I can't decide

Whether you should live or die

Oh, you'll probably go to heaven

Please don't hang your head and cry

No wonder why

My heart feels dead inside

It's cold and hard and petrified

- Scissor Sisters, I Can't Decide

Nuila was correct about the letters. But it didn't stop there. The corridor they'd followed went on for well over a mile, before looping around and leading up to a large hollowed out room that was full of people. Two dozen, Imoen reported, probably more. Many seated around a large, polished table. Most of them looked like guards – which explained the lack of resistance they'd faced thus far. Apart from the odd solitary mercenary posted along the way, they'd encountered only one small patrol. It was hardly a challenge for the group – especially now there were nine of them.

Nine, Xan thought. When he was younger, nine had been his favourite number. He'd told his mother that it would be lucky for him through his life. He could've snorted at the memory, were it not for the danger of alerting their enemy. It appeared that nine may well actually signal his doom.

They could go back, of course. But then nothing would be accomplished. He needed the information they sought as much as Nuila did, as he feared the answers he sought were tied with the mysteries surrounding her. And that was a disconcerting thought.

So instead, they were mostly crouched in the shadows, just beyond the light of the hall, listening to the ongoing meeting. And Nuila was a hot topic on its agenda.

A robed man in the middle was droning on about the necessity of keeping the mine secure. There had been warnings of mercenaries investigating affairs in the area, the man stated, and it was of the utmost importance that they were stopped before they could trace anything back to the mine. The irony of this was not lost on Xan as he eavesdropped. Imoen had said the man looked like a mage, his robes were adorned with sigils and runes, and he spoke with a quiet eloquence. The other voice that was often heard was much gruffer, rough in tone and dialect. The guard captain? Xan wondered. No doubt they'd find out soon enough. If they were lucky.

Jaheira and Khalid were holding some kind of conversation that involved only the tiniest of hand gestures. Both were frowning, neither seemed to have a resolute plan. Branwen was crouched beside Imoen, the warrior priestess praying silently to Tempus, her eyes closed, her lips moving only slightly. Slightly further back was Coran, the elf's hands idly sliding along his bow as he waited for instruction. The dwarf, Yeslick was next. He wore no armour, but had snatched up a sword from one of the felled guards. Of them all, Xan worried most about him; he had an air of impatience about him. He hoped the dwarf would not act rashly.

By his side, Nuila fidgeted. The menacing spiked dusters that she was so fond of were adorning her pale hands, long and slender fingers stretching and curling, doing their own tiny exercises. Ajantis had been left much further back, the paladin the only one dressed in platemail and it he was too noisy to risk getting any closer.

He closed his own eyes and went through the spells he had at his disposal. A sleep cantrip may work against the most feebleminded in their group, but the presence of at least one wizard was worrying to him. He could try a charm spell, but it would take all of his concentration to battle against another's wits, and the odds were already heavily against them. He could try Confusion, but it would be another risky tactic – a confused foe could just as easily continue their attack, and sometimes be an even greater problem as their natural caution would be thrown to the wind.

He stifled a sigh. He almost wished he'd taken the easy option at the Academy, and could just throw in a fireball or two to help with the problem. Almost.

He did have one spell ready, though. It would not last nearly as long as he wished, but he would be able to cast it silently and quickly, before the move was made. It used some of his most precious reagents, his final sprig of foxglove would be consumed by it. But it was unthinkable to not cast it.

Though he scoffed at the idea, he would try to bolster the faith Nuila had in her chosen goddess, and he would bless her with as much magical Luck as he possibly could.

It was carnage. Xan stood, his legs still shaking as he leaned on the edge of the table, seeking support from it that he could not give himself. He felt as if they'd fought for days – weeks, even. But in truth, the whole battle had been won when he'd pulled everything he possibly had together and let his spell of Emotion flood the room. One by one, the guards had weakened, hopelessness etched on their face; a feeling felt so fiercely by Xan that the Weave had taken from his aura, and enhanced his casting tenfold.

It was still too late, however. By then they'd suffered heavy wounds, though death was held at bay for the immediate aftermath. But much healing had been used to improve the health of the prisoners, and there was little left to go around.

