Chapter Four

(*)

"I have a question," Sephiria said as they marched through the wilderness, brushing aside a thornbush with her armored hand. "If this murderer is as foul as you claim, and has such a bounty, how is it that nobody has hunted him down before now?"

"Presumably because he keeps killing them," Acherai said. "The man is a cleric, if the bounty notice is accurate, and Cyric is said to favor madmen and murderers, of which he is both. His power is likely to be considerable."

Sephiria grimaced. "You didn't mention he was a Cyricist."

"I didn't think it would be a problem. You are a paladin, after all. Of Torm, no less! The Prince of Lies and your deity get along like... well, like Garrick and dignity."

"How rude!" Garrick murmured.

"Garrick, you should stand up for yourself more. Don't let him walk all over you," Sephiria said.

"Hm? Oh, no, no. He's actually quite better than my previous employer!" Garrick said. "For one, he has not tried to kill me yet. And for second, he is a far more interesting story."

"Eh?"

"Oh, you're part of it too! Why, I may not be a terribly good bard, but even I can spot the beginnings of a great tale from heroes in the making! Why, if I manage to not die and am able to write a proper ballad about it, I expect I shall be very well-received in taverns up and down the Coast! And really, is that not what life is about?"

"... Free ale and lodgings?"

"Exactly!" Garrick said to Sephiria's increasingly perturbed expression as she continued to push forward through the brush.

"Told you so," Acherai whispered into her ear.

"Both of ya, shut it," Kagain muttered. "I think we're gettin' close."

"Hm? We've only been walking a few hours, how do you..."

"Because I don't hear any animals," the dwarf whispered harshly, motioning again for the group to quiet down. "And I do smell something. Take a whiff."

Blinking in confusion, Acherai and Sephiria stopped and, in unison, inhaled deeply. Almost identical somber expressions clouded their faces immediately.

"Still distant, but..." Acherai began.

"Rot," Sephiria whispered. "And there's no wind, so it can't be too far away."

Acherai smiled. "I confess to a certain giddiness now that we're this close. This is where it all comes together for us!"

"Yeah, and if we get ate by zombies, it's where it all comes apart too," Kagain snapped. "Stay calm and stay quiet. No sayin' where the bastard is."

Sephiria nodded once, and drew her sword, the two-handed war-sword that was her last memento of Candlekeep. Not a fancy blade, and nothing magical about it, unlike the metal staff Acherai had been walking with or the battleax at Kagain's hip. But it was a solid blade, familiar to her, and while it might not have been elaborate, it was perfectly forged, predated the iron crisis, and a half-dozen crushed training dummies over the year since she'd gotten it suggested it was bloody efficient at destroying things.

Torm, give me strength to strike in your name, she thought, sending a silent prayer to her god as she steeled her mind for her first true battle.

She wasn't sure of much, lately, but she felt that it could hardly be the wrong thing to do.

(*)

To the north, in the Friendly Arm Inn, a young halfling named Bennigan arrived with a message for the travelers Khalid and Jaheira, delivered from the ward of their friend Gorion.

Upon finding out they were no longer at the inn and had left no indicator of where they planned to go next, he shrugged, left the letter with the owner of the inn, and had a helping of the side of venison that the Mirrorshades had roasting in the kitchen with a flagon of ale. He then stayed the night before walking back home the next day, whistling a small tune to himself, to live the rest of his life in relative comfort with his close-knit family in Beregost.

What? Not all contributions to a story can be impressive.

(*)

"So... Nashkel," Imoen said. "It's a nice place?"

"It... could be worse." Khalid offered.

"It is a fair enough village, though the mines are a blight on the land. A cesspit that delves into the earth seeking her riches and gives nothing in return. Were it not for the fact that so many lives depend on the iron it produces, I would not cry to see it burned from the map," Jaheira said.

"... Is there anything you do like, Jarrie?"

"I like the solitude of the deep forests. I like seeing animals roaming free, the balance and beauty of nature. A gentle sunny day, with naught to do but meditate on the grace of Silvanus and enjoy the company of my husband," Jaheira said, a rare warmth in her tone. It was ruined a bit when she continued, in the exact same tone, "Oh, and killing slavers."

"... … … what was that last one?"

"A despicable breed of person. So smug, so superior, so certain in their ability to steal forever the freedoms that are the right of all living things. It brings me deep-seated joy to take from them their vile empires, free their captives, and show them the collapse of everything I value before I smash in their disgusting skulls and leave them for the worms," Jaheira said, patting her quarterstaff almost fondly.

Imoen fell back a few steps to walk next to Khalid, who was bringing up the rear, and whispered, "Your. Wife. Scares me."

