Chapter Sixteen

(*)

She didn't know how it had ended, she just knew where she was now, and she knew she deserved it.

The wave of magic that had ripped across the hall had engulfed Sephiria fully, burning and freezing and crushing her in mind and body alike. She was already wounded and her will unfocussed; as the center of such a storm, she had little hope of resistance. She had fallen into blackness, and truthfully had never expected to wake up; oblivion, followed by disjointed visions of a sea of blood, of bone daggers digging under her skin. She saw Kivan's corpse, his last expression one of sadness, and saw it turn into her own face as she followed his self-destructive path to the same bitter ending.

She had Fallen, and she was in the Hells, rotting for her sins. It made sense to her, and she accepted it with as much dignity as she could… until the murderer's voice tore through her mind, along with a surge of very physical pain.

"You have been a great annoyance."

Her eyes fluttered open, and with them came a wave of pain and nausea that convinced her once and for all that yes, she was alive. She didn't exactly consider that a triumph at the moment… particularly because she was chained to a cot in a stone cell, her sword and armor gone, wearing nothing but bandages (most of which were stained uncomfortably red), and Gorion's murderer stood over her, his fingers digging into one of her still open wounds. The fact his left eye had been replaced with a black patch did not do much to make him less intimidating, she noted, and yet fear fell to the wayside quickly enough.

"Y…you," she hissed, unable to keep the toxic anger from her voice despite knowing better. "Why… am I alive…?"

"Because the spectacle you made of yourself has thrown my plans into disarray. The Knights of the Shield have withdrawn from our planned meeting. Rieltar is dead ahead of schedule, and I am made to look weak for letting him die before my very eyes," he rumbled, something gleaming in his one remaining eye. "I become the head of the Throne as planned, but before my agents have finished building the power base I need to take the next step, you idiot child. As much as I would like to snap your neck with my bare hands, I need to save face and repair my reputation as much as possible. That means the very public execution of you and as many of your friends as I can manage."

Sephiria blinked… and smiled. "You… didn't catch them. Hahahaha…"

"Yet. I didn't catch them yet," the man said, silencing her by once again digging his fingers into her wound, leaving her to hiss in agony as blood welled against his fingers. "And in the worst-case scenario, you'll do alone. You're the only one I need dead, and it was your sword that the Flaming Fist found impaled through Rieltar's lungs." He sighed. "Shame they kept it as evidence. Tazok did love that sword. But one does what one must."

"You… killed your master," Sephiria murmured. "And now you… frame me."

"Obviously, though nobody will ever hear those words said. We gag capital prisoners in Baldur's Gate when they're brought to the block. Find the begging upsets the crowd," he said, his smile wide and something flickering behind his one eye. "I enjoy it, personally, but those in power must make allowances for their subjects. And I'm afraid you've pushed up the schedule on my rise."

"Rise…?"

He smiled, and dug his fingers into her wound again, twisting. She tasted blood, felt it pool in the back of her throat as she bit down on the inside of her mouth to keep from screaming her lungs out.

"You know, I want to tell you. I want to gloat. I want to detail every last step of the plan and watch you break as you realize you have no hope, and you never did. And then I want to snap your neck with my bare hands," he said, and she felt the need to scream once more; not from the pain, but from the sheer undiluted hate in his tone. It washed over her like a cloud of poison, making the deepest rage she had ever felt seem petty and meaningless in comparison.

She did not know why, but this man despised her. So had known he sought her death, but she had assumed it to be impersonal, the result of some scheme she threatened. She had never considered the possibility that he simply loathed her beyond all reason or sanity, and with that realization came a crushing sense of guilt that she couldn't control or rationalize.

He had killed her father to hurt her. He might have said otherwise, indicated that Gorion might be spared… but she could see it in his eyes. Feel it in the crushing grip on her wounded shoulder, the unthinking disgust that radiated off him in waves.

Had her father done what he asked, he still would have killed him. Just to make Sephiria watch him die. And for the life of her, she couldn't tell why.

She didn't know him, had never left Candlekeep. She had never done anything to inspire such a personal hatred. And yet she felt it, and something dark and sick inside her was laughing at her.

You didn't embrace your true nature. You didn't claim the power offered to you. Even at the height of holy rage, you turned away in the end.

