Chapter Ten

(*)

Sarevok had to admit, he rather liked this part of the operation.

Oh, all of it had its place, he knew that. Rieltar might have earned every last bit of his burning hatred, but he was a master manipulator. The plan he had created, the iron shortage that gripped the coast, would have very certainly earned him a fortune that made his own considerable holdings seem like the contents of a beggar's cup. But it bored him, it truly did. Stockpiling ore? Delivering the contents between hidden storehouses? Connecting with scattered agents in clandestine meetings? It was so… quiet. So subtle. So tedious.

But the 'bandits', the mercenary companies that Rieltar had contracted to play the part of thieves, driving the crisis to ever greater heights. Those were people he could understand. Whether they were motivated by the love of gold or the sheer joy of blood, they took it by simple, straight force. It was not the best way to claim what you wanted out of life, he knew that, but it was certainly the most refreshing. He could even wear his armor in front of them, since not one had the slightest idea what it meant. It scared the Hells out of even the most hardened killer in the bunch, and he approved of this.

"So how long must I be out here, guiding small pink things into being something like an army?" Tazok snarled as he stood next to Sarevok, watching men load stolen iron goods into Bags of Holding for transport to the storage facility.

Sarevok smirked. "Do you mean the Black Talon humans, or the hobgoblins over in the Chill camp?"

The hardened soldier, one of Sarevok's most trusted lieutenants, looked over the camp with some disdain. "All small. All pink. All equally worthless. Would kill them all if you didn't think they was worth the trouble, boss."

It was hard to blame him; Tazok was not a member of any mercenary company, but one of Sarevok's personal acolytes and easily the most powerful fighter in his employ. A former soldier from the Sythsillian Empire to the far south, he was a half-ogre who favored his ogrish half far more than his human half. He stood easily a head taller than even the seven-foot-tall Sarevok himself, and was roughly half again as broad at the shoulders and waist. He looked down upon the mercenaries because he could like reach out, lift any one of them with one hand, and crush his skull without visible effort.

But as he said, he would not do so while Sarevok gave him no orders to do so. Tazok did not respect much in this world beyond his own personal gain and his love of violence, but he very much respected power. His loyalty to Sarevok, and the power he represented, was absolute. He had only been eighteen years old, when he had met Tazok in the wilds. Sarevok had been in the mountains, training, and Tazok had misjudged him as easy prey… a notion erased when Sarevok had defeated him in single combat. The half-ogre had been a trusted servant ever since; a remora all too happy to attach himself to the biggest shark he knew. When Sarevok's 'loyalty' to his father's schemes had gotten him placed in a position of importance managing the faux bandit attacks, Tazok had been the ideal choice to serve as field commander.

Sarevok shrugged. "Whatever your preferences, I need someone who can be trusted in command of this operation. Taugoz and Ardenor might be paid in Rieltar's coin, but you insure the orders they receive come from me. Besides, you cannot claim you don't enjoy the work."

"Enjoy the work just fine. Despise the co-workers," Tazok growled. "Give me someone I can work with. Ogres. Ogrillons. Would even take puny orcs, in a pinch. Chill Hobgoblins are just barely passable as soldiers, and Ardenor thinks too much to be a good lackey. And the humans… ugh."

"You realize, of course, that I am human?" Sarevok asked.

"You don't count, boss. Strong enough to rip the horns off a dragon! Might be part ogre, somewhere in there. Would be happy to have you with me when burning a town."

"Alas, but serious battle will have to wait. Rieltar has me playing delivery boy," Sarevok said with an annoyed sigh. "After, I'm to return to the Throne and attend him in his next wave of negotiations. He'll be meeting the Knights of the Shield in two months' time."

Tazok's eyes widened. "Big name. This means…"

Sarevok smirked, raising a finger to his lips. "Nothing more where the men might hear it. We still have much work to do before things go as planned."

Tazok smiled. He was one of a select few beings who knew the full plan, and was enough of a psychotic killer to find it a good one. Leaving it at that, Sarevok picked up the loaded Bags of Holding; each one had nearly a ton of iron goods, and each one weighed no more than the cloth it was made of. He was no mage, but he had to admit magic certainly did have its uses. He had many miles to travel, yet, and with these items he could do it alone.

It was a ridiculous duty, but such things were needed. He needed to stay close to his Rieltar's business practices, until such time he was able to take them for himself. And then… well.

Gorion's ward was still out there, and while he had spent a considerable portion of his wealth on killing her, he knew in his blood it wouldn't succeed. She would come for him, he knew it. And when she did, he wanted her to be gazing down on her from a throne, showing her how far beneath him she still was.

A silly notion, perhaps, but he was allowed to dream. Gods could do whatever they wished.