"J-Jaheira means well. S-she just tends to prefer nature to people," Khalid said warmly. Then, more softly, he whispered, "And s-sometimes she scares me too."

"If you two are finished conspiring against me," Jaheira said flatly, "we have been marching half a day already. A meal would not be amiss."

"Ooooooh! Are you gonna teach me the simple and hearty meals of the wandering adventurer?" Imoen asked.

Jaheira reached into her pack and tossed Imoen a travel biscuit and a small canteen.

"... This isn't hearty," Imoen muttered, gnawing at the strangely rock-like bread as best she could, and sitting on a nearby log to take the load off her feet.

As she nibbled at a biscuit that she could only assume was made of sawdust and horror, she took the chance to look over the papers she had... erm, borrowed from Tarnesh back at the inn. With Jaheira slavedriving her off to the south (And she hated slavers! The hypocrisy of some people) she hadn't had much time to look at any of them, and she suspected they were, if not important, than at least interesting.

The first one was about what she had been expecting... and afraid of. A description that matched Seffie pretty much dead-on... and matched Imoen herself tangentially, but she didn't so much care about that. The issue that worried her so much was that this was proof. Definitive and irrefutable. Someone... someone wanted Seffie dead. Seffie, who was basically the nicest person in the world. A bit stuffy maybe, but a total sweetheart who basically spent her days wandering around Candlekeep asking to do favors for people and had not beaten the tar out of Imoen nearly so often as she deserved. She was obedient, and hardworking, and always put other people before herself even when (in Imoen's expert opinion) it was a damn stupid thing to do.

Who the Hells would put a bounty on a girl like that? And why? They were clearly serious about it, if they would go so far as killing Gorion to get at her. The bounty notice was for a kill only, no intent to take her alive. The closest thing Imoen had to a sister, and some... some bastard who had never even met her wanted to kill her and didn't even give a reason why.

Well. That just wasn't gonna do.

Sephiria was still alive, she was sure of that. Since whoever had killed Gorion only wanted her dead, and hadn't rescinded this bounty, that meant she was at least still alive. And more... Imoen just thought she would know if Sephiria was dead. It was a sister thing.

She still didn't know where she was, of course. But she was the sort who would get into freelance heroism if you left her alone for ten minutes. And that meant Imoen's current path was the best she was going to find. Khalid and Jaheira would find her Seffie, and then she and Seffie would find whoever had killed Gorion and hurt them really, really bad.

Y'know. In a family way.

(*)

"You know," Garrick said idly, "It occurs to me we don't have a healer."

"Shut up, Garrick," Acherai muttered.

"I just say this because there appears to be a lot of zombies."

"Shut up, Garrick."

"And I think our current party configuration was chosen on the assumption that we'd be, well, fighting one man. And not one man and his horde of the undead."

"Garrick!" Acherai whispered harshly. "Do you want me to use you as zombie bait?!"

"... No?"

"Then shut your damn mouth!" he snapped, still not letting his tone rise above a harsh whisper.

The problem was, Garrick had a point for once. They had come out here expecting to find one man. A dangerous cleric with ready spells, perhaps, but one man. And they had found one man, it was just he was surrounded by at least thirty creatures that might have once been men. Both rotting zombies and animated skeletons, the lowliest of undead perhaps, but... thirty of them.

"We turn about. We call this one a waste and we turn about," Kagain said flatly. "We're not to be bringin' this one down."

"No!" Sephiria snapped. "We cannot... he made those out of people! Innocent people that he's... waylaid and murdered! This man is an abomination! Torm would never approve us leaving him to continue his predations!"

"Really?" Garrick asked. "Well, luckily I don't really worship Torm, and I don't think the other two do either... I mean, really, Elves and Dwarves tend to have their own gods, so."

"... Garrick. Stop helping," Sephiria murmured, admittedly starting to find it harder and harder to argue with Acherai when he treated the bard like an imbecile. "My point is... well... I'm supposed to be the leader, aren't I? You said I was. We have to act like I would. And I would never let a monster like this continue his work."

Acherai winced. "Yes, I suppose I did say that, but... well, I was a bit counting on us having a numerical advantage. Maybe we should come back at some other point."

"When he has twice as many zombies?! He's only going to get stronger!" Sephiria snapped.

"Mother? Is that you?" Bassilus the mad cleric asked, his gaze drifting over toward the copse of trees the small adventuring band was hiding behind.

There was silence for several long seconds, before Acherai said, "Talk to him."

Sephiria, eyes wide, said, "Um... yes, my son! It is I... your... mother!"

