25th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

Scumslum

The Aerie, The Pomarj

"Elrohir, wait!"

The ranger turned around, impatient to be off to the other docks- but he stopped when he saw what Sir Murtano was removing from a small leather case strapped to his back.

It looked like a wide leather belt with attached loops, similar to those Elrohir had seen for storing darts, but this one held small glass vials instead.

Seven vials of a milky white liquid.

"I managed to snatch this," the Furyondan knight explained. "I thought you could use them if you ever made it out of the caverns."

"You're sure these are healing potions?" Elrohir asked as he watched his party stare at the vials with longing eyes.

"I'm certain of very little at this point," Selzen responded honestly.

Elrohir wet his lips, deciding whether to test one, when Argo reached over, snatched a vial up, clamped down on the tiny wax stopper with his teeth, spit it out and swallowed the contents with one gulp.

The big ranger belched and regarded them all with his pained smile. "It's been a while since I've done anything stupid and spontaneous."

"Several minutes, at least. Don't know how you managed." Aslan's scowl couldn't hide his concern though as the paladin stared at Bigfellow. "Do you feel anything?"

Argo nodded and spoke the one word they all wanted to hear.

"Better."

Poor Sir Murtano staggered from the multitude of hands that scrabbled all over the belt he was holding and yanked the enclosed vials out. Still, the knight managed to retrieve another item he had stashed away.

Cygnus slowly took the small, cylindrical ivory case Selzen held out to him.

"I'm grateful indeed, Sir Murtano, for these spell scrolls, if that is what they are, but without a prism of some kind, none of us can utilize them."

The knight looked chagrined.

"I'm sorry, Cygnus; I didn't realize that."

"That's all right," Unru spoke up as he unexpectedly took the lead in heading off towards the other docks.

"From what you told us earlier," the illusionist called over his shoulder, "I'm sure we'll be able to find a dead wizard or two around here somewhere."

It was madness.

A huge melee was swirling around the dock area of Scumslum, but it was impossible to tell who was on whose side.

Or indeed, if there were any sides at all.

Townspeople, guardsmen, former slaves; all merged together in a screaming and screeching mass of humanity, all were fighting over the possession of the last nine fishing boats still in the harbor.

Aslan let out a sharp breath.

The paladin caught glimpses of something else on one of the boats. Several humanoids, but a sickly blue-grey color, nearly naked and dripping wet, clawing and biting at anyone within reach.

"What are they?" a horrified Thorimund whispered into Aslan's ear.

Aslan had never seen them before, but he remembered a conversation he had overheard right here in Scumslum. When had it been? A week ago? More?

A lifetime?

The paladin turned to the mage, his face set in a hard line.

"They're lacedons."

"Lacedons?" Thorimund looked puzzled.

Aslan sighed.

"Sea ghouls."

The closest dock was set in the shape of a giant "E" with the letter's backbone extending all the way to the shore. It was by the farthest spur that the boat lay on which the lacedons they had seen were battling an assortment of town guards.

The humans were losing. Several dozen Slave Lord guards were standing on the pier, but they seemed more interested in waiting the battle out than in coming to the immediate aid of their fellow mankind.

Two boats were anchored by the closest spur, and it here that the bulk of the officer/town guard battles were occurring. Supporting superior armor and battle experience, the Slave Lord's army was slowly pushing the larger group of Suderham guards back towards the edge of the pier. Occasionally one would fall off with a scream and a splash that was as often as not abruptly cut off as a blue-grey arm reached up from below to drag the unfortunate warrior underwater.

"Tojo, Nesco, Arwald, Unru and Sir Menn," Elrohir ordered. "Stay here for the moment but remain out of the battle at all costs. I want to check out the other two docks and see where we might have the best chance of taking a boat. We'll either come back here or send word for you to join us. Keep alert."

The middle dock was laid out in a similar fashion, but each of the three spurs held one boat each.

There was not even the semblance of an organized battle here. It was strictly every person for themselves.

"Some warriors and guardsmen, but not as many as the last dock," Elrohir muttered, trying to sum up the tactical situation in his head as quickly as possible, and then turned again to his companions.

"Aslan, Zantac, Thorimund and Sir Murtano," the group leader counted off. "Same orders as I gave the others. Be ready to move or to fight. The rest of you, let's go."

