Chapter Fifteen

(*)

Looting was normally pretty reassuring to Acherai. Particularly since Davaeorn had been exceptionally well paid for his services; his robes alone were so heavily enchanted he wagered they'd fetch enough to buy a decent sized manor in the Gate, and they were far from the only piece of interest. Scrolls, wands, several expertly carved gemstones, and down one particular hallway near his (surprising comfortable for a slave pit) bedchambers, a literal chest full of gold.

Kagain had been literally drooling.

And yet, despite a very real victory and a major acquisition, Acherai felt no particular interest in the riches they'd unearthed. Even the papers and ledgers, real clues toward the heart of the conspiracy they hunted, gave him very little joy.

He had killed people before, certainly. His first had been at the tender age of seventeen, shoving a young guardsman off a balcony during a heist gone bad. But this was the first time he had really wanted to. Not out of anger or self-preservation, but a bone-deep joy at the thought of ending life. Inexplicable, insane, and yet painfully compelling. Nearly as compelling as it was horrifying, in fact...

"I still say I should get the robes. I am a real mage, after all, not a trickster hedge wizard. (And calling you that insults hedge wizards everywhere, believe you me.)"

And then then are the perfectly natural urges to murder. "Kagain, next time Edwin talks today, kill him."

"You cannot-"

"And yet I have! Starting now, unless you have a problem with the idea, Kagain?"

"Can I have this?" Kagain asked, holding up a diamond the size of his thumb.

"But of course."

"Then no problem here, elf."

Edwin stopped talking.

"You have the papers. We have the treasure. Lets just get the Hells out of here," Shar-teel grumbled. "Already made enough of a fool of myself in this hole. Get me an ale and someone to murder before I snap."

"Found yerself some winners here, boy," muttered the dwarf they had first saved from Davaeorn, standing near the back of the chambers with Coran as the rest of the group cheerfully ransacked everything. His name was Yeslick, apparently, and he had been the owner of the mines back when they had been filled with dwarves instead of slaves.

When asked if he wished to travel with them, he had replied, "Nah, ye seem crazy. Show ye where they keep the gold if ye promise to kill every one of them slaving Throne bastards what took over me clan's mine."

Acherai couldn't exactly blame him for that one, and he had gotten them into Davaeorn's chambers, so it was a good arrangement, really. And dark distractions or not, he did have what he had really come for, so there was a certain satisfaction to that.

He held the letters he had taken from Davaeorn's personal desk, and squeezed them tight. Letters from as high in the enemy's counsel as one could hope to find, and they had been so very thoughtfully signed.

Rieltar Anchev, the author of the plan. And his personal agent, Sarevok.

I finally see the spiders at the center of the web. It is past time to squash them.

(*)

The Iron Throne tower in Baldur's Gate was an intimidating structure, to be certain. Solid stone and easy five times as tall as any building near it, it loomed over the district with the menace of a bandit fortress more than a merchant headquarters. Which, given what they knew of the owners, was actually rather appropriate, Sephiria supposed. They disguised themselves as merchants, certainly, but beneath it they were little more than raiding Orcs.

This was it. The end, the place they could finally expose her enemies to the light of law. She closed her eyes, taking a moment to appreciate the gravitas of the concept.

"Big building," Imoen said cheerfully. "It will be hard to burn down, so good for us."

Oh, right. Imoen is the undying foe of any sort of seriousness. "Immy, we are not trying to burn this building down."

"Yeah, and we weren't trying to burn down the last one, either," Imoen said. "How'd that work out for us?"

"... A fair point."

"Silvanus, I wish it were less fair," Jaheira muttered. "Which is why the two of you shall not be talking to anyone."

"Hey, Dynaheir is the one who started the fire," Imoen protested. "I was with you."

"And yet I still feel your influence was at fault, somehow. This says much of the impression you have made on me," Jaheira said. "Now. Enough babble, the plan is known to us all?"

"Lady Dynaheir and yourself are merchants from Sembia, with the remainder of us as your bodyguards," Sephiria said dutifully, putting on a face-concealing helmet and tucking her red hair beneath it as she did. "Once inside, we are to look for the offices of the highest ranking on-site merchants in hopes of finding either a paper trail, or an actual member that can be caught alone and interrogated."

"Good. The team for insertion will be myself and Dynaheir, Khalid and Sephiria as guards, and the elf as our 'magical advisor,'" Jaheira began, adjusting the modest green traveling dress she had slipped on over her armor to help her role. She hated the flowing thing, but Khalid thought she was fetching in green and she could deny him little, the lovable bastard.

