Not necessity, not desire --no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything --health, food, a place to live, entertainment --they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied.

-Nietzsche


17. Mirror, Mirror...

The Fists at the end of Wyrm's Crossing did not attempt to halt the approaching mounted figures for the customary questioning of all entering the Gate.

Rather, they bolted for their guardhouses and cowered in shadows and fear.

The four hooves of the elephantine black warhorse shook the very timbers of the bridge. Few steeds could have borne what it did: a single figure, nearly the size of an ogre, utterly mailed in finely interlocking dark plates, numerous spikes thrusting out from the bracers, shoulderplates, and his helmet, out of which blazed two golden eyes.

Alongside this mounted apparation of the hells, rode a figure imposing but tiny by comparison. A lean brown steed, and atop it an armored yet still slender woman, her features under a hood.

At the bridge's end, the first figure cursed down at a bespectacled gnome who was nearly trampled as the horses flanked and flew past it. On through the gates they rode, and deep into the city, towards an imposing gabled tower that loomed over the low, pre-industrial skyline of Baldur's Gate.

The golden-eyed warrior rode on, a greatsword slung over his back and a crossbow at his belt, the mounted woman at pace beside, her black cape billowing behind, her dark eyes narrow and focus, and his glowing gaze taking in the city that whipped by as if he owned it. It was not so far from the truth.

They rode past a square where were stacked several barrels; atop one stood another gnomd, raving in a cartoonish voice, one hand gripping a pipe and the other holding aloft an emblem of a jawless skull wreathed in purple flame.

The gnome and the huge warrior locked eyes for one moment, and shared a gaze of purest enmity. They knew.

The man and the woman rode on, and reached the base of the gabled tower, and dismounted, their mounts taken by a frightened sentry at the building's gates.

Up they climbed through the floors of the building, each of cold, austere marble, a faint bluish light illuminating the many elegant tapestries and statues that served only to make the halls more aloof, clinical, and foreboding. The pair sequested themselves in a room on the top floor; a bedroom spacious and elegant like the rest of the building. The great man in his dark, spiky armor looked thoroughly out of place in quarters that were in the end ordinary in their luxury.

Off came his helmet to reveal again his golden eyes, and dark, sturdy facial features. A broad nose, a black goatee, and a bald domed head.

Back flew her hood to reveal a dainty but worn copper face; slanted eyes, thin pursed lips, and a dark braid of hair that fell in a ponytail almost to the waist.

The man snapped his gauntlets, spiked bracers, and many fastenings of the torso of his armor. The chest split open, and like a molting ankheg he pulled it off to reveal a black tunic that did little to conceal the contours of superhuman upper body musculature.

The woman quietly undid and slipped out of her light field plate, her lithe but muscled frame underneath swathed in silk.

The man unhinged and stepped out of his great boots, then fell back into a chair to slide off the metallic scabbards his bulging legs had been uncased in. The woman freed herself of her armor leggings again in a strange stealthy manner that was unnervingly quiet for someone supposedly platemailed. Her legs beneath were thin, but the thigh and calf muscles bulged underneath the silk fighting suit as she glided across the floor toward the man who had shed his demonic exoskeleton.

She sprang from the carpet, into the air like an assassin at the huge warrior's throat, but placed there her lips and no stiletto while her legs clamped around the man's waist, the closest she desired to come to landing. The man wrapped his long arms around her, nearly still able to hug himself, and chuckled. The woman's head flipped up, her serpentine ponytail flying through the air behind her head, and the man's goatee-rimmed mouth clasped over hers. The pair kissed and squeezed with a ferocity that belied too many hours of uninterrupted riding.

Lightning boomed outside. Still they kissed, and it boomed closer. They tore at one another's outfits, and it nearly struck the building. The woman's silk fighting suit dropped silently onto the floor, and a bolt of lightning cracked against the side of the tower. The window rattled, the sky flashed, and static filled the room.

The great warrior snarled in anger, and set the woman back on her feet. He pulled his tunic back down over his sculpted torso, and without a word, only smacking one fist into the other palm, he barged out of the room, and marched down silent hallways across the floor of the building, watching through occasional windows as the thunder booming elsewhere in the city, his footsteps booming likewise across the empty halls.

The door he made for opened before he could touch it, and as he strode through, closed behind him without assistance. The sides of this chamber were cluttered with all matter of equipment-laden table and book-crammed shelves, but one clear aisle led down the center. At the opposite end of the room was a great many-paned bay window, its glass surfaces interlocking into a convex angular bubble that looked out onto the dark city. Before this vantage point stood one chair. It was all of cold steel, and one shaft thrust from its seat to the ground. It faced away now, but a black rode draped down from the seat to the floor. From everywhere and nowhere in the arcane laboratory came a sourceless and ominous chanting, the deep voices of ancient and evil men.

The chair swiveled around, away from the windows and toward the man. In it sat a thin figure, swathed in a black cloak, a pale and gaunt old face peering out from under the hood.

"Destiny waits for no man," the figure hissed.

"I am...more than a man," the warrior growled.

"Soon. Or if you behave like this, perhaps never."

"No - it is as you say. Destiny. I am chosen."

"Then they are no more?"

"Carbos and Shank failed within the keep..."

"...but of course. All inept assassins know how kill is the element of surprise."

"We found them outside. They fled in fear."

"Magical..." the wizard nodded, and clasped his hands.

The warrior frowned skeptically. "How did you know?"

"Because Gorion would not have raised them any other way."

"He is no more."

"Mmm..." the cowled figure took a deep breath, and slumped further back in his chair. His gaze became unfocused, and he spoke to the air. "...after all these years, old friend. I told you it would come to something like this. And I knew it would be you..." he focused on the warrior again. "I had..almost wished to see him one last time. But we are fighting, aren't we? As fathers should."