But there are always others.

"I need your death to be a spectacle," he hissed. "A demonstration of my power and loyalty to my poor lost 'father.' A proof of my worthiness to lead this city of sheep and victims, forge them into my holy blade. Be happy I do, dear sister, because if I hadn't, you would have never woken up."

There are always others.

(*)

"What did she do. What did she do!" Acherai muttered to as he looked over the map of the Sword Coast. He had it memorized, but he needed something to keep his mind busy as the team made camp.

"You have muttering to yourself since we left Beregost. It wears on the nerves."

He sighed. "Because I'm annoyed. I had a lead. I had a target and a plan. But now the city is on high alert and it will have clamped down on defending the one man I need to get near. So you'll forgive me, dear Viconia, if I'm in no mood to coddle you."

"Oh, not my nerves. It's mostly the mage and the barbarian, if we're being honest," she purred. "I quite appreciate seeing you so driven, if I must be honest. You intrigue me."

"I'm driven because I need a plan. Any plan. And nothing… comes to me. Things are wrong in my head ever since Davaeorn," he snapped. "My mind isn't as sharp. I get angry more easily. And I really, really want to kill you all."

"I noticed," Viconia said dryly, sitting next to him. "It's rather like being home. You look at us all in much the same way my sisters tended to look at me."

"Then why are you still here?" he hissed. "Go back to the others. Sleep, eat. It's easier to focus when I'm alone."

"It hurts you because you're fighting it, you know," she whispered, running a finger idly along his arm.

"… What is that supposed to mean, exactly?"

"I'm a priest. I know much of spiritual matters," she continued. "Shar does not like to give knowledge. Secrets are her purview and she guards them jealously. But I know how to bit of darkness. Of resisting nature instead of embracing it."

"My nature," he said flatly, "is apparently to kill, kill, and kill again. To take life randomly and brutally for no reason other than the sheer thrill of it. I may not have many morals, but I do have standards. If I'm going to be killing someone, it should be my choice and for my benefit. Not because something inside my blood has decided it knows better than me. I will not stop fighting this."

She blinked. "I didn't say you should."

"Then explain yourself," he snarled.

"You're fighting your true nature. You're not mastering it," she said. "The power is yours to use, no? Stop suppressing it, focus it. Use it for your own purposes, directed by your own will. Do not ignore the voice within. Tame it."

He blinked. "That's… that's an odd thing to say for a cleric. A servant by nature."

"Oh, quite the opposite. Certainly I must follow a code of Shar's choosing in exchange for this power. But I choose how to use it once it is mine, within her very open limits. It doesn't take long to work out that the gods rarely care about us so long as we pay them attention in the manner they like," Viconia said with a shrug. "I do as I will in exchange for doing as Shar wills. They intersect often. Otherwise, why would I worship her?"

Acherai blinked a few times… and narrowed his eyes. "Why are you telling me any of this? Why are you trying to help? I'm, as you're happy to notice, a male surfacer elf."

She paused to consider this. "Well. I've never been so dogmatic as my family would have liked. Blind hate and love of madness is considered a virtue in a priestess of Lloth, but I prefer to maintain a more pragmatic nature," she leaned in, smiling like a contented cat as she locked her eyes with him and ran a finger along his jawline. "So I see two benefits to be had from this, abbil. I admire power, and I appreciate the benefits to be found in allying with those who possess it. I believe that you could be the recipient of a power that High Priestesses would burn their own eyes out to possess, and when you have it I want you sane enough to remember I'm on your side… and positively disposed enough to remember you are on mine."

Slowly, he smiled. "I can respect that. And your words have some merit, though… how to do it, I shall have to work out. But what's the second benefit?"

She smirked. "Work it out for yourself, ssinssrigg," she whispered, leaning in close enough her breath brushed his ear, before pulling back suddenly and leaving him to watch her walk away with a bit more sway to her hips than the moment called for.

His smile widened with the tingling in his skin where her finger had touched. "Well then. If you're trying to be motivating, you may have missed a bit and landed at frustrating."

"The torment makes it more fun to me," she said over her shoulder, her smirk very knowing indeed. "You have much to consider… and even more to earn. Better get to it."