Nuila was sitting in a nearby corner, cradling Imoen in her arms. The human girl was bleeding heavily from somewhere, but the others were busy, unaware of how pale she'd become, how quiet she was. Nuila, I feel real cold, she'd said. And the elf has ceased her gently rocking, suddenly trying to remove Imoen's armour with unexpected roughness. Straps were loosened, and the injury found – a gaping hole in her side, flesh torn by the vicious barbs on the arrow that the thief had pulled out in panic.

He saw the horror in Nuila's eyes; he saw her murmur, her hands closing over the wound. He saw the blue glow, and he felt the chill as some unknown power was channelled by the monk. But he said nothing. Imoen's eyes had closed, and the action was over quickly enough. Thankfully, though, he could see the young human's chest rise and fall, quick and shallow breaths better than none at all.

He could not make eye contact with Nuila though.

They huddled together in the centre of the hall, the weakest in the middle. Ajantis and Khalid patrolled the room's entrances, but there was no big counter attack. Guards appeared, but many turned and fled at the sight before them, and all too often one of Coran's arrows would bring them down before they got very far.

Nuila refused to move from Imoen's side, holding her sister's hand as she rocked on her heels. Branwen had exhausted Tempus' boon, but had begun to tear up the robes from the fallen mage to make bandages.

"Let me put that arm in a sling," she said, motioning for the druid to approach her. The priestess had received a harsh beating from one of the guards, but she insisted that her wounds looked worse than they felt.

Jaheira scowled. "It is fine," she replied curtly, clearly frustrated at her inability to mend herself. Branwen's frown was more than a match for the half-elf's expression however.

"D-do what she says, d-dear. You would insist anyone else d-do the same."

Xan looked at Khalid in surprise. The man was giving Jaheira a stern look, and for a moment the enchanter thought that an eruption of marital disharmony was surely going to get the attention of anyone left trying to guard the mine.

Jaheira opened her mouth then closed it. She exhaled heavily then nibbled at her lip. Finally she gave a curt nod and went to Branwen. "As you would have it."

Khalid nodded his approval, and returned to his lookout duty. Jaheira did not appear overly pleased, but the priestess appeared to care little. She deftly bound up the limp arm, her fingers flexibly tying a secure not behind the half-elf's shoulder.

Coran was still somehow smiling. "It's just a flesh wound," he'd murmur whenever anyone approached. Xan was no cleric, but even he knew could see that it obviously wasn't. He'd been hit by an arrow laced with poison, and also had taken the brunt of the magical attack from the enemy mage. He was weakened to the extent that his sword lay on the ground, too heavy for him to comfortably hold. Xan was surprised he still lived; yet he did, happily proclaiming that Lady Luck herself walked with him.

But luck had been with Nuila. Of them all, she was the least harmed, and his heart had been gladdened to see it. She had come close to being impaled by a spear, cleaved by a sword, and a stray lightning bolt had missed her head by inches. No one had made any remark upon it, but Xan had kept a careful eye on her at every opportunity.

Luck. He wanted to believe that the spell had been a fool's errand, but the evidence was there to suggest otherwise. Perhaps I am becoming the fool, he thought morosely.

And then there was Yeslick. The dwarf, dressed in his tattered rags, had charged blindly into the fray, a multitude of Clangeddin blessings surrounding him; he positively glowed with holy aegis. He was unconscious now; the multitude of wounds he'd gathered too much for him to bear when his God's assistance had worn off. Jaheira had used the last of Silvanus' blessings to prevent the worst of the bleeding. The other wounds had been dressed by Branwen.

"We need to rest," Jaheira said. "But this is not an ideal location. Our presence must be known by now, and our supplies are diminished. We have little left to give except for brute strength and endurance."

"We should get Imoen to the surface," Nuila said. "Yeslick too. And Coran perhaps."

"I am fine, sweetling. A brief respite and I will be all yours, once again."

Nuila was shaking her head. "This is madness. It was madness to think we could even survive this. "

"But we have," the druid replied flatly. "And we need to take advantage of this while we can."

Nuila sighed, but nodded her agreement. "Then what is our plan?"

"We must go on," Branwen stated. "Their defence is in disarray, and we cannot afford them to become regimented once more." Jaheira nodded her agreement.