"Well, we're dead," Kagain said, almost cheerfully.

"Ah, mother! I've not seen you since the sacking of Zhentil Keep! I'd feared you had perished... Thurm here nearly did as well, and I'd heard so little of the family since I escaped!" Bassilus said, a huge smile on his face as he patted a zombie on the back as he continued to speak to, as far as they could tell, the tree that Sephiria was standing behind. "Come, join us! We were just telling tales of the old days, before the fall, before so many were... were... no, that's not right, we all escaped..."

Sephiria was, for a moment, overcome with pity for the poor creature. Cyricist and murderer he might have been, but he was also clearly sick in the head to believe these creatures were family lost in the infamous sacking of Zhentil Keep. "I... I..."

Acherai sighed. "Yes, my son!" he shouted out, reasoning that Basillus probably was not lucid enough to tell one voice from another if he thought his zombies could talk to him. "I... have not seen you since Zhentil Keep. Erm, thank the gods we all got out alive!"

"Yup. Dead," Kagain continued.

Bassilus nodded, smiling, but a shade of doubt had come into his eyes as he continued to talk to the voices in his head. "Yes, yes, it... it was a true... miracle? Or... no. No, we... no. No! You lie! They didn't escape, none of them! Only I... only I..."

Acherai smiled. "Only you escaped? When you fled and left them all to die, so you could replace them all with these mockeries? What a terrible son you were..."

"No! No, I... no..." Bassilus fell to his knees, sobbing, his eyes wide and streaming tears as his gaze tore around the clearing wildly, his undead falling around him in lifeless piles as the will behind them extinguished their false lives in his madness and grief.

"Well, I'll be damned," Kagain said appreciatively, hefting his axe. "You really might be just crazy enough to get us all out of this alive."

"I'm not crazy, I'm brilliant," Acherai drawled. "And, oh yes, before I forget: Kill him."

"Acherai, can we really just execute him? He is clearly unaware of his actions," Sephiria said. "And what he said... to flee from the death of his family..."

"Oh, gods above, you're empathizing," Acherai said with open astonishment. "Don't. This is not like you and your father, dear. This man is a priest of Cyric. God of, among other things, strife, madness, and murder. You know what that means, don't you?"

Sephiria sighed. "... Yes. He was a killer long before he lost his family. Even if you could argue him innocent of these deaths, he is hardly an innocent man." Standing, she drew her sword, walking over to the sobbing man, preparing to exact justice. She stopped beside him, and raised her blade, and closed her eyes. "Torm the true, patron of knights and servants of justice, guide my arm this day, and take the soul of this man to the fate he deserv-"

She was cut off, then, by the kneeling man slamming his golden warhammer into her stomach, a shock of agony running through her as the enchanted weapon sent arcs of lightning rolling through her metal armor. She was hurled backwards and slammed into the ground on her back, gasping to recover the wind that had been knocked out of her.

Bassilus looked down on her, smiling widely, his eyes wide and manic. "Mother! Don't worry. You'll be one of us soon, and then everything will be okay."

The holy symbol of Cyric around his neck grew darker, the light around him dying, and he began to chant.

Acherai cursed under his breath, and said, "Why did she stop to pray?!"

(*)

Jaheira nodded at Mayor Ghastkill's words. "As promised, Berrun. We will enter the mines tomorrow in the morning, and determine the cause of your issues."

Berrun Ghastkill, mayor of the mining town of Nashkell, the northernmost town in the nation of Amn, sighed. "My thanks, Jaheira. Between the captain of my guard going mad, and keeping order in the town, I simply don't have enough men to clear this out on my own. Made worse by the fact that what few guards I can get to go into the mines at all are panicked by the endless yammering of the miners going on and on about 'demons'..."

Jaheira chuckled slightly. "If it helps, if a true tanar'ri would likely not constrain itself to a mineshaft. Whatever your problem might be, it is not a demon."

The mayor sighed and ran his hand through his graying hair, highlighting a scar on his scalp. "I know that, and you know that, but try getting some idiot farmer's son who's been booted up to the border guard in the worst town in the nation to understand. I do not have the cream of the crop to work with here, Jaheira... unless its curdled."

Jaheira chuckled again. She was not one prone to humor, but Ghastkill was an old soldier and companion of more than one adventure, the sort of person she let her guard down around more than others and tolerated with much less of her trademark temper. As opposed to...

"Guys, guys!" Imoen shouted, running up to the two. "You will never guess what I found!"