He sighed. Well. Of any species, women are still terrifying and alluring in equal measure. But at least she makes good points in between using my mind as a scratching post. I've been approaching this wrong.

I'm Acherai Moonshadow. My mind is my own, you hear me? he thought, turning his mind inward to something cold and bloody. I don't know what you are, or where you came from, but I am the master of my own mind. You want to live here, you do it as a subordinate, not a master, or you go the way of Sarevok when I send him to see his father again.

And speaking of…

"Kagain!" he snapped. "Come over here. I need two things from you."

"Dammit, elf, if we're gonna be walkin' all night we need to be sleepin' all day!" replied a voice that sounded less like a dwarf, and more like a bear that had learned to talk.

"Oh, grow up. This won't take ten minutes," Acherai said with a sigh, ignoring the rest of the group as they were stirred by the shouting, and enjoying Viconia's chuckle as she pulled her hood over her head and lay back in her bedroll. "I just need the name of someone in the Baldur's Gate underworld who can be vaguely trusted and yet readily disposed of, and that little trinket we picked up on the day we met. My mind's feeling a bit clearer, I find, and I do have a plan."

"Go kill yerself, ye sleep-wrecking bastard!"

Acherai sighed. "No appreciation for my efforts around here, really."

(*)

Scar was not amused. At all.

Angelo Dosan was, in his personal opinion, the worst sort of scum: A watchman on someone else's payroll. Scar himself had done mercenary work, certainly, and he wouldn't fault a man for taking coin to do another's dirty work if he had no other options to make a living. But even the darkest of mercenaries were supposed to honor their contracts, and the Flaming Fists contract and oath was to Eltan and, through him, the Gate. He was the law now, and so the Fist were lawmen, meant to be beholden to none but the city.

Angelo was a full rank below Scar, but wore a sword that would have cost him a year's salary. His shirt was silk, he had a gold ring that hummed with magic on each hand, and his boots and belt were both buckled with gold just a tad too shiny to be mundane as well. If he was living only on his official salary, then Scar was an orc's son. Scar had never been able to prove anything, of course; the thing about being corrupt was that you had the resources to slip a lot of nets. But he knew.

And so, being called to Duke Eltan's office alongside Angelo was something he did not relish. Even less so when he walked in, and saw something that rocked him to his very godsdamned core.

The duke was not at his desk. Rather, he called to them from the adjoining bedchamber where he slept when casework kept him at headquarters overnight. And he looked...

Gods.

The Duke wasn't a young man, and he had been in more battles than Scar could count, so expecting him to look the part of the great warrior he had been in his mercenary days was not realistic. But he had always looked as fit as a man of his age could be, and more he had always been a presence. As if there was too much mind and spirit for his body to hold, and it coated the room like the feeling in the air before lightning strike. He always exuded the quiet confidence of a man who had crossed swords with a hundred enemies and never found one better than himself.

Until now.

The Duke had been tied up in meetings for weeks now, dealing with his peers on the Council and with increasingly annoyed Amnish ambassadors, so Scar had not seen him in some days. If he had not been wearing his badge of office, Scar would not have recognized him. His skin was a shade too gray to be healthy, and seemed to hang loosely from him; and from the empty look in his eyes, Scar was not sure if this was because he had lost weight, or if he just didn't have the energy to hold his own body together.

Scar had seen that look before, in field hospitals. You saw it in the eyes of the men who wouldn't live long enough for the clerics to reach them.

"Sir..." He began, before being cut off by a weary hand.

"No need to say it. I look like the Hells spat me out," Eltan said, his voice too raspy by half. "Started last week. Some ailment of the lungs, and a bad one. My healer says I have even odds to outlast it, but from how I feel, I fear he's being an optimist."

"Gods, sir, that's a bit too much to be dropping on me in one breath," Scar snapped. "And shouldn't you be resting if its that bad?!"

Eltan chuckled, before coughing violently for several painful seconds. "Calm. I've lived too long anyway, Scar."

"Respectfully, sir, I don't quite agree with you on that one!"

"Which is why I feel safe telling you this. The Fist need a leader who can stay on his feet for more than an hour, so. You officially have my job until I can take it back, and forever if I can't. I hereby promote you to Captain-Commander."

"I...see."