(*)

If someone had told Sephiria, merely even a week before, that she would be hunting a team of bandits back to their camp with a dwarven mercenary and a Drow elf cleric behind her, she would have assumed they were insane.

Thus far, she had to admit that the dark elf woman, Viconia DeVir by name, was not nearly the mythical monster she had come to expect from the Drow's dark reputation. They had truly seen no evidence that the Flaming Fist officer's accusations were true, in any event; she seemed barely able to walk under her own power following the chase that had led her to them. Kivan had not cared, of course; the feud between the subterranean drow and the lighter-skinned elves of the surface was legendary and bloody. The ranger had been very open in his desire to put an arrow in the dark elven priestess and have done with it.

It had been, oddly enough, Acherai who had spoken up on the woman's behalf. And Sephiria herself, while wary of Vicionia both for her species and the possibility she actually was a dangerous murderer, couldn't deny his (slightly cruel) logic:

"Well, you got my leg broken, and she fixed it, so you'll forgive me if when given the choice between two elves who are certain to cause problems for the group, I'll pick her. At least she has more value from a practical perspective."

And so, they had allowed the drow woman to remain. She had mostly stayed silent, walking at the rear of the group and shifting her gaze warily between the two male elves as if she expected one of them to turn on her at any moment, but she had not caused a problem or made any effort to start a fight. She even seemed to somewhat approve of Sephiria, apparently liking the idea of a woman leading the party.

It had taken them a few hours of walking like this before another group of bandits crossed their path. Sephiria nodded at her erstwhile partner as Kivan informed them of the planned ambush, and Acherai smiled and said, cheerfully, "Viconia, dear, to the front, hood just far back enough they can see your face."

Under her hood, the drow arched a perfect white eyebrow. "I do not believe I take orders from you, darthiir," she murmured. "I tolerate your presence for the protection your leader offers, but I have not fallen so far that a faerie elf may simply command me."

"Oh my. You are going to be another difficult one, I see," he said. "Dear heart, if you would? Those fine men with their very fine bows are going to start shooting at us eventually. Having a dark elf involved in negotiations would certainly give us the advantage of intimidation."

"Viconia, he does have a point," Sephiria said, hating to admit it. "The reputation of your people would likely make bandits show whatever respect their sort can muster."

The drow rolled her eyes, sighing as if this was an intense irritation to her, but she stepped forward, pulling her hood back as Acherai bowed to her with utter, impossible sarcasm.

Sephiria tried to pretend she was confident the plan was working, but her company made that difficult.

(*)

"I'm a little surprised. I was thinking that gnolls would be better at tracking us," Imoen said as the group marched through the wilderness, double-time at Jaheira's insistence. Dynaheir was not able to keep up, being exhausted and half-starved save for what travel rations they could feed her; but thankfully Minsc was more than able to carry her slender weight.

Xan also had trouble keeping up, but he seemed to enjoy complaining, so that wasn't a big deal with anyone.

"Why," Jaheira murmured, continuing to tromp through the wilderness at the lead of the group, the underbrush seeming to simply melt away from her before she had any need to cut it, "do you sound disappointed that an army of vicious monsters is not hunting us?"

"I'm not disappointed!" Imoen said, looking back over her shoulder to make sure there weren't any slavering monsters coming up behind them. Xan was still alive, so probably not. "I just thought they'd be good at hunting. They're part dog."

"They are not 'part dog', child. They are in fact believed in some circles to be part demon, though it is largely unclear as to their true-"

"They look dog, though."

Jaheira tried not to scream, but only because there might still have been some kind of monster close enough to hear them. It did not help that Khalid was (and she knew he was, he might make no sound but she knew her husband, dammit all) struggling very hard not to laugh.

"Are we nearing to a village of people, my friends? Minsc is strong and can tromp through the wilderness all day and night without rest, but fair Dynaheir needs rest and food and to snuggle with hamsters."

"Two of those are somewhat true," Dynaheir said, her voice soft with fatigue. "The notion of hamsters 'tis all in Minsc's mind."

"And I notice that I am being abandoned. That none care about my travails," Xan called out from a little too far behind them for anyone to care. "I too rot with fatigue and pain, and yet I am ignored by my supposed allies. I should not be shocked, I suppose… this is merely a symptom of the universe as a whole, showing its absolute cruelty through the actions of the lower beings that make our way meaninglessly through the-"

"Ah, and we have found the town! Nashkel ahead," Jaheira said, just a little more loudly than needed. "I am sure that with the iron mines open again, some sort of caravan will be traveling north to give word and resume trade negotiations; Khalid, you take Imoen and Xan to procure supplies while I attempt to find a likely group and arrange passage. Minsc, please, take your witch to the inn as you wish and allow her to rest as you will. We wish you luck in your journey home."

