was a gleaming streak along the archer's neck and then a torrent of blood as Imoen wavered back into existence behind the woman. The bow clattered to the ground as the archer frantically gripped at her slit throat, her face going ghostly pale in the space of a few heartbeats as she went down.

Turning from that Ashura launched herself at the priestess in plate armor; the apparent leader of the group. Steel rang out as her sword met the woman's mace. Her next swing was also parried, and the Beshabin easily anticipated the follow-up stab from Ashura's second weapon and dodged it. Something felt wrong about the way she was swinging her swords. The weapons were too heavy, her movements too sluggish.

The wound in her back! It must have been one of those poisoned knives. And the damn thing had struck right at the hole Montaron had put in the armor. Either she had terrible luck or the knife-thrower had impeccable aim.

In her offhand the Beshabin held a growing spiral of orange energy. Another bat from her mace kept Ashura's swords at bay with minimal effort. "Maid of Misfortune…" she began to chant, but as she did something streaked past Ashura and lodged in the gap of the priestess' armor under her arm. The woman snarled in pain and shock and the light in her hand faltered and died. Another streak and then another flew towards the priestess, one of the missiles clattering off her armor and the other slipping through a gap and imbedding itself in the woman's arm at the elbow.

Gripping her injured arm the priestess staggered back, looking down at the weapon that had struck her. A throwing knife. She looked up and glared at her companion. "Zeela? Why?!" she growled. The other woman's hood had fallen back to reveal curly blonde locks and empty, dazed eyes. She stood there, staring at nothing in particular and out of throwing knives. The Beshabin took the empty look for an answer.

The priestess whirled back towards Ashura and swung her mace, wide and drunkenly; easily dodged. Ashura staggered forward and tried to strike back but her sword-arm was just as sloppy and she missed entirely. The two combatants breathlessly glared at each other as their grips on their weapons loosened.

With a frustrated snarl Ashura just dropped her swords and launched her body at the priestess, putting all of her strength and weight into the tackle. Steel screeched against steel as the two armored women crashed to the ground, the helmetless head of the priestess cracking against the rock as she took the force of the fall.

Clinging to her opponent's shoulders and ramming them against the ground Ashura managed to climb up a bit. She straddled her enemy, gripping the blonde woman's neck with both hands and slamming the back of her head against the stone again and again. The priestess grabbed at Ashura's wrists and tried to roll, thrashing and sliding her feet against the ground in frantic kicks. The struggles grew weaker and weaker as Ashura squeezed and bashed with all the strength she had left. They struggled there on the ground for what seemed like an eternity but was probably just a few moments, Ashura's fingers digging into her enemy's throat as the priestess struggled for breath and found none.

The priestess' eyes had long since rolled back in her head and her cheeks gone from bright red to purple when Ashura's limbs gave out and she released her grip, slumping over the still body of the Beshabin. Her hands and feet were numb, tremors wracked her limbs, and however much she tried she couldn't seem to get enough breath.

A wave of nausea ran through Ashura's body and she bent down further over her still opponent and vomited. When she had emptied her guts coughs wracked her until she felt like her stomach was going to turn inside out.

Once the coughing had abated a bit she managed to look up at the battlefield through bleary eyes. The knife-thrower was still standing there between her two still companions, eyes empty and body wobbling a bit like a puppet dangling from strings. Doubtlessly she had gotten a dose of Xan's 'magic of the mind.'

The empty look vanished and the woman's eyes shot wide open with shock when Imoen silently slipped behind her, yanked her amber hair back and slit her throat. The sudden cut was long and deep, and when Imoen dropped her the woman slumped over and bled out as quickly as her companion had.

There was a look of cold savagery in Imoen's eyes that Ashura had never seen before, but it was quickly replaced by sheer exhaustion as the girl looked down, shoulders slumped. Then Ashura's vision fogged up with tears and she bent over, coughing and retching again.

Rushing over to Ashura's side Imoen knelt and pulled the cork out of a bottle. She pressed it to her friend's lips. The liquid tasted awful but once she'd choked a little down the nausea subsided and pins, needles and acute aches returned to Ashura's arms and legs. She drank the rest up greedily and her strength soon returned.

When she tried to stand the motion made her cringe and she realized the knife was still stuck in her back. She slid back down, lying on the earth beside the dead priestess. Somewhere nearby Xan sat down, cross-legged.

"So there's a bounty on your head?" the elf asked.

Ashura turned her head to the side and pressed her face to the ground. It felt good to lie down. "Yeah," she said. "Thanks for not trying to collect." Imoen was sitting close by now.