"Congratulations are in order, I see," drawled a voice from beside him, and Scar had to fight the urge to jump out of his skin; the shock of the Duke's condition had made him forget his unwelcome companion altogether.

Now if only forgetting him made him actually be gone.

Angelo smiled, stepping into the room around Scar and strolling up to Eltan's desk with annoying grace. He was only a half-elf, but he could certainly be obnoxious like a full one. It was the smirk, Scar knew. Nobody could smirk like a damn elf, that expression that just screamed out, "I see you as vermin, but I am too elegant to just say it." Angelo had that look down to a science, to the point Scar couldn't recall ever seeing another expression on his face.

"For both of you, unfortunately," Eltan said. "Dosan. Direct request from the other Dukes. You are taking over the hunt for the fugitives on the Anchev case."

"What?!" Scar snapped.

"I'm an old friend of the family," Angelo said, the very picture of innocence. "Why, before I joined this fine soldiering company, I even served the household as master of the guard. So of course, when the young lord requested me personally to handle his quest for justice, it only made sense."

"The city is always willing to support a grieving son in seeking justice," Eltan said dryly, the rasp in his voice only adding to it. "Particularly when he just inherited the third largest fortune in the region."

... Ah. Ah-ha. So that's how it is, then. Sarevok Anchev... Rieltar's straightforward son is more twisty in the head than we thought, I see.

"Sir, with due respect the Iron Throne investigations were in my purview..." Scar began.

"... Until witnesses confirmed sighting you in the company of the alleged murderer," Eltan finished for him. "I know you did nothing wrong, old friend. And I know the Throne isn't a blameless organization."

"Slander, sir duke," Angelo said mildly.

"In my office, it isn't slander if I don't say it is," Eltan hissed. "The Throne is a cutthroat group that just barely stays within the law. But they are also the city's only source of iron ore that is even slightly reliable, and that gives them clout. Young lord Anchev just became an orphan, which gives him sympathy. And combined these give them the right to have their way this time. Now both of you, out. I need to lay down."

Scar, mind ablaze with possibilities, left the office just as Eltan's personal healer strode in, carrying a tray of tonics.

Had Angelo not been behind him, he might have seen the almost imperceptible smile the half-elf gave one of the darker vials among these medicines.

(*)

"I have concerns," Shar-teel said, and that was a sign from the gods that Acherai truly had fallen as far as he could.

"Oh good. Your problems are always reasonable," he said with a sigh. "Tell me, did you see one of those nasty, nasty men and feel the need to stab him because he looked at you wrong?"

"Yes. That one," she said flatly, pointing at their guide. Kagain had, after getting over being woken up early (it had taken until the next day, extra meals, and promise of a bonus the next big payday they had), delivered on Acherai's request. The group currently waited next to the moat surrounding the city, an artificial river that channeled the Sea of Swords into a natural barrier around the port town. The man had been useful so far, at least, connecting them a minor smuggler who could ship them past the city moat and guards without raising a scene. He was not high-ranked in any underworld organization, or he wouldn't have been there in person, but he clearly had enough contacts to at least manage a few basic services, and his prices were… well, ridiculous even by petty criminal standards. But that was part of the plan too, in a way.

Try telling Shar-teel to be pragmatic, though. In one ear and out the other with that madwoman.

Acherai sighed. "He's fine. Eldoth, tell her you're fine."

"I'm quite fine," Eldoth Kron said smoothly. "And I'd appreciate it if certain 'fair' ladies stopped casting aspersions on my character and started focusing on making us dinner while we await the, erm, unofficial ferry. Just a suggestion."

"Sweet Sehanine, and people call me slimy," Coran murmured.

"I confess Mr. Kron has some personality defects," Acherai said calmly. "But our job got much harder when dear Sephiria turned the city into a war zone. We need funding and allies if we are to succeed, and Eldoth here can get us both, as he was kind enough to outline."

"Friends in the Thieves' Guild go a long way," Eldoth said cheerfully. "And of course, we have already discussed where the funding will be coming from. Entar Silvershield, Duke of the Gate and, I cannot stress enough, wealthiest man in it. And his daughter loves me! The ransom notes practically write themselves. I know that a thousand gold for a ferry might seem expensive, my friends, but you'll appreciate that we kept a low profile when you're helping me make us back that investment ten times over."