"Home? Silly Jaheira, Minsc and Dynaheir do not walk to Rasheman yet!" Minsc declared heartily. "Surely you remember we came to this land upon our Dajemma? Of course we cannot leave until such time as Minsc has achieved his rite of manhood by facing down the great evils which assail the people of this land, and until wise Dynaheir is even wiser than she is now!"

"Minsc over-simplifies a tad," Dynaheir said dryly. "But he speaks more or less truly. I come to study the troubles that plague this land and do what I can to solve them, as part of my rite of passage among the ranks of the Wychlaran. And Minsc… as odd as this may sound to look upon him, he is not technically considered an adult by the standards of the Rashemi berserkers. So he too must pass this test."

Jaheira winced. "So, then. You wish to remain with the group, then."

"Shall this be a problem?"

"Your aid shall not be a problem, of course, lady Dynaheir," Jaheira said respectfully, trying very hard not to look at Minsc. "Yes. Indeed, your aid would be a fine addition to the group, I'm sure, but…"

"Then 'tis settled. Minsc and I shall rest and take a meal whilst passage is arranged, and I shall take the time to pen the spells I've maintained in my memory to a new book. There will be ample time to sleep on the road, when the wagons begins moving." Dynaheir said, smiling with approval. "Come, seek us at the inn when you are ready to proceed."

Jaheira sighed, watching the two proceed out of the trees and head into town, seeking the inn and a few hours of rest while the party made preparations to travel north. Her husband patted her on the shoulder, and smiled. "T-there there, dear. It won't be the worst group of people we've ever t-traveled with."

"Anybody who has ever spent any time with Elminster would be forced to admit that," Jaheira muttered reluctantly, dropping her voice so only Khalid could hear. "But they have delayed our mission more than once already. They Who Harp might be fond of their doing things the hard way, but they still expect results from We Who Actually Get Things Done."

Tenderly, Khalid leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "And y-you always deliver. No m-matter how angry you get in the m-meantime."

She smiled despite herself and returned the embrace. "You are quite lucky I love you so, silly man. Else, I would take your words as sign that you see me as having anger issues."

"P-p-perish the thought."

(*)

The bandit camp was… worrisome.

Acherai was not an idiot. Kivan was not allowed anywhere near the camp, and Sephiria would be watching him closely at all times. Garrick would be there too, but Acherai had basically already decided that Garrick would be 'voluntarily leaving the group' upon their next return to civilization, when Kivan finished dying or whatever he was planning to do. They had acquired a competent cleric, meaning their little team now had both divine and arcane magic, capable warriors, and (ahem) a skilled rogue. It was time to start pruning out the useless bits. In the meantime, he and the two members who actually looked like they could blend in with bandits would handle the infiltration and get any data they needed before making a quick escape.

But still, he had not been expecting this.

The camp was not some collection of brigands; the humans were clearly soldiers, with good quality weapons and armor, targets and training dummies set up for combat drills, and a central command tent set up with messengers flowing in and out of it at regular intervals. On the other side of the camp, a small army of crimson-skinned hobgoblins had set up a similar arrangement, and as he watched a pair of them dragged a human corpse from a massive pit dug outside the camp, and threw it into a cave behind their tents. Inside, something furred and massive snarled and dragged the body in.

Oh, my. We are in a little bit over our heads, Acherai thought as the bandit they had convinced to 'recruit' them spoke to a lookout on their behalf. His eyes scanned the camp, noting sentries, things that might have been supply caches, any detail that might have been useful in even the smallest way. He felt like he was missing something, some detail about the situation that would make everything click into place, something…

… Large. Something very large.

The ogre (or was he an ogre? He was big enough, but he didn't look quite right…) emerged from the central tent in the camp and stomped over to them, a walking mountain of muscle and metal, and looked down on his men, who appropriately took several steps back. "The Hells you bringing prisoners here for?! What part of 'no witnesses' you idiots not getting?! He just left! He comes back to pick something up, he left a paper or some nonsense, he sees prisoners that we should not have, and he starts ripping off heads! I tell you right now, the heads I give him will be yours, idiots!"

"B-boss, ya got it all wrong! They ain't prisoners, they're new recruits. Bandits from up north. I thought…" the man who had brought them here began to say, raising his hands in placating gesture.

Tazok reached out with one hand and twisted his head so sharply it was left facing completely backwards. He fell bonelessly, twitching weakly as his brain began to catch up on the fact his body was rapidly dying.

"You. Don't. Think. I think!" Tazok snarled, looking down on the man. "You! Elf! Tell me why I should not eat your liver!"

Acherai took a deep breath, and put on his best smile. "Because I was smart enough to seek you out and ask to join. Because I was good enough to succeed in finding you. And, well..." he gazed down at the soon to be corpse, nudging it with his boot, "… because you have a need for at least one replacement worker, I see."

