Chapter Five

(*)

Minsc was not a subtle human being.

This is not to say he was bad. Indeed, he meant well at all times. It was just that his version of 'well' tended to be the loudest, most muscley, most mildly insane version of goodness imaginable. And so, when he heard the chittering of the monsters in the darkness of the mines, he reacted in the method he deemed most appropriate.

"What is he doing?!" Jaheira snarled as the Rashemi burst into motion, his sword drawn and a ululating battle cry echoing from his lips. She had heard the odd growls as well, of course, and the absence of miners as they went lower. She had responded to this by keeping her staff ready, making sure to avoid blind corners, and subtly motioning for Khalid to take the lead with his shield at the ready. She had not been motioning for anyone to charge blindly in screaming.

"... Helping?" Imoen said. Or asked. It wasn't entirely clear.

The twang of bowstrings filled the darkness of the tunnels, arrows flying through the flickering torchlight of the mine tunnels, and Jaheira cried out for her ally; both out of shock at his sudden endangerment of the group, and at the fact that, despite his obvious insanity, she really did not wish him to die. Be hurt somewhat, perhaps, but not die.

Minsc charged, the arrows slicing through the darkness towards him...

And missing him horribly.

Jaheira's cry of warning died on her lips as she watched in a kind of horrified fascination as the arrows, aimed to take by surprise a group proceeding slowly and cautiously, missed their target by a mile as the shocked archers released them too early, or froze up and released them too late to hit their mark. And then Minsc was in the tunnel with them and...

Well.

Minsc had charged into the darkness expecting gigantic horrors. Beasts such as dragons, wyverns, some kind of cave giant, possibly bears. Such, he reasoned, was the only sort of horror worthy of stopping him from going immediately to the rescue of his witch, and therefore it was also the sort of horror to be charged at blindly in hopes of surprising it before it got its bearings.

He was a little disappointed, then to find that the creatures waiting down the darkened tunnel to launch their ambush. They were tiny, barely up to Minsc's mighty waist, and looked as though someone had crossed together a very tiny man, a lizard, and a dog. Minsc, from the great tundra of Rasheman to the far east, had never seen their like before, and pondered the fact that perhaps running ahead of the group so very far had been a poor idea; small Imoen seemed quite wise, nearly as wise as Boo, and might be able to tell him what sort of beasts he now faced.

There were, however, six of them in the main tunnel and a few more down the smaller ones branching off it, and they all held bows or rusted swords, and those that did not stare in shock growled in defiance and charged. This was, generally, all the information Minsc needed.

Minsc was roughly three hundred pounds of muscle and metal, and carrying a sword that most people would have called too large to bring into a cramped space like a mineshaft. These people, however, lacked two things that Minsc brought into combat with him: a total lack of anything resembling human logic, and sufficient arm strength to not really need the full range of his motion to hack a small doggie thing almost completely in half.

As he proceeded to demonstrate when he stepped directly into the small horde of yipping creatures, his arms held in close to his torso and the blade coming across in a horizontal chop that most fighters couldn't have brought much force behind... and which took the lead creature's head off.

Roaring his mighty rage, Minsc stomped over the corpse and kept going, yipping beasts turning and scrambling over each other in a desperate attempt to escape him.

(*)

Sephiria saw Acherai fall, and the sheer shock of it tore the last of the cobwebs from her mind.

She rolled, barely avoiding the axe that slammed into the soil where she had been lying only a second earlier, and her eyes scanned the outcroppings above them, seeking the source of the missiles. Kagain couldn't move and Acherai was wounded, which left her (and she was not at all sure her armor was entirely safe in the stomach area) and Garrick.

Garrick...um. Well. He did his best. But she wasn't quite sure he counted as backup. So for the moment, she was on her own, and...

There.

A man in dark clothing, a hood over his pale face. He was hard to focus her eyes on, his form blurred by some spell, but the weighted throwing hatchet in his hand was easy enough to see, and he had taken up a perfect position on the ridge above them, able to rain down projectiles with impunity. A cowardly tactic to be sure, but a painfully effective one.