"You could refer to me by name," Xan muttered.

"Yes, I could. Imoen, Minsc, you will remain out here, making no noise and pretending you do not exist," Jaheira finished. "Questions?"

Minsc raised a hand.

Dynaheir sighed. "You will only be pretending to not exist, my large friend. You will, in fact, still be here."

Minsc lowered his hand. Boo made a little squeaking sound.

"Gods, give us strength," Jaheira murmured. More loudly she said, "All right then. Heads high, smiles on, pretend you do not wish to purge this nest of vipers, and in we go."

And Torm willing, Sephiria thought, we can avoid another disaster.

They stepped into the main entrance hall of the Throne fortress, a lavish affair that did not at all match the stony exterior; marble floors, flowers in crystal vases lining the walls, and a pair of pools set up to reflect sunlight from windows cut into the stone walls across the ceiling in a shimmering pattern of dancing light. It was a very beautiful building, and unlike the nearly abandoned Seven Suns, a busy one; the line at the reception desk showed at least ten parties in front of them, and a woman wearing a city badge of office was heading up the stairs already.

Were Sephiria not one-hundred percent aware of how evil the owners were, she'd have been quite impressed with the operation. They clearly were good at making money, if nothing else.

And then, of course, disaster happened.

(*)

Sarevok was in a bad mood.

He always was, of course. Rage was power. But this was less about fury and more about simple annoyance. He had grown to regard his personal armor as a second skin, and wearing the chainmail of a Throne guard commander felt like tearing that skin off and gluing wool in its place; both demeaning and uncomfortable to the point of being nearly painful. He was surrounded by merchants, possibly the type of person he hated most of all and a far cry from the mercenaries whose company he had come to enjoy.

And of course, and by far the worst thing in the entire building, he was currently standing at attention before the desk of Rieltar Anchev.

Everything about Rieltar enraged Sarevok, but the thing that aggravated him the most was how the older man looked, oddly enough. Though they had no blood connection, they looked similar enough they could have been related. Both dark skinned, both bald save for a neatly trimmed beard (though with Sarevok it was by choice, rather than his 'father's' advancing years), and sharing the same cold, sharp black eyes. They even shared a few personality traits; primarily ambition and ruthlessness, though Rieltar had no idea how far Sarevok's extended. Sarevok was a foot taller and vastly more muscled than Rieltar, but the resemblance in other areas was enough that few had issues accepting them as family.

It was sickening.

Oh, it wasn't about his mother. Not anymore, at least. Truthfully, while he had cared for the woman, he was rather glad for her murder. The pain had taught him a valuable lesson about attachments: the strong could not afford them. Just look at Tamoko; the woman clearly disagreed with his plans and detested that he took other lovers when he was in the mood, and yet her affection for him kept her from the edge of betrayal even though she knew she would be left behind when he ascended to his birthright. He enjoyed her company and admired her skill, but that weakness of character kept him from truly loving her with all his heart, as he had when they were younger. He still valued and even, to a degree, cared for her... he had simply grown beyond any real need for her. Or anyone else, for that matter.

No, what infuriated him was that Rieltar was so weak. Soft and pampered in body, limited and small in mind, his ruthless ambitions confined to no greater goal than lining his purse. Certainly, he had success at that, with great wealth to his name, but it was so pointless. Gold had its uses as a means to an end, but when gold itself became the end then it might as well just be any other shiny rock. The old man had pieced together an impressive web of intrigue, muscle, and magic...but at the center of the web was a half-blind spider without fangs.

Sarevok was divinely inspired, the Chosen One who had been born with the right to define the future of the world. The thought that people believed so readily that he was the child of a soft, spineless thief with delusions of grandeur was repellent enough to keep his rage simmering all his waking hours. Not that he needed much help with that, admittedly.

Though if he had needed help, Rieltar was great at driving his rage to new heights with every damn word.

"You are late, whelp."

"As I said, father, there were extenuating circumstances. Tazok's camp was nearly razed and he was mortally wounded. I had to investigate the area, and secure a cleric for his revival."

"Your subhuman pet is meaningless to our plans, brat! Your presence is needed for the talks at Candlekeep. The Knights of the Shield will expect the highest-ranked executives we can field, and my chief of security must be present. Yet you flail about concerning yourself with bandits and ogres when I have summoned you."

Yes, because your summons mean nothing to me. You do not have the spine to enforce your will on anything but defenseless housewives, insect.

Calm. Calm was against his nature, but it was needed for a bit more. The Iron Throne was a source of wealth and resources he needed for a brief while yet.