The ogre blinked a few times, before his face split in an absolutely hideous grin. "HA! I like you after all, elf. Maybe not kill you right away. Maybe wait until dinner time. Not many deer left in the forests these days, and Elf tastes better than venison anyway."

"Or," Acherai suggested brightly, "you could let us steal you some dinner from someone, what with us all being bandits. And then we can work for you, and everyone is alive and well-fed."

"Hmmph. You quick with words, elf, but not mean you can be trusted. Still, not see many good-goods travel with drow, so you probably not decent sort. I like not-decent sorts! Let you live for a while and see if can't put you to use later."

"You're a pal," Acherai said cheerfully. "Now, if someone who still has all their bones intact would like to lead us to where we can set up camp, we'll…"

And just before he could finish his sentence, Tazok snapped a hand up in front of his face with deceptive speed for his bulk. Momentarily too shocked to speak, Acherai just stared, his eyes trying vainly to work out what the Hells the monster was even doing…

And then, his stomach fell in horror at the sight of a distressingly familiar black-feathered arrow imbedded in Tazok's arm. The ogre regarded his impaled limb with a sort of detached look, seemingly unbothered by the fact that the arrow would have been in his eye were it not for his nigh-impossible reflexes.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity of silence, the creature began to growl with what could only be described as unimaginable rage. He spoke only two words, then, but they were enough to make Acherai wish very much he had stayed back with Sephiria.

"Kill. EVERYTHING."

As long as he starts with Kivan, Acherai thought numbly, I'm kind of tempted to let him.

(*)

Kivan had known the arrow wouldn't do the job. He had seen for himself just how strong and fast Tazok was, and knew the ogre was nigh-unkillable. Between his own naturally thick hide and the steel breastplate the creature wore over his vital organs, the simple fact was that the only option was to wear him down slowly, bleeding him out drop by agonizing drop until an option became available to put a bolt directly into his brain or jugular.

Which, bluntly, was more along the lines of what Kivan wished for. A slow, lingering death, lost and alone in the woods as he tried vainly to capture an elven ranger in his natural habitat… he could imagine few fates Tazok deserved more.

He felt little guilt at the notion of abandoning the group. He had been quite certain to leave Garrick and Sephiria as hopelessly lost as he could manage, claiming he was leading them to a vantage point the bandits would not notice them. The odds of them encountering any bandits in the wild forest were slim to none, and he respected the girl's skill enough to assume she could manage to handle any stragglers.

As for Acherai… well. He had chosen to support a drow, a blackened murderess, over one of his own people. He, the dwarf, and the spider-worshipping bitch would most likely die, and it struck him that this was probably not an evil.

Besides, even if they did survive, this was Kivan's final battle. He knew and accepted it. Whether they lived or died, he would see none of them ever again.

The underbrush shook as the ogre charged into the treeline, howling his fury. It was a bone-chilling sound, but Kivan felt nothing but smoldering fury at the sound of it.

Deheriana… he thought as he spun, released an arrow, and burst again into flight without a single wasted motion. I'll be seeing you soon.

And bringing you a head to mount on the wall of wherever you dwell in Arvandor.

(*)

"Everyone," Acherai said, watching as roughly thirty bandits who had been close enough to see Tazok charge into the woods like a mad bull all took aim at him, "follow him!"

"… What?" one of the bandits said, lowering his bow and blinking in confusion.

"Idiot, Tazok said-" a hobgoblin, one wearing darker armor than most of the others and carrying a better-quality bow, began.

"To kill the attackers! They're out there, in the woods, firing arrows at us!" Acherai snapped. "What are you all doing?! Get out there and catch them! Tazok needs your help!"

Silence.

"Well, okay, he probably doesn't, but you should still offer it! Otherwise, he might be angry when he gets back!" Acherai snapped. Then, more quietly, he murmured to Viconia, "Behind the larger tents in the east edge. There's a pit of corpses. They're using them as food for whatever's in the cave there. Wait until I get their attention firmly on me, then slip away. You can work out what to do."

Viconia blinked. "How…?"

"You don't hide your holy symbol as well as you think. Sneak off and do what you can," he murmured. Raising his voice, he shouted, "Well? Get on it, people! Tazok is going to be back soon, and you know that if he doesn't find what he's looking for, we're all going to be missing our heads!"

"Impudent elfling brat," the hobgoblin in the black armor snarled, and Acherai was briefly impressed that he actually know what 'impudent' meant. Most hobgoblins struggled with 'door.' "Do you not think I see what you're doing? Ardenor Crush did not come to lead the Chill by letting enemies simply wander into his camp."

"Then why aren't you out there catching them?"