And so now the question becomes, she thought, how do I get up there and cut the coward down without giving him ample time to do the same to me?

A shadow too short to be a grown man fell over her, and she said, "Kagain, good, you can move. We need to find a way atop that ridge, and..."

And then she noticed the shadow appeared to be raising a weapon over its head, and she reacted on pure instinct.

Without ever leaving her crouch, she spun, swinging her broadsword in a wide arc at what would have been waist height on a human, and was just below the neck on the dwarf who had snuck up on her. His shield was raised in time... prompting a scream as the wooden buckler shattered beneath the massive blow, showering his arm and face with splinters.

The dwarf hopped back from her, throwing his shattered shield away and slipping his morningstar into a two-handed grip, drops of blood flowing down his face and vanishing into a fiery red beard. "That was a mistake, lil' girl."

Sephiria raised an eyebrow. "Hardly so great a mistake as allowing your ambush to succeed, I should think."

"Nah, see, I'd have killed ya quick," the dwarf said flatly. "Clean. Professional. Now the Cyric bitch gets ya, and she'll make it last for hours."

And as if on cue, a woman wearing a holy symbol of Cyric stepped from the growth, a chant already on her lips and a mad light in her eyes.

Oh. Well. This could be bad... Sephiria thought as the woman's chant began to reach a crescendo, and the dwarf grimly smiled as he positioned himself between the young paladin and the danger...

(*)

"I feel kinda bad for the dog lizards," Imoen murmured as Minsc, forty feet ahead of the group down a dark tunnel, beat one of them to death with the limp body of another.

"K-kobolds, child," Khalid corrected her, stepping over a pool of blood. "L-less often seen than other of the hostile humanoids l-l-like goblins and Orcs, b-because they prefer the underground. B-but still quite dangerous."

A kobold head flew down the tunnel, landing at Imoen's feet. She squeaked in dismay and kicked it away.

"F-for a certain value of 'danger'," Khalid admitted.

"I feel like we should be doing something," Imoen said. "Helping."

"We are holding up the rear," Khalid pointed out. "Protecting his back."

"But all the...kobolds?...all the kobolds are in front of him and running away."

"Then we protect him," Jaheira snapped, "from whatever he inevitably encounters that is worse than kobolds."

"... You seem angry, Jaheira."

"I am not angry. I am irritated," Jaheira said. "You will know I am angry when I have blood on my staff and a corpse at my feet."

Imoen slowed her pace so Jaheira was further away from her, and whispered to Khalid, "Why did you marry her?!"

"Her s-social skills."

(*)

Minsc trampled a kobold, screaming his berserker rage, when things began to go wrong.

Though he was moving very quickly, he was a very large target in a very small space, and there were quite a lot more of the things than he had been expecting. In the small tunnels, where he was protected from their arrows by the bodies of their own allies, this was not such an issue.

Then he stepped out of yet another narrow tunnel to find a large, wide-open cavern featuring a narrow bridge and half a dozen of the things lined up on the other side, bows ready.

Minsc charged, because charging was what he did, but he had suddenly gone from an invincible juggernaut in close quarters to a target with very limited range of motion. One false step to either side would send him plummeting into the abyss of the old mineshafts.

The archer kobolds rained arrows on him, and even a poor shot could hit a huge target that could hardly even try to dodge. He swung his weapon madly, swatting away many of the arrows...and missing many more. A shaft sunk into his shoulder, sliced open a cheek, and still he charged, pain unknown to a raging berserker.

Then one slammed home into his knee, slipping between his greaves and mail tunic, and pain became less an issue than structure. He wanted to attack, to lay waste to his foes as a good warrior should, but his leg simple could not hold his weight. And as the red mist faded from his vision to be replaced by blackness, he began to wonder as to the amount of blood he had lost...

I have let my largeness go to my head, I fear. Just like the time with the gnolls! Minsc chided himself. Should I not be killed by arrows of death, I must remember to consult Boo before charging in the future.

"Squeak," Boo said in agreement.

Minsc closed his eyes and prepared for certain, or at least very likely, doom...

And heard the sound of arrows splintering against metal.