And, well, after Candlekeep, he wouldn't have to share it with Rieltar. The joy of setting up the security details was that he got to decide who was in it. Rieltar got final approval, of course, but he didn't really know the men...

"I am ready to travel, of course," Sarevok said smoothly, no hint of his searing contempt flaring out. "And security is prepared. I merely need to brief my subordinates on their duties while I am gone."

"No. None of that. Your...cult can wait until we return. As it is we are already late. Follow."

Sarevok watched the man descend the stairs from his private office, and fought off the urge to clamp his hands on either side of his skull and squeeze until it split like a melon. "You are being paranoid, father. The Knights don't want a war, so they will be inclined to be respectful to us." Until they die and the dopplegangers I replace them with return home to tell their masters what a warmonger you are. Don't worry, you won't be alive to see your reputation be tarnished.

"No, you will not escape your punishment with cheap excuses, boy. We are on the verge of a war we do not seek, and no failure can be tolerated. This has been a failure, and from this point on there is no excuse for failure, Sarevok."

A war you don't seek, old man, he thought, stepping aside on the stairway as an Emissary from the Ducal Palace headed up the stairs to meet with Thaldorn, one of the other executives. Halfway there she would be intercepted and replaced with a doppelganger by one his acolytes, which Sarevok did admit cheered him up a bit. Enough to give Rieltar a soothing, "And of course, I understand that I must...atone for this. But you are being paranoid. Everything is still proceeding well."

And that was when a screaming armored woman charged up the stairs from the first floor, swinging a sword at his chest.

(*)

Two men walked down the stairs from the second floor as the party approached the central desk to deliver their cover story; one older and slightly out of shape in colorful, expensive robes, the other a giant of a man who towered over his companion by at least a foot and had the muscles to match, dwarfing even Minsc. It seemed unimportant, at first, but she still felt an odd sense of foreboding.

And then she heard the tail end of their conversation.

"... No excuse for failure, Sarevok," the older man had said.

"And of course, I understand that I must...atone for this," younger man replied, his voice a bass rumble, "but you are being paranoid. Everything is still proceeding well."

And with every word, Sephiria felt her blood freeze in her veins.

You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no-one will be hurt. Resist, and it shall be a waste of your life.

The moment he had finished his sentence, her hand had clamped onto her sword, and within an eyeblink after that she was charging, steel drawn and that familiar cold emptiness running through her veins. For the first time, she did not resist it.

I'm sorry that you feel that way, old man...

That voice ringing in her ears and her mind clouded by visions of glowing yellow eyes beneath a cloudy, starless sky, Sephiria did not even hear Jaheira's scream for her to stop as she leaped halfway up the stairwell and drove her blade at the giant man's heart.

(*)

From outside the building, Imoen's ears perked up at a very unwelcome sound. That was to say, women and old men screaming and running away from the building that her friends and entered literally not five minutes earlier.

She shouldered her bow and sighed. "Oh look! New record."

(*)

The man's counter was, considering he was caught off-guard and with his sword in the sheathe, about as perfect as could be expected. His arms snapped up in an 'x' shape, catching her blade on a double-layer of chain mail and forcing her slash upwards and away from his chest, stopping her from just slamming the blade through his filthy heart.

And that made the look of shock on his face very gratifying when she reversed the momentum on her attack, bringing her blade down against his arms. He was stronger than her, which was something she was not terribly used to, and she could not hold her weapon still against his raw power. But that same strength meant he was just as able to drive steel through chainmail as she was, and she felt her sword scrape bone before he was able to stop his 'counter' and yank his bleeding forearms free.

If she thought this would buy her any significant time, however, she was sadly mistaken. The giant man ignored the wounds, dropping one hand to the sword at his hip, but rather than drawing it dropped into a rush, stepping into her guard and slamming her down the stairs with his shoulder. She rolled with the landing, coming to her feet in time to meet a descending broadsword that slammed into her own weapon with such force she felt her teeth vibrate in her skull.

"Guards! Guards to-" the older man shouted, bracing himself against the bannister, only to be silenced by a far more commanding voice:

"Anyone who interferes dies right here. She's mine," the murderer said, his face set in a grin of primal joy as he pressed his weight against their locked blades, and Sephiria felt herself pushed back a step.

Animal. Monster. Murderer.

This is righteous. This is justice. He DESERVES to die for what he did.

With little more than a feral snarl, Sephria showed her agreement.