"Because you're here, and we're going to-"

"Actually, he kind of has a point," the human bandit said, and a reassuring number of the other bandits, of both species, nodded. "Tazok is gonna be angry when he gets back. Someone shot him. If he wants us to back him up, and we don't do it…"

"For the love of… human, you do not think. If you need someone to do your thinking, go find your commander, if you can locate him under that thousands pounds of armor he insists on wearing," Ardenor snapped. "The attack began when they arrived. They die. Simple as that."

"Taugosz understands how this works. He understands Tazok is the one the bosses pass their word on down through. We need to keep him happy. Unless you want to see him angry at you, hobbo, you had best quit acting like you're in charge and-"

Ardenor blinked a few times, and pointed. Three of the hobgoblins shot the unfortunate man with their drawn arrows. "When Tazok is not in camp, I am in charge. I dislike uppity human idiots."

Acherai smiled. Gods, they were going out of their way to help him, it seemed like. "Traitors!" he screamed, pointing his staff at the hobgoblins. "Trying to take over the camp while Tazok is away?! Should have known you slimy monsters couldn't tolerate working with real people." He turned to the human bandits, who were admittedly looking very edgy at losing two of their number in less than ten minutes.

"You aren't actually listening to this!" Ardenor snarled, though he didn't look very confident anymore. Particularly in the sight of a massive man, wearing full plate and carrying a Warhammer with practiced ease, emerging from his own tent to see what all the fuss was… and looking very unhappy with the Chill arrows in the bandit's chest.

Now then. One more spark.

He shifted the fingers on one hand through a series of patterns, whispering under his breath. It helped that nobody was really paying attention to him; also that the spell was a short one with very little in the way of chanting or that silliness. A basic Charm, something that would make a single, weak-minded target perceive him as their greatest ally. Someone they could trust implicitly.

In the crowd, a single bandit turned toward him, his eyes glazed over and a trusting smile on his face. Acherai smiled right back, the most guileless expression he could manage, and silently mouthed, You should probably shoot some hobgoblins.

The man cheerfully nodded, nocked an arrow, and things got fun.

(*)

Stupid. Stupid. STUPID.

The thought kept running through Sephiria's mind as she ran through unfamiliar woods, trying to seek out the party through the sounds of combat. She had truly expected better of Kivan; when he had vanished into the woods, it had been a shock. She had known he was displeased by Viconia's presence, and not being given the chance to face Tazok immediately, but she had truly believed she was at least starting to get through to him.

And now, he was likely to be marching to his own death, and possibly the death of the entire party. And she was lost in the woods.

Like a child. A damn child. She had failed at every step of this journey, and she was more than sick of it. Acherai treated her like a doll, Kagain treated her like a pest, and now even Kivan treated her like something that needed to be protected, left behind for its own safety. While he went to die, she was to run away and save herself.

Just like Gorion had done.

Never. Again.

That's right. Face your foes openly, and cut them down. It's the only path for you, and it always has b-

It isn't about death, and it isn't about any need for battle. It is about my comrades needing me, and me needing them. Sephiria thought, steeling herself as she charged.

I am a paladin. And I will never falter again, I swear.

She broke the tree line to find not a camp, but a small clearing, three men standing inside it, each one grizzled and wearing battered leather armor, well-worn weapons at their sides. She had just enough time to hear one of them wondering aloud what the ruckus was at camp was and speculating if they would get a pay raise if Tazok killed enough of their fellows.

No risk of an innocent target here, then.

A charging girl woman in full splint mail could not proceed quietly, and she had been lucky to get this near without being noticed due to the camp seemingly erupting in violence. The men saw her as soon as she burst from the underbrush, charging forward sword in hand.

One of them had bow in hand, nocked an arrow, and Sephiria

Was struck in the eye, dying instantly, and ended her grand adventure on the most pitiful note possible

Ducked low in mid-stride, the arrow flying past her ear, so close the wind brushed her helmet. She swung her sword low, the tip grazing the ground and slashing as she charged into melee range. He threw away the bow and reached for a well-worn sword, his two allies moving to defend, and

She was cut down, an arrogant, petulant child utterly out of her depth

She killed them all, reveling in the violence, becoming the killer she was always meant to be

She struck, fast and accurate, natural skill and training overcoming the killer instincts of the mercenaries, the advantage of surprise and her own will driving her forward. Her sword, the simple, heavy blade she had brought with her all the way from Candlekeep, ripped through the air like lightning.

There was no ambiguity, and there could be no hesitation. She was the daughter of Gorion, she was a paladin, and where she saw evil and the oppression of the innocent it was her duty to put aside all else and strike…!

The first man fell, clutching at his throat as a deep, diagonal line of red opened across the whole of his neck. His two allies, overextended and moving far too slowly, swung their blades at empty air as she skipped back, the entire charge, kill, and retreat a single perfect motion.