"There, you see? Eldoth will serve his purpose handily," Acherai said. "And he won't betray us, because he knows what will happen if he does. Viconia, what will happen?"

She pushed her hood back a bit to emphasize her black skin's visibility and purred, in far too seductive a tone for the words, "I will magically create a swarm of flesh-eating spiders inside his eyes. My mother used to love that one. I'm not as good as she was, though. She could keep a male alive for days while the little dears ate, but I find I can barely manage a scant few hours."

Eldoth coughed. "Yes. We...covered this, yes. Very spirited ladies you have around, friend. May want to work on that."

"Work on it? I encourage it. I do love a woman with enthusiasm and creativity. She does fantastic work, as you'll see if you get on her bad side." He paused. "Well, you won't see it."

"On account of the spiders in yer eyes," Kagain said.

"Yes, Kagain, that is what I was getting at."

"Just helpin' out, elf."

"And you did it with style. But of course, none of it will be necessary, because Eldoth would never betray us," Acherai said. "The plan is sound. Kagain has done work for the Silvershields before, so he can get us in. The lovely daughter of the family knows our new friend well. Money and connections, my friends, money and connections. We will have both very soon, and I am sure not even a single person need have spiders eating their eyes."

"Not even one?" Viconia pouted.

Acherai grinned and brushed her hair back behind her ear. "Well, maybe just one. You know how I love getting you a gift."

"Mmmm, you spoil me."

"Always," he murmured, leaning in to nip her ear gently, and whisper, "You play a flirtatious maniac better than expected, my dear."

She smirked wickedly, lightly traced her tongue along his neck, and whispered back, "I'm reminded of home. Tormenting insolent males and plotting treachery is drow foreplay."

He shivered as her touch drew lines of electricity down his neck. "I like the sound of that."

"You should," she said, shifting his head to pull their lips together, stopping just shy of actually kissing him, and instead just letting her breath brush his face. "Maybe."

"Oh, you're a devil," he whispered, running his hand down her spine and enjoying the shudder it provoked. He still had to consider, of course, that this interest on her part was falsified to manipulate him. But, well, there were worse ways to have someone try to get in his good graces.

Eldoth coughed again. "Do they even… remember we're here?"

"Wench has been all touchy since the elf started eating souls or whatever he does now. Darkskins love magic, especially the really evil stuff," Kagain said without obvious concern.

"Trust me, if this was common I'd be throwing up more. Though you wouldn't be alive to notice, since I'd be in too foul a mood to tolerate you," Shar-teel grumbled.

"You picked the wrong group to join, sir Kron," Coran said cheerfully.

"As I tell myself every waking minute," Edwin muttered. He still technically was not allowed to talk.

(*)

Scar stomped down the street, as full of fury as he had ever been and not certain at all what to do about it.

Kicked upstairs, after all these years. Handed an empty promotion that put him behind a desk, just as he was also forced to keep his hands out of the only case he actually needed to look into! He missed being a mercenary, on days like this. So much damn simpler than being a watchman; just walk onto the battlefield and put the pointy end of the sword into the bastard wearing the other side's colors. Not good for the soul, maybe, but easy once you got the hang of it…

"Alms for the poor, sir?" a raspy voice asked from his right, and Scar cursed himself even as he jumped in shock. Being lost in thought was no reason to lower his guard, dammit all.

He sighed, tossing a few coppers into the man's cup. Old Grem was, as far as beggars went, not the worst. Probably wouldn't bash your head in and steal your purse if he found you drunk in an alley, anyway, and always called Scar 'sir.' Better than Angelo, anyway. "Sorry, Grem. A poor day all around, since the Iron Throne business. The Fist hasn't gone off high alert in a tenday."

"Seen the posters. Lost yer killers, sir?" Grem asked with a throaty chuckle.

"They tend to run, old man. We'll find 'em in the end." Or at least a filthy pack of bounty hunters masquerading as watchmen will, at least.

"Well, you been a fair man ta me. I know begging 'round the Fist hall ain't looked kindly on, but ya never dragged me to a cell and yer boys give coppers regular, even a silver every so often. So's I may have seen somethin' what would help ya out."