(*)

Jaheira was not caught off-guard often, in her own opinion. But this group, Gorion's insufferable children, seemed to delight in ruining her self-esteem. Friend or no, she truly was beginning to wish she has never agreed to foster the headstrong little monsters, and the feeling was only growing as Sephiria, screaming madly, continued trading vicious blows with a seemingly random…

Ah.

It was him. She had shared her story, and with it the tale of the armored assassin who had cut down her father. He was plainer than described, but the sheer fury of the girl's reaction…

"Khalid," Jaheira said conversationally, "the plan has gone awry. Help me kill that man?"

"B-but…"

"Gorion."

Her husband cut himself off mid-sentence, his eyes widening…and then getting colder than she had seen on him in many, many years, not since their days in the south fighting the slave trade.

This was not the time or the place, logically. But Gorion had been a friend, and more than that a comrade in arms. Any adventurer knew there was only one way to respond to the death of a party member.

"Back us up," Khalid said to the mages, before he charged alongside his wife.

"Must we?" Xan asked.

Dynaheir, already deep in her first casting, gave him a glare that could have withered a tree.

"Oh, fine."

(*)

Tamoko heard the laugh of glee down the stairs from her chambers, a rumbling chuckle of pure malicious joy that carried even over the sound of ringing steel. Or rather, she supposed she was hearing it with her soul, not her ears.

Ah, my love, your blood betrays you again.

Tamoko had no objections to Sarevok's violent nature; quite the opposite. Her homeland, Kozakura, was one of the most militaristic nations in Kara-tur, and as a priestess of the Eight Million Gods she had always felt particular kinship with spirits of war and battle. She was as deadly with a warhammer as with a spell, and Sarevok's unmatched combat prowess and strength of will had been a great factor in her attraction to him.

But there was a major difference between the love of battle, and the love of murder. And more and more, Sarevok was falling on the wrong side of that line. To do battle against a foe of strength and best them with muscle and skill was honorable. To hack an old man to pieces, desecrate his corpse beyond recognition while his daughter fled in terror...

She sighed. Still, she could not abandon him or allow him to fall, and so she stood by him. And from the sounds of battle below her, he needed her now, though he would likely not admit it, so blinded was he by the bloodlust.

With a sigh born less of frustration and more of disgust, she left her chambers and strode down the hall to her lover's chambers. He kept no possessions or even furniture there, caring little for creature comforts aside from pleasures of the flesh; when he slept in the tower, it was in her bed or (her teeth gritted involuntarily) Cythandria's. The room reserved for his personal use, he kept set aside for...darker things.

Dark, but useful.

She opened the doors, and the smell of blood washed over her. "Rise. Your lord requires you to kill and die for him."

Six men wordlessly rose to their feet from their positions kneeling in a circle around the freshly murdered body of the ducal emissary who had recently ascended the stairs. All of them were smiling.

(*)

Sarevok felt every nerve ignite in agony as a bolt of lightning slammed into his chest, his vision going red with black spots and his muscles spasming madly.

He laughed and kept fighting, his blade turning aside one of the half-elves and slamming him into the other when she tried to step in to his flank, so he could focus on the girl in the armor. She was the one who mattered. Her features might have been covered in a helmet, but he felt the power in her blows, and saw the golden fire flickering in her eyes, just as he knew it gleamed in his own. Driving her on to kill, to rip him to pieces, to purge her competition at all costs. Their swords clashed again, and he twisted his blade against her guard to nick her shoulder; barely a scratch, not enough to even slow her.

He just wanted to watch her bleed.

"You're stronger than the last one I killed, but you are no match for me, little sister!" He crowed in delight, feeling a mage trying to cloud his mind and shrugging the spell off with the sheer joy of facing and destroying one of his siblings.

"You killed my father," she hissed, all righteous wrath and strength driven by fury.

He smiled as he met her blade again, the shock of metal against metal resounding in his ears and making his smile even wider. "I killed the old man holding you back! Your true father is proud of you!"

"And yet, all of us here were rather fond of the old man," the female half-breed said coldly. And that was when Sarevok realized that despite her armor and trying to crush his skull with a metal-shod staff, he probably should not have assumed she wasn't a spellcaster. Primarily because one moment he was not coated in a cloud of stinging, biting flies, crawling under his armor and into his mouth, and the next he very much was.

With a snarl of frustration he raised a gauntleted hand to crush against his own face, accepting the pain in exchange for clearing his vision, and lashed out at the druid. The man stepped between them, and Sarevok's sword slammed home in his shield, splintering it nearly in half, fully intent of hacking through the barrier and the man behind it in one stroke. He did not make it quite as planned, but the smaller man's arm fell uselessly to his side, as broken as his shield.