She raised her weapon, stained with the blood of the first human being she had ever personally killed, and looked at the men somberly. "The group you serve has killed hundreds and spread suffering through this entire region. In Torm's name, I command you: surrender or join the bowman in death. I will not ask again."

Something inside her hissed in fury, though she was not certain what enraged it more: the mention of her deity, or the offer to let victims surrender. You will learn, the thought that was not quite her own came unbidden, and with it a cold rush of dark rage.

She let a grim smile come to her lips.

I already know what I need to know, she thought, as the two bandits split up, moving to flank her and strike in a pincer. And I think for the first time, I'm remembering that.

(*)

Humans were easy. Hobgoblins even more so. If you knew what strings to pull, it was not hard at all to get two groups so predisposed toward violence to turn on each other. It was, however, kind of nasty to get out of a gigantic chaotic melee without getting killed yourself.

Which, Acherai thought with glee as he heard the moans and smelled rot on the wind, is what Viconia is for.

The truth was, he really had been uncertain about her. Yes, she was probably more trustworthy than Kivan in the sense that she could at least be trusted to put her own interests first, rather than willingly marching into certain death if it got her revenge in the process. But she was still a Drow. Even if he couldn't be bothered to hate her based on her race, she certainly seemed to dislike him based on his.

But he had spent nearly a day traveling with her now, and she had not kept her holy symbol well-hidden at all. Oh, Sephiria hadn't noticed, but that was because Sephiria was, bluntly speaking, a nitwit. But a holy symbol of the goddess Shar was hard to mistake for anything else, even at a glimpse.

Viconia didn't want this widely known, clearly. Shar was not the sort of deity who encouraged her worshippers to advertise their allegiance; they were supposed to be silent killers who hid themselves from others not of their own faithful, hoarding dark secrets and spreading oblivion and loss wherever they went.

But Acherai didn't mind, really. A dark goddess was the sort who gave her worshippers dark powers, after all. And dark powers…

Really can be terribly useful, if properly applied.

Viconia had done as expected, and done it gloriously. The corpse pit behind the camp, kept as a food source for the many and varied goblinoids of the encampment, had risen from the grave in a wave of lesser undead. Zombies and skeletons, animated by the priestess's dark prayers, shambled into the ranks of the already fighting bandits and began to do what they did best. More soldiers swarmed out of tents on both sides of the conflict, and nobody at all seemed to be aware of who exactly they were supposed to be fighting (except the undead, who were fighting anything that was alive).

And that meant the main tent—and with it, whatever documents that Tazok might have kept in his headquarters—was wide open.

"Kagain!" he snapped, charging through the melee and sliding beneath a swinging sword, only to listen to the sound of the man who had swung it collapsing behind him as Kagain's hammer crushed his knee. "Stay close to me! I'm fairly sure that even these people will figure out they should be aiming at us eventually."

"Shame about me aiming better!" the dwarf howled in obvious glee, storming through the chaos at a height that most people just weren't aiming for, and taking full advantage of it. More than one mercenary fell to be crushed underfoot in the crowd because a golden warhammer had smashed their legs beyond use.

Acherai shuddered, trying to keep focused on the tent. He had been more than pleased with how things had turned out, but the chaos was turning out even more extreme than he had imagined. A fourth faction had joined in, a pack of gnolls that had been kept in the caves and fed on the corpses. They were apparently reacting solely on brutal instinct at this point, drawn by the blood and flame to kill anything they saw. And Kagain was enjoying things a little more than was healthy, which was surprising to the young elf. He had thought the dwarf was more stable than that. Logically speaking, he supposed people who didn't like killing didn't become mercenaries, but it was still off-putting.

The last time he had seen anything like this would always be a sore memory for him, after all…

Eyes on the prize, Moonshadow, he chided himself. This is not the temple, and you are not a child anymore. This time the blood and chaos is your doing, and you can use them to achieve what you need. Ride the wave to your goal.

And appreciate the results of your power.

(*)

Sephiria looked down on the bodies of the three bandits, and let out a deep breath. She had been expecting a sense of crushing guilt; these were not like gnolls or hobgoblins, not monsters. She had never killed a human being before now, and oddly it didn't… feel wrong. It wasn't like there was anything else she could have done, after all. And she didn't feel any satisfaction, either. Just a kind of coldness.

It was something, anyway.

"Garrick?" she called out. "You can stop hiding now."

"I wasn't hiding!" the bard protested, coming out from behind the tree he had been totally hiding behind. "I was observing! For my ballad."

The girl… well, she supposed she was a little bit closer to a woman now… wiped the blood from her sword and sighed. "I'm sure. But we are approaching the camp. I took these three by surprise, but I can hardly expect to stop and ask an entire camp of bandits to surrender. I will need your support."

"Um. Well, I… can try…?"