The named four individuals watched as Elrohir, Argo, Cygnus and Sitdale pushed and shoved their way through the crowd of mostly non-combatants that swarmed over the boardwalk as they made their way towards the westernmost dock.

The paladin turned to Thorimund again. "Are you feeling any better?"

The mage managed a shaky smile. "A little. How is your ankle?"

"Feels pretty solid. It's my left side that hurts now more than anything."

"This is a living nightmare," Sir Murtano said. The knight struggled to control his trembling voice as he gazed at the bloodshed before them. "Never in my most horrific dreams did I think it would all end like this. It's almost as if-"

The knight broke off as the man standing next to him suddenly rushed forward and lunged headlong into the human maelstrom.

"Zantac!" Aslan screamed, but he already knew it was in vain.

The Willip wizard struck out blindly all around him in an attempt to clear a path.

He was struggling to stay afloat in a sea of surging bodies. No one was attacking the mage directly, but he couldn't make any more headway.

Zantac's pale blue eyes tried to do the impossible; to separate a frenzied mob of nearly a hundred combatants into their individual components.

Including the corpses already lying thick under their feet.

And to make this impossible task even harder, the magic-user still needed to keep track of the one figure that had precipitated his unthinking dash into the heart of the battle in the first place.

Fortunately, her chocolate brown skin made at least that task easier.

Neela clenched a bloody dagger in one hand, and the athletic whore from The Rose seemed as well versed in its use as any other fighter as she slowly sliced and stabbed her way along the edge of the nearest spur towards the nearest fishing boat. The vessel already had two dozen people on it, all attempting so frantically to shove off that their efforts cancelled each other out, and the boat still sat there, its waterline sinking dangerously lower even as more people piled on.

Zantac watched as a Slave Lord lieutenant came at Neela, his sword swinging at her neck level.

The prostitute ducked at the last moment, stepped forward, grabbed the fighter by the waist, spun him around and pushed. The man teetered on the edge of the pier for a moment, and then fell off the edge with a shriek and a splash.

"Swim in that, you bastard!" she shouted down at him.

"Neela!" Zantac yelled.

She didn't hear him. The former slave had already turned her attention back to the fishing boat, about twenty feet away now.

Zantac took a deep breath and stopped fighting. He stopped looking around elsewhere. He stopped everything except gathering the air into his lungs for one last, desperate scream.

"NEELA!"

She looked over at him.

"Neela!" Zantac yelled again, feeling his throat start to seize up. "Where's Beryl? Is she-"

An ogre hit Zantac on the back of his head.

At least that was what it felt like. The mage pitched forward from the force of the blow. The mob of people in front of him stopped his fall by nature of its sheer density, but then enough people pulled back so that the wizard slammed onto the rough wooden slats and laid gasping and groaning in pain on his stomach.

Immediately, people started walking on top of him. Zantac was nothing more than a piece of battle terrain to them now.

He tried to cry out, but all the air was driven from his lungs. He thought he heard someone call out his name, but then a boot rammed into the side of his head and all the noises went silent and all the lights went dark.

The western dock consisted of a long central pier, with four cross-spurs spaced equidistantly along its length. Three fishing boats were anchored by the furthest two spurs.

But the scene here was very different.

"By the Aesir," Elrohir groaned. "I'd thought we were finished with them, at least."

"No such luck, it appears," Argo agreed.

About sixty feet down the central pier, just in front of the third cross-spur stood six gnolls, each outfitted with bloodstained leather armor. Each clenched the shaft of a wicked-looking halberd.

In front of them a man clad in black, spiked scale mail paced back and forth.

"Fifty gold!" he shouted at the crowd who had gathered in front of him. "Fifty gold apiece buys you passage on a boat! Don't delay; your time runs short! We leave in five minutes!"

Elrohir looked past him to the three boats. Each contained three armored men who were keeping watch over the number of people that had apparently already paid the boarding fee.

No boat held more than a half-dozen passengers.

Some people in the crowd were trying without success to organize a rush on the gnolls and their leader.

Others were fighting and robbing each other in an attempt to get fifty gold.

In the twenty feet between the shouting man and the crowd's edge were several bodies, but they seemed to be better equipped in terms of armor than most of the corpses the party had seen thus far. Others were clad only in bloody robes.

"I think we've found where the wizards and the assassins fled to." Argo announced in a grim voice.