The man, to his credit, did not back down, choosing instead to drive his longsword forward and through a hole Gorion's brat had opened in his armor.

Sarevok clenched his muscles around the blade, twisted his body, and ripped it out of its owner's hand, sending it clattering to the floor. His own blade, following quickly behind, was quite primed to make the half-breed's head follow it...

And a shock of agony rocked him, matched in timing with half the world going black.

(*)

The shock of seeing an arrow embed itself in the giant murderer's eye was surpassed, in Sephiria's mind, only by Imoen shrieking, "What are you all doing?!"

It was probably something about Imoen's voice that pierced the wrath surrounding her heart. What, indeed, was she...

Justice.

No. No, that...there was justice, yes, punishing the guilty, but this was...

There was justice. And there was the law. And far from slaying shapeshifting monsters, they had just tried to assassinate an executive of the Iron Throne, in his home, in broad daylight.

No. Not 'they,' she had done this. Flouted not merely law but basic common sense. Given in to her worst impulses. And the party had been forced to step in to save her from herself, putting all of them at risk.

She could practically smell Kivan's blood on the air, and realized with a hollow ache in her heart that she had not learned a damn thing from his end. Just Tyr and Faithful Torm have mercy.

Andthen she was reminded the gods, even those of goodness, rarely bothered to give mercy.

Smoothly, too smoothly to be human, Sarevok stood. Imoen's arrow still sticking out from his ruined right eye, he smiled, an expression disturbing for how serene it was. His intact left eye burned gold, so bright it cast shadows over his face and lent his features an air that was positively demonic.

"Well done. You are strong among our siblings, and worthy to die in my name. When I rule, my scepter and crown will be forged from you bones.

"Kill her, my children. Kill them all."

And that was when the first spells tore down the stairs, flame roaring through the entrance hall and shaking the entire fortress, and Sephiria's world became pain. The last thing she heard was amused laughter, and she had just enough presence of mind to recognize that although it sounded very much like Gorion's killer, it was inside her mind.

The blazing orange flames filling her vision became blood red, and then pitch black.

Three Days Later…

Keldath Ormlyr, mayor of Beregost and Priest of Lathander, smiled a bit shakily as the adventuring party deposited the reptilian head on his table. "Ah. Well. You certainly are making quite a name for yourselves in the bounty field of late. First the madman Bassilus, and now the wyvern threatening the northern paths."

Acherai smiled back, not very shakily at all. "Sorry about the smell. We've had it for half a week now and the damn thing is very moist."

"Yes. I… I noticed," the priest agreed, trying not to look at the rotting head. "Well, that is 2,000 gold for the wyvern. And if you like, we have put up some new bounty notices outside the temple."

"Sorry, no. We're not staying in the region long," Acherai said, ignoring Kagain and Shar-teel they both glared at him for turning down the combination of violence and money. "We have an appointment waiting with the Iron Throne's regional director that I hope should be quite lucrative."

The man winced. "In that case, you very much should check the notices. Your appointment has been cancelled. Good day, sirs and ladies, and thank you again for your service."

"What do you suppose he meant by that?" Coran asked as the party left Keldath's temple to check the notices outside. "I fear I'm only half caught-up on your odd hatred of merchants as it is, but he made that sound quite ominous."

"Well, he was a priest, and they do love their drama…"

"A-hem!" Viconia snapped.

"… but I think it's likely the Throne has cracked down on security, given the setbacks they've experienced of late. Let's see. Hmmmm, this one looks…" Acherai began, stopping mid-sentence as he began to read down the written notice intently. Then he read it again, just to be sure.

Then again.

"What the Burning Hells did she do?!" he snarled, punching the wooden board so hard his knuckles bled out of sheer aggravation. Shar-teel laughed, and really the fact that he was too angry to hear her was the only thing that stopped him from spinning and putting a dagger in her throat. Kagain leaned past him to look at the notice, and winced visibly as he read:

The Flaming Fist, by the authority of the Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gate hereby place an official bounty on all known associates of Sephiria of Amn, the murderer of merchant lord Rieltar Anchev. A fee of 2,000 gold will be paid for each member of the conspirator's group, dead or alive. 500 gold will be paid to anyone who provides information to the Flaming Fist directly leading to their arrest. Lord Sarevok Anchev, heir of the deceased, has offered a bonus of 1,000 gold to any successful bounty claim delivered before the assassin's execution on the 25th of Flamerule, 1368.

Contact Flaming Fist bounty officers at any local guardpost for further details and images of the conspirators.