"… You are a bard. You have some access to bardic magic, I assume?"

"Theoretically, yes! In practice, I can… um… cast one spell. It's… it's called…" he winced, "Infravision! It… lets me see in the dark."

She sighed. "You can sing an enchanted song which grants morale to allies? I was led to believe that many true bards can."

"My songs traditionally just make allies sad."

"… Garrick?"

"Yes, leader?"

"I have been meaning to say this for some time, but I felt it was not my place. However, I have been… reconsidering my stance on such things lately, and I feel as 'leader' I need to take a more active role both in and out of combat. As such…"

"Oh, oh, are you kicking me off the team?" Garrick asked with a touch of glee in his voice.

"… You want me to kick you off the team?"

"Oh, yes! This is rather more dangerous than I was expecting, and I am… well, not so much good at this. But I was afraid if I tried to leave, Mr. Moonshadow would stab me."

Sephiria clapped him on the shoulder. "You have a reasonably good soul, Garrick. But I feel that perhaps adventuring is not your calling."

"Yes, I was actually thinking that too," Garrick agreed. "I was thinking I might go south and try to marry a paladin!"

"… Why?"

"They're quite noble and beautiful, I hear. Amn has many orders just filled with lovely noble knights!" Garrick said cheerfully. "Oh! I know, maybe you should try to become a paladin someday!"

"… I am one."

"Oh, really? When did that happen?"

She pondered this. "In name, some time ago. In truth, I think just a few minutes now. Please go hide in the woods, Garrick. I will come back shortly, or I won't come back at all. Either way, I wish you well."

And with that, she raised her sword and turned for the camp once again. Garrick watched her go, and smiled. "Finally, someone with a grasp of tactics," he said, going to hide in the woods like a sensible person.

(*)

Acherai stopped at the entrance to Tazok's tent, and signaled for Kagain to stop. "There's someone inside," he whispered, pressing his ear against the cloth. "They're… joking. Saying it was only matter of time before the rabble went mad."

The dwarf chuckled. "Friendly sorts, then."

"Probably not mercenaries. I expect they work directly for the people providing the money to fund this operation," Acherai murmured. "Which means I doubt they'll fall for a few charms and a bit of casual racism. We'll need to kill them."

"An' we do this just the two of us? 'Cause I don't see the drow, and… well. The elf and knightling ain't been a great help of late."

"Relax. I just need you to take up position outside the door and stop anyone from escaping," Acherai said, digging into his pack and removing a scroll tube. "Master Thalantyr doesn't guard his vaults as well as he thinks. This is a bit outside my ability to cast personally, but the scroll will work, and it's very lethal. Just hold up the side of the tent enough for me to aim underneath… and make sure they don't get out of the cloud."

"The what?" Kagain asked, but Acherai had already begun reading off the spell scroll, the demands of the magic forcing him to incant it to the end. It was a spell beyond his power to cast on his own, and he could feel it burning through him. But it was okay; that was what the scroll was for, to channel the power and focus it…

He held his hand out, the scroll disintegrating in his grasp as the Cloudkill was cast, a cloud of thick, brownish gas bursting from his palm and filling the tent with unnatural speed.

"Aye. That cloud, then," Kagain whispered, watching the very, very poisonous gas seep out through the seams of the tent, and listening to the pained gasps and choking screams of those within. "I can work with this." He took up position outside the only entrance to the tent, hammer at the ready.

(*)

Tazok did not slow.

Kivan had put a dozen arrows in him, each shot one that would have crippled or possibly even killed a man. His arms and legs bristled like pincushions, shafts impaled deep into vital tendons and muscles. He should not have been able to continue his charge, should have found it nearly impossible to even move between the blood loss and the damage to his musculature.

And yet, he did not slow.

Kivan would have had it no other way.

"Does it hurt, Tazok?" he called back over his shoulder as he dodged between trees, sliding through underbrush like a shadow and barely even disturbing a leaf in contrast to the charging animal. "Deheriana made my arrows for me, butcher. Carved them by hand. I'll make sure you bleed by each one before you die."

"Tear! You! Apart!" Tazok snarled, swinging a sword nearly as long as Kivan was tall and bringing down a decent sized tree with one blow.

Kivan cursed, rolling to the side as the branches scraped against his armor, delaying his frantic flight by precious seconds. He had faced the ogre before, known his power was inhuman and his weapon was heavily enchanted, but this was absurd. Tazok fought more like a force of nature than a living thing. He shouldn't have even been able to move, much less strike with such force.

He's not immortal. You're letting the fear get to you, the ranger thought to himself. He could admit, with perfect clarity, that he feared Tazok on some level. Given what he had endured at the monster's hands, it would have been stranger if he didn't. But he needed to make that fear a weapon; wrap it in anger to smother the impulse to flee and in so doing, let it drive him to be cautious and fight intelligently.