Sitdale frowned. "How can you be sure?"

Bigfellow pointed at one body lying face-down on the pier, a large and bloody gash in its back.

"That's Nerelas."

Elrohir shook his head.

"This doesn't look like a good prospect for us."

"On the contrary," Cygnus suddenly spoke up from beside him. "I think it presents a perfect opportunity."

"For what?" Elrohir snapped.

"For this," was the mage's laconic reply.

The team leader started to say something more, but Cygnus was already casting; his lips forming unintelligible syllables and his hands moving deftly in a proscribed pattern.

Nothing seemed to happen, but then the tall mage did the last thing any of the three people standing with him would have expected him to do.

He shouted out over the din of the crowd.

"Hey, you!"

Every head turned towards them.

"What in the name of The Abyss are you doing?" squealed Sitdale.

Cygnus did not respond. He might not even have heard the half-elf. The wizard was pointing over the heads of the crowd.

But not at the man in the black scale mail.

He was pointing at one of the gnolls.

"He's deceiving you!" Cygnus shouted at the gnoll, indicating the assassin with a nod of his head. "He told me earlier that you gnolls are nothing but stupid, filthy animals, and after you'd served your purpose he'd leave the lot of you to burn to cinders!"

For a moment, there was- unbelievably- silence.

The man in the black armor started to speak but it was drowned out by the gnoll's cry of bestial rage. Halberd in battle position, the humanoid charged his erstwhile leader, the other five gnolls right behind him.

Seeing their chance, the mob surged forward, yelling and screaming.

"Your last spell. Charm of some kind, wasn't it?"

Cygnus looked over at Argo, but his only reply was a curving upward of his mouth.

The big ranger shook his head in admiration. "You are a manipulative son-of-a-bitch, aren't you, Cygnus?"

"When I need to be." The mage's face lost its smile. "Coming from you, Bigfellow, I'll assume that was a compliment."

"Most assuredly."

"It was stupid, that's what it was!" Elrohir shouted, rounding on the wizard. "What purpose did that serve? We'll still never make it through that mob!"

"I have no intention of even trying, Elrohir," Cygnus responded. "I think we're all in agreement that the center dock represents our best chance. You and Argo get back there and send word to Tojo and the others. Sitdale, come with me."

With that, Cygnus began moving forward towards the rear of the battling crowd.

Sitdale looked at Elrohir, shrugged, and followed his fellow mage.

Elrohir was furious. He hated having his leadership usurped, especially for reasons he didn't understand.

"What's the point of this, then?" he yelled at the Aardian mage.

The wizard's reply was almost lost in the tumult of the renewed fighting.

"I'm going shopping for supplies."

Elrohir was about to ask what that asinine statement meant when he saw smoke out of the corner of his eye.

Further west, not just one but three magmen were just now entering Scumslum, gleefully setting fire to everything, and everyone, they could reach.

"Come on," Elrohir told Argo. "Let's get back."

"Tojo!"

The samurai's head jerked around.

Somehow, in the midst of the swirling mass of screaming and crying townspeople on the boardwalk, Tojo saw Aslan, even if the paladin had to literally jump up so as to be visible over the heads of taller people. He saw Aslan gesture to him.

Tojo turned to the others. "We go now."

Sir Murtano, grumbling and cursing, now sported several bruises of his own as he finally managed to drag the unconscious Zantac back to the others.

"What was that all about?" the knight snapped at Thorimund, who could only shrug.

"Haven't the faintest."

Two minutes later, Elrohir, Argo, Aslan, Nesco, Tojo, Unru, Thorimund, Arwald, Sir Menn and Sir Murtano were all assembled at the foot of the central pier. At Elrohir's instructions, Sir Murtano carried the still-unconscious Zantac, while Sir Menn held onto Talass.

Cygnus and Sitdale arrived. Without a word, the two wizards tossed two small pouches to Unru and Thorimund.

Spell component pouches.

"There's only one boat left here." The ranger and group leader announced what they all could see anyway.

And now, for the first time since they had emerged onto the surface of The Aerie, Elrohir turned and looked at the dead body of his wife.

Then he looked back at Aslan.

It took him a moment before he could get the words out.

"She's getting back to Chendl, Aslan. I don't care what happens. Talass is getting back to Chendl, and so are all the rest of you."

He drew his sword again.

"Kill anyone who gets in our way."