Jaheira winced and tried not to scream. The girl meant well, she really did, but in the name of Silvanus Imoen wore on her. It was hard to believe she was truly a ward of Gorion; she had none of his dignity, none of his subtle humor, none of his restraint.

She sighed, chastising herself for these uncharitable thoughts. Imoen was going through a very hard time, and Jaheira knew that she could be... difficult. Perhaps she was simply missing Gorion herself. She had not seen him in years, but Gorion was fondly remembered. Perhaps she was projecting her own sense of loss onto the poor girl...

"I recruited a new guy to help us!" Imoen said, waving at the man following her. He was an enormous man, easily two feet taller than the girl who came before him. He was also completely bald, had a pale blue tribal tattoo over his eye, and appeared to have a hamster on his head. "His name is Minsc! I found him standing around and he had a sword so I decided to have him join our team. Isn't he awesome?!"

… of course, it was also possible that Imoen was just horrible, Jaheira realized, as the red haze of fury fell across her vision.

"I see," Jaheira said through gritted teeth. "And rather than helping Khalid make reservations at the inn, as you were asked to do, you instead chose to go about recruiting strangers into our fold. You, who are the target of assassins, chose to recruit a stranger to sleep next to us."

"Worry not!" the man proclaimed a bit more loudly than was technically needed. "Minsc is a force of justice and righteousness, not a force of smashing little girls! He is a noble warrior! He is a titan of pleasantness! His sword is large and his heart is pure, and while his head is somewhat foggy he is guided by the wisdom of Boo!"

"I... I have no idea what that you are talking about," Jaheira admitted, the red fury giving way to confusion more quickly than she'd have liked.

"The wisdom," Minsc said, picking up the hamster and holding it out to her, as if he expected her to be awed by it (and, in a sad kind of way, she was).

"See what I mean?" Imoen squealed. "He's got a giant sword and a cute pet! And I'm sorry, but you and Khalid need to laugh more. This guy is hilarious!"

"I... I..." Jaheira sighed. "I confess he does not strike me as being of malicious intent. And he does look... athletic. He seems like one who can handle himself in battle, and it is possible an extra arm would be of value."

"Then small leathered woman is in luck, for Minsc has two arms, and each of them is so strong as to be worth two more! He shall strike down all your foes like a man with four arms, only without getting his arms tangled against each other!"

"... 'small leathered woman'?"

"It fits you, kinda?" Imoen said helpfully. "I mean, you're not really small, but compared to him, who isn't on the small side..."

"Stop helping, Imoen," Jaheira said in a long-suffering tone. "Tell me... Minsc, was it? What do you seek in return for this act? A share of the spoils, or do you act out of the goodness of your heart?"

Minsc sighed. "A tale of woe it is, and a tale of woe I shall tell! Minsc would indeed much like to help small leathered woman and small pink girl out of the goodness of his heart, for Minsc's heart has much goodness! But Minsc is cursed by fate to need the aid of strong swords for justice, for he faces a foe too large even for he!"

"It turns out his friend-" Imoen began.

"Witch."

"His friend-witch was kidnapped! I figured, he needs help, we need help, everyone needs help! Makes sense, right?" Imoen asked.

"Minsc makes sense in all things," Minsc said.

Jaheira sighed. "Imoen. We may all die tomorrow. We may uncover information that demands we act on it immediately to save lives. We do not have time to be taking on new quests, and even if we did, you were both irresponsible and extremely foolish to take on new responsibilities without consulting the rest of the group!"

Imoen pouted tears filling her eyes. "But... b-but..."

Jaheira winced. "Oh, be silent. Just... just tell the man he must go."

"... But h-his... his friend..." Imoen said, a sob entering her tone. Her eyes got red and The sun appeared to grow a little dimmer.

"... … Fine. He can stay. But paying for his room comes from your share of any reward!"

Imoen made a little squealing sound not entirely unlike the large man's hamster, and ran off toward the inn.

(*)

Sephiria looked up at the face of death, struggling to get some kind of motion from her numb limbs as the cleric called to his loathsome god. Her fingers twitched madly, unable to grasp her sword, her legs shook, she found herself unable to stand. Crackling blue-black energy rippled between his fingers, and she had the sinking sensation she was going to join his 'family' in short order...

A crossbow bolt slammed home. It didn't slam home into Bassilus, unfortunately, instead hitting the ground next to his feet while Garrick shouted, "Oh dear," but it was a distraction, if nothing else. The cleric looked up, his snarled cry to Cyric changing its tone, changing into a demand for power. A sickening wave of dark energy blanketed the area, and though Sephiria was not even in it she could feel it, the disgusting aura of the Unholy Blight, the power of Cyric...