His hide is thicker than a bear's and he fights with the adrenaline of rage. I doubt he even feels pain right now. Kivan thought, leaping forward as the ogre brought his blade down on the space he had just vacated. I'll need to inflict a fatal wound just to slow him down. Let us see what can be done about this.

He turned, jumped on the blade as it buried itself into the ground, and released another arrow directly at the creature's face from near point-blank. It wouldn't pierce his skull, even from this range, but a shot in one of his eyes would be a wound that even Tazok wouldn't be able to shrug off.

The ogre tilted his head almost imperceptibly, letting the black arrow slam into his helmet instead of his flesh. The metal dented and cracked under the impact and blood began to leak from the flesh beneath, but the wound was clearly only superficial. The ogre smirked and ripped his sword free from the ground with a single smooth motion, hurling the elf perched atop it as though he weighed no more than a leaf.

"Remember you," Tazok growled, his mouth split in a grin that would have looked more at home on a shark's face than anything humanoid. "Elf couple. Wouldn't hand over their gold. Killed two of my men. Had to kill you back for the disrespect, you know? Nothing personal. Fun, yes, but not personal."

Kivan pulled himself painfully to his feet, nearly passing out from the pain. Perching on the blade had been an effort to pin it, but instead all he had done was slash his own foot when the ogre had yanked it free. Running was going to be… harder.

The ogre smirked and began to walk slowly toward, him, ripping a fistful of arrows from his hide without even a wince and ignoring the blood that oozed from the punctures. "'Course, I see you lived! Tough, for an elf. Let's kill you again, see if it sticks this time."

(*)

Sephiria found a vision of Hell, and her charge halted in mixed shock and disgust.

The bandit camp was a charnel house. The majority of the population, at least thirty men and goblinoids that she could count dead or dying, zombies and skeletons roaming among them. A few were still fighting, backed against a tent to keep from being surrounded, but most were wounded and the skeletons among the undead had proven dexterous enough to claim weaponry from among the fallen and fight with it.

She had raised her sword and prepared to charge the undead… not even hobgoblins deserved to be ripped apart by such horrors!... when a hand tapped on her shoulder. She whirled, ready to attack if threatened, only to see the drow woman raising a hand placatingly. "Stay your hand, abbil. The undead are under control."

"I… you are behind this?! This abomination?!" Sephiria snarled. "Call them off! Let those men flee!"

Viconia blinked in confusion. "But they are your enemies, are they not? We are on the verge of victory."

"Call! Them! Off!"

The cleric sighed, and the undead began to fall back in response to her mental commands. "You are wasting a clear opportunity, as well as the gifts of the goddess. I hope you have a reason for it?"

"Because it's wrong," Sephria snapped. "Men of the Black Talon and Chill! Flee this place and you may keep your lives! Return to your evil ways, and you will be destroyed. Do not make me regret this."

"I already regret this," Viconia muttered.

"Do not test me!" Sephiria said, her temper flared not only by the dark magic called up by her own comrades, but by something screaming in her mind, her mercy sending shocks of black rage roiling through it once again. "Where are Acherai and Kivan? We need to be well rid of this place… and then we have much to discuss."

"As I said, the paler of the darthiir is with the dwarf seeking the information you came for. The other… I know not. He was pursued into the trees by the ogre that commands this camp. I assume he is dead."

"And why are you not aiding him?!" she asked, fear overcoming her rage momentarily.

"Because I do not care. He made clear he seeks my death. If he seeks his own with even more effort, I have no reason to oppose him. No, should we not aid our more reliable allies? I have little enough concern for a faerie, but he has his uses."

Sephiria tilted her head to one side, studying the drow in a new light. She was not the mindless sadist that the tales suggested, true, but Sephiria had perhaps allowed that to blind her to a mundane form of evil in the woman's heart.

And perhaps she had done the same regarding another member of her team, as well. A charming face, hiding something amoral and empty.

She walked through the burning camp, her mind screaming at the brutality around her, and prepared herself to speak with Acherai. He would likely speak down to her, of course, tell her he'd had no choice, done the 'right thing', but she was well past accepting that sort of…

Oh. Oh, no.

Inside the tent itself, Acherai and Kagain were standing among a group of corpses that were coated in some kind of thick brown powder, their hands still grasped in death grips around their necks where they had clearly choked to death. Four of them lay beside weapons and were clad in armor, and despite the pain of their deaths, they were at least enemies, but…

Lying at Acherai's feet, killed by the same suffocating poison as the others, lay an emaciated man in shackles, his face and bare torso coated in scars.

Acherai looked from the dead hostage, to Sephiria, and back.

"In my defense, it was not done intentionally," he said, "So please remain..."

He made it nearly halfway through the sentence before she charged.