Scar narrowed his eyes. "And you didn't tell an officer this before now? Waiting until I get off-shift isn't the urgency a murder deserves, old man."

"Most officers ain't the sorts to listen to a beggar," the old man said defensively. "But yer a good sort. Never beat down a man fer askin' for a bit of coin. Officers on your watch leave me alone. So's I trust you."

He sighed. "Fair point. Talk, old man. I'll listen, and if you make sense there's even more coins in it for you."

The old man grinned, showing off far too few teeth. "Silver?"

"Gold. The bounty's a strong one. Might not even be homeless in a few tendays, if you actually help to catch these folks."

"HA! Wouldn't that be a laugh," he chuckled. "Come on, then. Not somethin' to talk about in the street, y'know? Don't want anyone hearin' it and poaching my bounty!"

"Oh, so you're a bounty hunter now?"

"Only since ye told me I was," the old beggar said with something between a chuckle and a cough. "Come, come! Don't wanna talk in the open. Alleys, alleys. Always safe in the alleys."

Scar rolled his eyes, putting one hand to his sword. "You're a good sort, Grem, so I let you walk about. If you lead me to some young toughs with sharp knives now, I will run you through."

"Some faith, sir. Nobody here seeks your purse, guardsman," Grem said, chuckling again as Scar followed him around a sharp turn and deeper into an alleyway. The beggar moved aside some detritus left behind the warehouses it bordered, trash that smelled entirely too much like rotten fish for something that wasn't actually in the docks district. "Come, come. I found something you must see."

Scar sighed, looking over the beggar's shoulder while making damn sure to keep his hand firmly on his blade… and felt his jaw go slack, along with the grip on the blade. A corpse stared up at him; twisted, broken, and half-eaten from the looks of it. Which was nothing he hadn't seen before, and so he normally would not have bothered to be concerned beyond the smell.

Except the corpse was Grem.

The old man spun on him, already inside his guard and moving like a striking snake, his filthy fingers extending into slick grey claws and lashing out for Scar's eyes. The guardsman was a veteran of too many wars to keep track of, and that was very much the only thing that kept him alive; rather than try to block or counterattack, either of which would have taken seconds he didn't have, he simply fell backward. Claws that should have buried themselves to the knuckle in his eye sockets struck his forehead at an angle and skittered off bone, a white-hot lance of pain and blood in his eyes being a fair trade for survival. He rolled backward on impact with the ground, showing more agility than most would credit to a middle-aged guardsman, and by the time he came to his feet his sword was out and ready.

The doppleganger, for that's what it had to be, chuckled at him in Grem's voice. "Fast old meat. Tougher than expected, but that's okay. Crack the hard outer shell to get to the warm parts inside."

"Old wolves aren't meat, face-stealer. We're always better at killing than whatever young pup thinks he can step up, and you can tell your master that," Scar said grimly, a cold smile on his face. "Or you could, if I was going to leave you a head to speak with."

"Wolves are not men. They have the sense to hunt in packs," the doppleganger purred, his eyes going quicksilver and empty. "Like us."

Scar's eyes widened, despite the sting of blood in them, and glanced over his shoulder at a sound behind him. Two figures, outlined against the dim lighting flowing into the alley from the streets.

Outflanked. Not much room to maneuver to the sides, have to be careful the sword doesn't catch on a wall. They have claws, nothing to worry about there, he thought, a smile on his lips that carried no joy at all, stopping at somewhere between grim and sad. Well. Always knew we wouldn't live forever, right?

He lowered his stance, ready to spin at either side and try his level best to cut down as many of them as he could before they brought him down.

And then one of the two new arrivals raised a bow and shot 'Grem' full in the chest.

The doppleganger let out a sound halfway between a scream of pain and the hissing of a snake, its hand involuntarily clamping down on the arrow as the shock of agony sent it to its knees. With a motion so smooth that Scar would have promoted the soldier who showed it on the spot, the second new arrival dashed past the shocked guardsman, a heavy metal staff swinging up from the ground to impact the underside of the thing's jaw. The sound of bone snapping rang out through the alley, the doppleganger's head snapping back with enough force to break its neck. The creature flew backward into the alley wall, and did not stir.