"Of course," Xan said. "I owe you two. You saved me from a very unpleasant fate, and the least I can do is try to keep you alive, difficult as that seems to be." There was a long pause as they sat there on the plateau. Eventually Xan broke the silence. "Are you going to tell me why there's a bounty on your head? Or just rebuke me for prying?"

Ashura took a breath, chuckled and immediately regretted it as she felt a stab of pain from the knife. "Honestly," she said, "I have no idea. Ever since we left…our home and hit the road we keep bumping into these assassins. They killed my father the first time. Kidded myself into thinking maybe they had just been after him but they've been attacking me ever since."

"I think she's some sort of long-lost princess," Imoen interjected. "She was a foundling you see. Maybe she's the Princess of Tethyr and they keep sending assassins to keep her from reclaiming the throne."

"Do I look like the princess of Tethyr?"

"Well, you've always been kind of pale. Maybe you're the Princess of Icewind Dale?"

"Icewind Dale doesn't have princesses. It's just a bunch of barbarian tribes."

"Ooo-kay. Well, you're Damaran looking. Maybe you're the princess of Bloodstone."

"Bloodstone's something like a million miles away from here."

"Yer no fun!"

"You're a foundling too Imoen. Maybe you're a princess."

Imoen smiled. "Now there's something to think about. What could I be the princess of?"

Ashura had several ideas, all of them very vulgar. But instead she asked: "So Ims? Are we going to do this? The usual routine: You yank the knife out and then I gulp down a healing potion as fast as I can?"

Imoen chuckled. "Figured you were working up the courage." She took a deep breath, reaching out till her hand gently hovered over the hilt of the knife. "You ready?" she asked.

"Never ready," Ashura said as she pulled one of Montaron's healing potions from her belt, unstopped the cork and braced herself for the pain that would come when the knife was ripped out. "But we have to do it anyway."


It was about an hour after sunrise when the three bedraggled figures finally reached Nashkel. Squat buildings appeared out of the thick mist that rolled off the river, the first sign of civilization they'd seen in some time, and all three sighed with relief. They were worn ragged and close to being asleep on their feet, but the promise of shelter and the desire to finally walk the last leg of their "mission" had driven the three on through the night.

Though exhausted in body they were at least a bit richer. Imoen wore a fresh set of leathers and both she and Ashura carried freshly pilfered and unfrayed cloaks. Upon searching and stripping the corpses of the party of assassins the day before they found that the archer and knife-thrower had been wearing enchanted leather armor. Imoen picked out the lightest set and Ashura carried the heavier studded leathers in her pack, along with every other valuable that she could find a way to comfortably carry.

As they wound down the path from the mountains and began along the Trade Way into Nashkel several Amnish soldiers filed towards the companions, poleaxes at rest on their shoulders. One of the guards –short and female – whispered something to the older looking woman who seemed to be in charge of the unit. Ashura thought she recognized the younger soldier and after a clearer look she realized why: she had been their guide through the mountains days ago.

The older soldier raised her nose and gave the three a narrow, appraising look. "Returning from the mines?" she asked.

Xan stepped forward. "In a roundabout way," he said.

There was a lot of whispering among the soldiers before their leader silenced them with a glare. She turned to the three companions. "I remember you Greycloak. We all thought you were long dead."

"I thought I was as well. It's a long story."

"Well don't leave us in suspense. What did you find?"

Xan took a deep breath. "Exactly what you suspect. The cause of the corroded iron. It is dealt with now."

"Now that's quite the claim."

"On the honor of this Greycloak, it is so."

The soldier tilted her head a bit. "Well, we'd best take you to the boss man right away then. Follow."

They were led to a path that branched off of the Trade Way and past low stone walls. Beyond that they walked by carefully sheered hedges and wide flowerbeds that reminded Ashura of the sprawling gardens of Candlekeep. Past the hedges stood a broad manor house with white brick walls and a well-tarred roof. A pebbled path wound up to the door where the soldier gently knocked.

The door was answered by a dour elderly man who simply shook his head at them. It took an agreement from the disheveled adventurers to remove their boots and be searched before they left the house for the servant to allow them in. The Amnish commander just rolled her eyes.

From there they were led barefoot over fine Calishite carpets and up a staircase, then down a wide hall lined with gilded paintings. The hall eventually came to the master bedroom, where the servant gently knocked and exchanged some words with the occupant before allowing the three to enter. A strong smell of incense hit them as they stepped into the candlelit room, though it was not quite enough to hide the scent of bile and soiled linens. Propped up on the wide four-post bed that dominated the room was a gaunt and ancient man in a white nightgown and cap.

The old man gave a slight nod of greeting and Xan bowed. "Lord Ghastkill," he said. Behind them came footsteps and Berrun Ghastkill entered the room. He quietly walked past them to take a seat in a stuffed chair at the old man's bedside.