"But you are right," the druid went on. "Some of us will not be ready to face this battle." She frowned, looking around the room. "It is a defensible enough place, for now," she mused. "Imoen and Yeslick shall stay here. I will guard them, with Branwen's assistance. Coran can rest, and assist when ready."

"And the rest of us strike onwards." Nuila wasn't asking. She knew what the druid intended. Without waiting for anyone to speak, she gently disentangled her hand from Imoen's and stood up. There was a steely glint in her eye that Xan hadn't noticed before.

"We'd better get moving then."

"Do you have much left in the way of spells?" she whispered to him. They were standing outside a large oaken door, the body of one more guard lying at their feet. He'd tried to beg for his life, told them that their fight was with Davaeorn who was in his study. Nuila had hesitated, but Ajantis had stepped in swiftly as the guard pulled a knife from his belt.

Xan sighed and rummaged through his pouch. "Magician's amusements," he admitted. "I can conjure a cloud of glitterdust, or mayhaps you'd prefer a spray of colours? We are doomed Nuila. I have nothing that will be helpful for this battle; my skills are spent, and it would appear that my life is about to follow suit."

Normally she'd smile or laugh, but she just nodded distractedly, a grim look at Khalid enough to tell him that there would be no persuading her to go back. He shook his head, pulling apart various leaves, roots, vials and feathers. He had nothing. It was futile.

"We go," she said suddenly, her hushed conversation with Khalid and Ajantis over. The door was swung open, and she marched in under the pretence of boldness; a boldness for a fight they could not possibly hope to win.

But then he found the bearclaw.

"I'm only h-his apprentice! I don't know a-anything! I swear!"

"Tell me who he works for!" Nalia's hand was firmly around the young boy's neck and her strength alone was keeping him pinned to the wall. He'd tried to fight, of course, but bookish boys turn to magic for a reason, Xan noted sourly. His attempts had been in vain.

"The Iron Throne, miss," the boy replied. They'd found him cowering behind the desk when Davaeorn had fallen. The mage hadn't gone down easily, but Xan's dispel spell had greatly helped to puncture his defences. Khalid had helped a limping Ajantis back to the others, Nuila happy to scour the room with Xan. The apprentice hadn't even dared to try and make a dash for it.

"The Iron Throne?" Nuila gave him Xan quizzical look.

"They are a merchant consortium in Baldur's Gate," the enchanter replied, surprised by the answer. "I know little of them."

"Master Davaeorn was writing to one of the leaders," the boy squealed, wriggling furiously as Nuila's hand pressed that little bit harder. "There's letters in his desk."

She didn't move, but looked to Xan and nodded over to the desk. "Be careful," she warned. "There may be traps."

Xan sighed and approached the desk. It was ornately carved and polished to such a degree that he could almost see his reflection on the panels. Quills and inkwells were neatly stored in one corner, but the rest was covered haphazardly with papers and books. Xan had no idea where to start looking for anything untoward; the whole piece of furniture looked innocent enough to him.

"Perhaps I can help?"

He groaned internally as Coran slipped into the room, the other elf flashing a magnificent smile to Nuila as he swaggered to the desk, one hand dramatically clutching his side. "Be careful, there," he warned Xan, pushing past the enchanter as he used his free arm to point to one of the drawers. "A simple device; the cord running from the handle to... ah, this rune here. Clever... but not clever enough!"

Xan stalked away as his kinsman disarmed the trap, Nuila watching the colourful elf with a faint smile on her lips. When the desk was proclaimed to be safe, she released her grip on the boy's neck.

He stood there, too afraid to move.

"Go," she said roughly, giving him a not unkind push towards the door. He fled.

"Was that wise?" Xan asked. "Who knows what reinforcements he may be able to muster."

"Him?" She shook her head. "And anyway, he'll never get past Jaheira." She gave the enchanter a wicked smile. He rolled his eyes.

"Well, well, well," Coran muttered, sifting through some of the papers on the desk. "This mage was a keen scribe, I will say that for him. But his attempts at poetry were..." He wrinkled his nose as he perused a piece of parchment. "Dire."

"Is there anything of use?" Nalia asked somewhat impatiently, picking up some of the papers herself to get a better idea. For a moment it was as if Jaheira herself was present with her no-nonsense attitude. But that image quickly vanished as she suddenly squealed, waving a piece of paper around.

"Take it," she said to Coran. "Take it all."