The staff-wielding figure turned to face him, and Scar had to admit Jaheira's wanted poster captured her look of perpetual annoyance fairly well. That artist deserved a raise.

"Apologies for the timing. We've been trying to find a moment to talk to you, but it has been difficult. For the most part we have been forced to live in the sewers," she said, disgust rolling off her with each word.

"It smells!" the second figure agreed.

"Stop helping, Imoen."

"Sorry."

Scar blinked in confusion and not a little rage, looking from the dead doppleganger to the adventurers who had basically ruined his life, and spent a few seconds just opening his mouth and not saying anything.

"You seem distressed," Imoen offered.

"What the Hells did you idiots do?!" he screamed, finally.

"You see, this is why I tell her not to help," Jaheira sighed. "Trust me, this situation is not centered on us at all. Sarevok is cleverer than I would have cared to admit."

"Explain."

"Once we get somewhere safe, I-"

"NOW."

Jaheira sighed again. "Fine. The short version."

Three Days Earlier, Iron Throne Tower…

The waves of fire ripped down the staircase and across the grand hall of the Throne tower. The target was Sephiria, that much was clear, but most of the hall was at least scorched; Sarevok laughed, the sound tinged with pain that he was clearly enjoying, even as his father let out a pained scream and fell back behind a vase, batting madly at his burning robes.

The girl went down, hard. And she didn't move. Jaheira was stopped from running to her side, healing spell already in her mind, only by a very disheartening sight approaching them from the upper floors.

Six descended the stairs, already in formation for a battle; two warriors in plate armor, one bearing a halberd the gleamed with cold blue light and the other carrying longsword and a bow strapped across his back. A man in leather and an elf in plain clothes behind them spreading to flank with small, swift blades, the latter also bearing a wand that still glowed with the flames it had cast out. And in the rear, a man and a gnome clutching holy symbols at their throats, both murmuring prayers beneath their breaths.

Oh, and all six had their faces and hands painted with fresh blood.

Sephiria was unconscious, and that bear of a man had broken Khalid's arm. That left the group one-and-a-half members down, at the least, and they were facing six fresh enemies. Plus that… thing, still standing and smiling with an arrow in his eye, like the pain only made him want to battle more.

Jaheira had been an adventurer for a long time. She knew a rout when she saw it.

"Minsc, grab the girl!" she snapped, ordering forward their best remaining melee option even as she backpedaled, a hasty prayer murmured under her breath. From the marble floors, tangling vines began to sprout, erupting from the bare stone as easily as if it were damp soil. It snared the charging enemies, hampering their steps. The elf with the wand was even snared totally, tripping forward and falling to be tangled totally. Minsc, who could follow a simple order, even took the time to charge past the rest of the group like an unstoppable bull to save their wounded ally.

At least until the unstoppable bull was stopped.

The leader, the man with the gleaming halberd, laughed derisively at the vines tangling his legs and hacked them off with a single smooth motion. With grace that would have been hard for a man in armor half the weight of what he was wearing, he leaped the rest of the way down the steps to slam his blade down between Minsc and Sephiria, a mad gleam in his eyes. "The lord denies you, and we are his holy blades. Die now."

Magic. One of the clerics, Jaheira thought. They were casting as they descended. Prayers to empower their allies. Annoying. She cast her mind into Silvanus, calling up a prayer to end magics…

And an arrow slammed into her side, the second warrior having abandoned his sword to draw the bow on his back.

Being shot was not quite so simple as the childish often assumed. Far too many were the stories of great heroes who kept battling with an arrow embedded in them, as though it were a meager inconvenience. Being shot with an arrow was not entirely unlike being punched by a giant, a shock that rolled over one's entire body and made thought impossible as the impact and the sudden, shocking pain overrode all other perception. Her spell was lost, her legs giving out under her, and she struggled to draw breath enough to keep conscious.

And as if to mock her perceptions, the giant man smiled at her, an arrow still in his skull like some kind of grim ornament, and said, "Weak."

Gods damn it all.

"We need to retreat," she hissed to her husband as he pulled her to rest on his good shoulder, his sword held between them and the enemy as the closest he had to a shield.

"T-that may be problematic," he snapped back as her vines began to fade. One of the two men she'd identified as a rogue murmured a few syllables and vanished from view. The other moved forward from pillar to pillar, a short blade gleaming with magic, to try to loop around between them and the door.