Minsc opened his eyes, seeing the smallish man who was married to the angry woman. The half-elf was kneeling in front of him, shield raised.

"Jaheira! Now!" he snapped, all trace of a stutter gone, as his wife finished her whispered prayer and released the spell. Tangling vines sprung from the bare dirt and rock of the tunnel, wrapping around the kobolds and sending the creatures into panic and confusion.

The druid stepped forward, a stone loaded into her sling, and said, "Minsc. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but if you ever do that again, we will leave you to the consequences."

"She doesn't mean that," Imoen said as she drew back her bowstring and took aim into the panicking creatures. "She's just snippy."

"Stop helping, child."

(*)

A priestess of Cyric casting a deadly spell, and Sephiria blocked from her by a skilled killer. Above her, the man in black prepared another blade to hurl.

It would have made a wonderful story, Garrick mused, if he was not likely to die.

He had been left behind in the bushes when everyone else went out to fight, and these strange killers seemed to have not noticed them.

"Oh my, oh my. This seems as though I should perhaps flee. But I do expect to be noticed if I try, and then I suspect I will be killed a bit. Perhaps I could sing an inspiring song?"

"I...b-GAWK!...I fail to see how singing would help," said a small and somewhat clucky voice from near his foot.

"Most do," Garrick said. "But the singing of a bard such as myself can have a certain magic about it which..."

He stopped.

He looked down.

The chicken looked up at him expectantly, and said, "A certain magic which...bawk, bawk...what?"

Garrick pondered this for a few moments, before reacting with his normal decorum and grace.

"Possessed chicken!" he screamed, turning to run for his life from the obviously demonic bird. He made it about three steps before tripping on a root.

The crossbow fell from his hands.

And that was how Garrick saved the day.

(*)

Jaheira looked into the flickering torchlight where none should be; a small cavern carved into the mines and inhabited, deep in the territory of the kobolds.

"D-do you smell that, my dear?" Khalid asked her softly.

"Aye. Fresh air, and close by," she murmured. "Someone has dug a new tunnel from the surface into the mines, or reopened one long closed."

"And th-then there is this," her husband said, holding up a strange vial of thick green liquid, one of many they had found on the dead kobolds. "I p-poured a few drops on one of the swords those k-kobolds were using, and the blade began to rust almost i-instantly."

Jaheira sighed. "So, if we needed more proof this iron plague is engineered, we have it. But kobolds? They are hardly so ambitious, nor so gifted at alchemy and magecraft. This reeks of larger forces in play."

Khalid lowered his voice until even Jaheira had to struggle to hear him, and said, "Zhentarim?"

"They are certainly well funded enough, and more than vile enough," Jaheira whispered back, "Indeed, I would agree immediately, save I see no benefit for them in such an act. They need iron as much as anyone...more, given the amount of knives the murderous bastards buy. But ah, we sit and talk too long... Perhaps the best course of action at this point is to throw caution aside and press on? Find the puppet in yonder cave, and see where their strings lead us to. After we cut them, of course."

Khalid smiled and squeezed her hand. "The direct approach, as always. Ever my a-angel."

"Bah, you'll not make me blush so easily," she said with mock-ire. "A man married so long as you must work harder."

"A-and I will never stop," he swore, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Minsc, I-Imoen. We are ready to move on."

"And you will do so quietly," Jaheira snapped. "No charging madly, or giggling girlishly, or..."

"Setting off traps?" Imoen asked brightly.

"Aye, none of...wait, what?"

Smiling brightly, Imoen skipped past her and knelt down near the doorway, lightly brushing aside some dust to reveal a nearly invisible wire strung along the floor. Following it to the wall, she felt along the cracks in the stone for one that gave at her touch and removed the hidden panel, revealing the mechanism hidden inside. Delicately, she reached in and removed a small dart, sniffing it. "Ew. Puffguts has something like this for the kitchens, but it just shoots pepper clouds. This smells like something nasty. You wouldn't want it in your blood, anyway."

Jaheira's jaw was practically on the floor, and only Khalid's choked gasps of laughter stopped her from gaping for several straight minutes. "I...see. Well. That was...well done, Imoen. You..."