"My son," Lord Ghastkill said in a low, raspy voice as he inclined his head towards Berrun, "has told me about the adventurers he's been sending into the mines in search of the corruption. I am pleased to see that you have returned."

"Though you've returned a bit short," Berrun said with a frown. "The Harpers aren't with you. Or the-"

"Zhentarim," Imoen interrupted. "Kinda' wish we had known who they were."

Berrun gave her a confused look. "I assumed you did. The Zhentarim use some rough methods but believe it or not they've helped the people of Amn several times when our interests line up. I thought they'd even work with Harpers in the same circumstances. But I take it from the look you're giving me-"

"Damn right," Imoen said with a bit of a pout. "They worked with 'em just fine right up till they stabbed 'em in the back. Literally."

"Sad but predictable," the elder Ghastkill noted.

"It was right after we found the alchemical recipe for the stuff that makes the iron brittle," Ashura said. "Jaheira took it and I think Xzar wanted it so they had a bit of a falling out. We saw two of them die and the other two were in pretty bad shape when they went down in an underground river."

"Alchemical formula?" Lord Ghastkill asked.

Xan nodded and stepped forward, producing a vial of green liquid. From there he began to tell the story of how the iron was tainted and by whom. When he came to the part about Mulahey Ashura handed the mayor the holy symbol of Cyric they had taken from the orc's body, and he confirmed that the priests of Helm would be able to learn quite a bit about its former owner.

"And that's the how of it," Xan said as he finished the tale. "The 'why' is a bit unclear, and my mission demands that I investigate further. However I do think I can assure you that your ore will no longer be sabotaged. Without the orc leading them the kobolds will probably scatter and the formula for the iron-rot is safely out of their hands regardless."

Berrun nodded slowly. "It's quite a story, but I'll accept the word of a Greycloak. Speaking of which I am sorry for your loss. I'm sure Alithan will be missed."

Xan's eyes were distant as he inclined his head ever so slightly. "Thank you," he said absently.

There was silence for a time, eventually broken by Berrun. "So it seems now that our sabotage problem is solved we have a reward to give out. There's just one outstanding matter." He reached his hand out. "The alchemical recipe?"

Ashura pulled the rolled up bit of parchment from her pack and began to hand it over.

"Uh, people died you know…" Imoen noted as Berrun snatched the parchment up. He ignored her, unrolling the scroll and glancing at it a moment. Rolling it back up the mayor turned and placed the edge of the parchment against the flame of a nearby candle, setting it alight.

"That's a valuable weapon," the old lord stated coldly.

His son shook his head. "Not worth it. Especially not considering the hands it could end up in." There was something pointed and personal about how he put that last phrase.

"Perhaps not," the old lord said with the slightest of shrugs.

Berrun turned back to the two girls and the elf as the scroll burned down. "The reward we were offering for ending the contamination is one thousand danters."

Xan shook his head slightly and waved a hand. "It's all theirs," the Greycloak said. "I was a bound prisoner when they defeated Mulahey."

"Aww," Imoen said. "You've been a big help though! We can split it three ways."

Ashura gave her friend a shocked look.

"It really wouldn't be proper. My organization supplies me well enough and I do this for the good of Everska." After a thoughtful look crossed his face he amended a bit. "Although…I will need supplies to continue my investigation. If you help me stock up for the road along with a little spending money for travel we can call all debts repaid."

"Sure," Imoen said with a bright smile. "It's the least we can do."

Berrun left the room and returned some time later with a hefty bag that was nearly the size of a halfling's head. He sat it in Imoen's hands with a satisfying clink. "Count it up when you please. And be careful not to wave it around in public. Though, if you want to help the town further…" he went on.

"We're a little worn out at the moment," Ashura began but Berrun raised a finger.

"If you want to help the town further you can put some of that coin back into the local economy. We've been delaying the Spring Fair because of the crisis, but now I see no reason not to commence preparations."

"Oh!" Imoen squealed. "Of course we'll go!"

Ashura chuckled. "After a hot bath and a change of clothes at least."

"Of course. The fair won't be up and going for at least half a tenday in any case. For now you're welcome to stay in our guest chambers." He inclined his head. "If that's okay with you father?"

The old lord nodded absently. "Of course. Stay as our guests, and with my blessing. You've done us quite the service."

Imoen smiled and bowed slightly. "Most kind of you, m'lord."

The servants still gave them disdainful looks as they were led to the guest chambers but Ashura didn't care. She felt like she could sleep for days. When she hit the feather bed she very nearly did, sleeping from late morning all the way to the next dawn.


Author's Note: A danter is a gold coin minted in Amn, according to the old Forgotten Realms second edition sourcebook "Lands of Intrigue."