And then Kagain, totally unharmed, charged out of the darkness and drove his horned helmet into the priest's gut. "That's it, then? I thought you were a nasty one. Felt like a light breeze."

"Murderer... monster... slayer of children!" Basillus snarled, hefting his hammer. "You killed my family!"

"HA! Well, I'm going to kill you. Is that close enough?" Kagain chuckled, swinging his ax in. The cleric was oddly strong and armored, and his magical golden weapon was vastly superior to the simple steel weapon the dwarf wielded. He was, however, at a major disadvantage.

He was tall.

Two warriors, both armored, both bearing shields and weapons of similar reach, would normally be rather evenly matched, all other things being equal. Kagain was more skilled, but Bassilus fought with a rage so deep it was nearly demonic. The two would likely have been equal indeed, had it not been for something that all dwarves had learned from a young age:

It was much easier to defend your head than your legs, and height and reach were only an advantage if you used them to keep an opponent away from you.

The man swung his hammer down again and again, practically frothing at the mouth with fury... and Kagain's shield, held above his head, caught every blow, while the dwarf returned his attacks at the mains waist, knees, thighs. Too low for Bassilus to accurately bring his own shield into play, at least not while he was also trying to attack. The axe struck in again and again, hitting at the lighter armor of the cleric's legs, piercing the chain links and cutting into him, sending streams of blood rolling down them as he continued to hammer away. To all appearances it was a race against time... what would give out first, the dwarf's shield before the magic hammer, or the mad cleric's body?

The answer would be 'neither'.

Kagain was not a scholar, not a master of divine knowledge. He was a sellsword. And so, he did not spot the chant, the hissed prayer hidden in Bassilus's inhuman snarls and mad rants... at least not until the wave of energy rolled over him, and his body froze, his muscles held in place as firmly as if they had become stone.

The cleric smirked wickedly, his eyes filled with a familiarity that was somehow worse than simple madness as he looked on the dwarf struggling against the bonds of his magic, and murmured affectionately, "Oh, cousin Melvar, you always were such a scamp. Don't worry, I know you're sick, but I shall help you feel better soon..." as he lifted his hammer high.

And with a sharp crack, he fell forward, his neck shifting at an odd and inhuman angle, his eyes going panicked and lost before he even hit the ground.

Acherai, his spell of invisibility dispelled by the action of striking the man's neck with his heavy metal staff, smiled wickedly. "Well. Not quite so seamless as I'd hoped for, but I'd say it went well enough in the end," stepping forward, he swung the staff down on the man's head several more times, to be safe; his attack had been perfect and taken the man totally by surprise, and he knew the neck was broken. Still, it was hard to predict how an injury like that could incapacitate a cleric. Best to make certain he was dead.

"All right. Ladies, gentlemen? Are we all alive?" he asked. Sephiria twitched, continuing to work her way slowly back to a sitting position, and Kagain tried and failed to make his lips move in an answer, producing a kind of frustrated tic to the corner of his mouth. "Yes, then. Well, congratulations to us all, then! A dangerous madman brought low, a very, very nice bounty all ours, and it cost us little in the end save some healing potions and perhaps a new shield for our dwarven friend, if he has some issue using the late cleric's. A fine day indeed!"

And then an ax, expertly sharpened and balanced for throwing, came flying down off of the ridge of rocks to their north, slamming into Acherai's shoulder and throwing him onto his back, staring up breathlessly into the sky, his mind unable to process what had just happened.

As blackness drew in around his vision, and the sounds of at least two warriors in armor charging at them filled his ears, his only thought was, All right, I admit it, Garrick did have a point about needing to recruit a healer.

(*)

The Nashkel mines were dark, and cold, the entrance filled with filthy miners with no hope in their eyes, and the depths ringing with what Imoen could not help but notice sounded an awful lot like something growling.

"So," she said hopefully. "I don't suppose I can stay out and make sure no wolves follow us in, then? Because they are just an epidemic lately, and-"

With an annoyed sigh, Jaheira grabbed the girl's arm and dragged her into the darkness, Khalid and Minsc on either side of them, the former looking grim and sturdy in a way that nobody who saw him in the light of day would have imagined, and the latter smiling like he was about to go on a school field trip to see pretty horses.

In hidden alcoves and tunnels stretching through the mine, staring in on the main paths, many, many hungry eyes looked in on the four as they entered the darkness. The growls grew louder, and joining them came the clatter of weapons being readied, canine jaws drooling with hunger and bloodlust, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting adventurers...

And then Minsc thought he saw something that looked like it might have been unpleasant, and everything very quickly started to go wrong for everyone.