Imoen's grin was practically enough to light up the tunnel. "I'm growing on ya, huh?"

"... I would not go that far."

"Fear not, mighty Jaheira! Minsc shall not grow on you. He has enough trouble finding armor that fits at the size he is now," Minsc said proudly.

Ignoring her husband's strangled chuckles, and very much blushing this time, Jaheira snarled, "Oh, let us just go face death already. It has more dignity."

"Finally, you speak the language of Minsc!"

Sweet Silvanus, Jaheira thought glumly, I hope not.

(*)

When questioned on it later, Sephiria's account of things would go something like this.

She had swung her weapon in a wide horizontal arc at the dwarf's neck height, hoping to knock him aside so she could sprint past and deal with the cleric. This had failed miserably, as in midswing, her arm was struck by a thrown axe from the damn coward atop the ridge; it skipped off the plates of her armor, but the shock and impact ensured her strike landed with far less than the crushing force intended, and forced her to jump back as the dwarven mercenary launched a counter attack on her knees.

She saw the cleric's mad smile of triumph as dark power crackled between her fingers...

... And then she heard what sounded like a young girl screaming about a possessed chicken, and a crossbow bolt struck the woman directly in the neck, slipping between her helm and armor to bury itself in her jugular.

For a few long seconds, the battlefield was totally silent, save for a kind of soft gurgling as the priestess of Cyric tried to breathe and did nothing but suck blood into her lungs. After about twenty seconds of this, she fell forward limply.

Karlat shrugged and prepared to continue his attack on the girl, saying, "Bigger share for me."

Sephiria smiled coldly at this comment, saying, "Such disregard for an ally...whatever doubt I may have had, you have dispelled. You earn your own fate."

Karlat opened his mouth to mock the sentiment, only to be cut off second later when a gruff voice behind him said, "Not so bad, really. Seems a dwarf after me own heart," and he realized exactly what fate she had been talking about.

Eyes wide, the assassin spun... Too late. A golden hammer slammed home on his right shoulder with bone crushing force, and almost worse, a shock of lightning spread through his whole body from the point of impact, sending his muscles spasming madly. The arm fell uselessly to his side, and his vision blurred from the pain as he looked on Kagain's smirk.

Kagain could smirk well, when he tried. "Nice hammer. Too good fer a madman, even if he did have some good spells."

Karlat snarled, "Yer mother's a drow, ye sod." Even he knew it was more for the sake of saying something, as things were going very wrong. His wound was crippling, the girl was running to the elf Nimbul had wounded, and... Speaking of Nimbul, he seemed to have made himself scarce as things turned against them.

Kagain shrugged, his expression suggesting he damn well knew just how deep the hole Karlat found himself in was. "Insults from the dead don't sting much."

He stepped forward, and brought enchanted hammer down hard. The other dwarf raised his own weapon to parry, and the two met...

Karlat had just enough time to think Bloody iron crisis! before his weapon shattered at the impact and the golden hammer, lightning flowing along its surface, slammed home.

(*)

Minsc and Khalid led the way, the smaller warrior taking the front and staying low, letting his shield lead the way while allowing Minsc to attack over his head if needed. Jaheira stepped up behind them, her staff in hand and a spell ready in her mind, while Imoen took up the rear, an arrow nocked. They were ready for nearly anything.

Nearly.

"No! No, no, no!" the half-orc snapped, rising from his desk and setting down the quill which he had been writing a letter with. "It is not yet time! How am I to make progress if Tazok gives me so little time to work between inspections?! I have followed his orders to the letter!"

The stalwart group, prepared to face monsters and despair, stopped cold in open confusion at the sight of complaining middle-management. Imoen, as the team's professional liar, recovered first.

"I-indeed!" she snapped, putting on her best 'evil' voice, which admittedly sounded a little like an angry puppy, but the weird guy was so flustered she doubted he would notice. "Tazok is very unhappy with your progress. Especially after all the dog-lizards..."

"Kobolds!" Jaheira whispered harshly.