The wizard's analytic gaze softened for a moment, but then grew taut again, and he continued.

"But alas, theatrics are sentimentality are not a luxury we have. Indeed, I find more and more of late I must do the grounding for two," his eyes narrowed at the large man. "Perhaps three. Interesting choice of spell, your conc-...sort's. How fortunate it proved for your prey. Keep her on a short leash."

"I advise you to refrain from...zoological terminology with her."

"Oh really? The way you yourself have been acting, I find it most appropriate."

"What is your point, old man?"

"Some needs must be fulfilled, but love...love blinds. She may not see eye to eye with us, so keep yours on her."

"She is loyal. She is...you would not understand."

"No, I would not. But if it's what maintains your grasp on reality, so be it."

The warrior growled in frustration, and shifted his weight. The wizard spoke again, leaning forward to peer at the warrior. "Tell me...what did you feel, under the shadow of Candlekeep again?"

The warrior frowned. "I do not understand."

The wizard craned furhter forward. "Oh, but you do. What about the time you were within its walls?" His head tilted suggestively.

The warrior took a step backward and looked down at the floor, his brow furrowed. "I...saw them playing. Laughing. Loving. An auburn-haired girl, an orcish boy, a girl with golden curls. I didn't even realize who they were or what I felt at the time, but..."


"...envy?"

"Yes." The warrior curled his lips into a two-sided sneer, and tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and he balled his fists.

The wizard gestured, and the hum of vibrating glass resonated around the laboratory. Mirrors floated forth from the shadows, facing the warrior.

He looked up, and saw his reflection in the many mirrors. Some of his reflections then grew younger in the mirror, turning to his boy self clad in street rags, running through the streets, foraging and fighting.

Others images shifted into fairer children, a brunette boy and a scarlet-haired girl. They jumped between mirrors, laughing and tagging each other, behind them could be seen grass and flowers and white ramparts.

The wizard twisted his fingers, making the mirrors spin in a flashing vortex around the warrior, and spoke.

"You slept in a gutter as he in a cradle."

The warrior punched through a mirror of the cradled boy babe, and in the shards saw himself sleeping fitfully in an alley.

"You scrounged for scraps as he feasted."

He punched through another mirror of the boy at a table and saw himself gutter-foraging in the shards.

"You ran for fear as he for fun."

He punched through another mirror. A chase from a race.

"You hid for survival as he for a game."

Another mirror. An orcish urchin thug from the orcish school pal.

"You fought for food, he for sport."

And another. A knife fight from a fencing lesson.

"You were beaten as he was read to."

And another. Reiltar from Gorion.

"You had your first kill as he his first kiss."

And another. Another urchin thug from the girl with the golden curls.

Now only shards were felt, abandoned by the wizard's powers and left upon the smooth floor, and the warrior looked down at his bloody knuckles, his face flushed and tearing in anger. He scrunched his face, put his thumb and forefinger beside his nose, and cried and snarled into them."...I'll show her how we did things on the streets in Sembia..."

"...it bred weakness..."

"...I'll show him what being beaten is..."

"...it bred idealism..."

"...I'll show her a garrote..."

"...it bred naivette..."

The warrior clasped his other fingers, sketched the skin forward, then pulled his fingers together in an unmasking gesture away from his own face. "I'll tear his face off."

The wizard laughed, the echo bouncing off the panes behind him and filling the rom. "No more blood for that man!" He smiled calmly and coldly, and folded his hands again. "You wish to continue your pursuit."

The warrior shook off his tears, breathing heavily and angrily, and balling his fists. "Yes."

"And so you shall, but through others. Don't look at me like that. There is much to be done here; your time is far too valuable to be traipsing about the Sword Coast hunting utterly inexperienced prey. Moreover, it is not good for our public image, which still matters for a few weeks yet."

"They are mine !" the warrior roared, slinging his fists over his head. "They shall fall by my hand, I shall spill their precious blood, and it shall be glorious!"

The wizard snickered and hissed, "Are you sure you didn't miss your calling as a bard? Why, I should have taken you to see Prince of Rogues last month, the way you're carrying on you'd have made a better Sheriff of Yessingbeef than that Kron clown, goatee and all. And don't even get me started on the baby-faced fool who played Robin Locksley. Funny, he looked rather like your...but I digress. We wish to insure that the dark side does win on our stage."

A hard knock sounded from the library door, followed by a womanly but unladylike curse, and the black wizard grinned. "And to that end, allow me to introduce you to some of the better bounty hunters on the Throne's retainer..."

With a flick of his wrist, the door flew open. The bald warrior turned around to see a squad of four fearsome women marching in two by two. The first burly pair wore their well-greased platemail nonchalantly, the back pair were leathered and lithe.

The wizard frowned, puzzled. "Where is your fifth..."

"Shar-Teel seeks her fortune elsewhere," one of the plated women grunted with disdain.

"Her father will not be pleased," the wizard mused.

"Her father just never ever was, old man ," the woman shouted defiantly. She then nodded to the bald warrior. "The way his father runs the Iron Ceiling, be grateful any of us remain!" Her companions grunted in agreement.

"Enough!" the wizard snapped. "This concerns only those here. I have a premonition that antagonistic elements may soon jeopardize our operations near Nashkel. You are to reinforce that half-breed Strifeleader. Use the secret entrance, I don't want you annihilating our yipping mine-rats. If you find havoc has already been wreaked, you are to exact revenge on those responsible." He gestured, and a scroll floated off a nearby table toward the lead woman, who snapped it out of the air. "This will lead the way. Go."