"...Kobolds he has sent you. At least double the kobolds that anyone competent would need, I think." She arched an eyebrow in what she hoped was a sinister manner. "Perhaps we should simply take over. I am sure Tazok would prefer someone who could get results, matey."

"Matey?" Jaheira hissed. "He is not a pirate!"

"Nay! Nay, I do as commanded!" the half-orc protested, his face visibly paling. "My results are good! Progress is slow, but nearly no iron leaves the mine untainted! Take my reports to Tazok, he will understand, I do the best anyone could with the resources he gives!"

Imoen gave an indignant huff, but said, "Very well. We will take your results, and any other documents pertaining to the operation. Tazok can judge for himself. If he is displeased, I suggest you be long gone when we return. And take your dog-lizards with you!"

"Kobolds," Jaheira snarled as the two women stepped past the groveling man to search his dimly lit desk.

"It worked, didn't it? Now we just take the paperwork and..." Imoen murmured.

"Fools! Think you that Mulahey would demean himself to you?! Tazok will be more lenient when you do not survive to report!" the half-orc suddenly roared, raising a pendant hidden beneath his armor. "Arise, my minions!"

The soil of the mine floor split, hands of filthy bone tearing free as a dozen skeletons, eyes glowing with unearthly light, climbed free.

"... Jerk," Imoen grumbled.

(*)

Sephiria dropped to her knees beside Acherai, causing him to mutter in a deliriously, "Oh, no rush...just the one axe..."

"Hush. Your mouth is not needed at the moment," she murmured, assessing the wound. The axe had remained in the wound and stopped him from losing too much blood, but it was not good. "This is bad. Magic will be needed. I could attempt the Laying on of Hands..."

"'s what all the girls say..." Acherai mumbled. "Can't keep th' hands off."

"... First, I will be punching you for that comment later," Sephiria said bluntly. "Second, be silent. I have...not actually treated a wound this deep before. I must concentrate."

To Lay on Hands was a power possessed by most paladins; once per day and with a simple touch, they could channel the energy of their god in a pulse of healing energy. While it lacked the versatility of the spells granted to true clerics, it was quick and effortless...

And she had never actually used it to heal anything more severe than Imoen's stubbed toe.

"Lord Torm, patron of knights and all who serve the truth, if you would see fit to smile on your...soon-to-be consecrated servant..."

"You aren't a real paladin yet?!" Acherai squeaked, panic outweighing pain for a second. "Do you know if this will work?"

"... I have faith."

"Oh, gods..."

I hope so, Sephiria thought desperately, slipping off her glove and shoving it into Acherai's mouth to keep him from biting through his tongue, and yanking the axe out of the wound with a single swift tug.

The elf let out a muffled scream as fresh blood poured from his open wound, and Sephiria clamped her hand down on it. Her skin glowed a pale blue, as it was supposed to, but...but...

The flow of blood slowed at her touch, but it did not stop, and the elf grew more pale with each passing second.

She had failed. Oh gods she had failed and another death was on her head, just like Gorion and...

Blood.

In your veins, on your hands. A connection.

Sephiria softly exhaled, her eyes going blank. Something gold sparked deep within them, for less than a second.

Hunted and hated. The world seeks to destroy you. But what is within can save you. Take the power you are owed. In the blood, in the bone.

Acherai's eyes glazed over. The blood flowing from his wound seemed to darken, pooling around Sephiria's hand in a way that just might have been unnatural...

Something shimmered, a nimbus of golden energy that was somehow not warm at all.

The path is chosen, and you WILL walk it.

Sephiria blinked in confusion, staring down at her bloody hand. The wound beneath it had closed completely, sparks of gold light fading from her fingertips...and Acherai's eyes.

The elf and woman stared into each other's eyes, breathing in perfect unison. For a long time, they sat there, the only sound in the universe their own breath and their own heartbeats.

"What...what was that...?" Acherai asked finally. "What did you do...?"

Sephiria shuddered and inched away from him, wiping her bloody hand on the grass. "I... I don't know..." she whispered, as if her denial could erase the last few minutes from history.

But she had done something... And she had heard something, on the edge of consciousness, a fading whisper.

Blood calls to blood.

And you WILL answer.