"Mage! Do something useful!" she snarled at Xan. She knew he would know which mage she was talking to because she didn't give him the dignity of using his name. It fit his view of the world.

"Everything I do is useful," he muttered, pulling a wand and a small potion out of his pouch. "Dynaheir, do you have your large friend?"

Already mid-way through a spell, her eyes locked on the man trading hammer-blows with her giant of a companion and not coming out the worst for it, Dynaheir still took the time to shoot him a scowl.

"Yes, then!" he said, leveling the wand and activating it by an act of will. The rogue rushing the group tumbled out from behind a cracked pillar, poised to take Jaheira and Khalid in a rush that would run them both through in a single motion…

And he stopped mid-lunge as the Wand of Paralysis took effect, halting him so suddenly and firmly that he couldn't even fall over, despite literally being frozen mid-step with one leg off the floor. Pleased with the success of this (because it might well have failed, gotten his erstwhile leader killed, and then Imoen would never stop whining), he drew back his arm and threw the potion to Khalid with all his might; a Potion of Speed that would let him get his wife to safety faster than the enemy could pursue.

It made it about halfway. Fortunately, Imoen had started running as soon as she'd seen him draw back his arm and caught in mid-air, taking the time to shout, "You're awful!" even as she dove into a forward tumble that sent the archer's next arrow sailing harmlessly over her head.

Xan would have taken the time to counter this, but that was also about the time that Dynaheir finished her spell. And it was hard to hear anything over the thunder being set off by a lightning strike right next to you.

Xan winced. A Lightning Bolt indoors was, logically speaking, a terrible idea. The electricity did not stop with the target, leaping about randomly to strike anything that might channel it. But frankly, he could also accept that risks were about what they needed right now. The bolt struck the man engaging Minsc full in the chest, arcs of lightning leaping from him to strike his partner with the bow, and even produced a scream of pain from thin air as the invisible mage/thief had his position violently confirmed.

Xan opened his mouth to add another spell to the chaos, hopefully one that would finally kill one of these insufferable nuisances, and that was when they finally hit absolute rock-bottom: as he opened his mouth, no sound came out.

He had just enough time to realize that one of the clerics had been busy before the other one finished his own casting, a magical sigil appearing on the marble floor between him and Dynaheir.

One which promptly exploded…

Baldur's Gate sewer system, the present…

"I know what happened next," Scar said with an annoyed sigh. "The big barbarian scooped up the two mages and ran through the streets screaming and nearly killed a few much smaller people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Crowds had come in to see the fuss, and crowds become mobs when people start to get hurt. The chaos was absurd, and by the time the Fist were even on the scene you were lost in the madness."

"In his defense," Jaheira said, as the three progressed through the sewer tunnels, "We'd likely not have survived if Sarevok and his acolytes had pursued. The riot was disastrous, but kept their victory from being total."

"Instead, all we lost was Seffie," Imoen said bitterly. "Oh, and our ability to walk anywhere aboveground instead of living in a sewer."

"The girl is alive," Scar said. "That's something. And I know who sent that beast to kill me. All that remains now is to drag him into the light of day and prove his connections. Follow me to headquarters, and I will settle this and your innocence in one fell swoop." He paused. "You are innocent, I hope?"

"Of the death of Rieltar? I know he was alive when we fled," Jaheira snapped. "And the accused could not have lifted her own arms, much slain a man with a greatsword."

"And if you accuse her of anything like that ever again, I'll hurt you," Imoen said, very softly.

"Just wanted to hear it myself," Scar said, stepping toward the ladder out of the sewers.

He pushed up a manhole cover, coming up less than a minute's walk from headquarters and a soon-to-be dead half-elf traitor… and found three crossbows leveled at his face before he even stepped out of the damn pit.

"Harold 'Scar' Loggerson. Thank you for returning so quickly, and for proving me right when I told my men to watch all approaches to the compound," Angelo drawled. "Now then, what is the official response to this situation? Ah yes: you stand accused of the murder of Grand Duke Eltan. Surrender yourself into my custody, or face death."

(*)

"Well, I must admit, my friend, you are as good as your word. In the city, and not a guard to be seen," Acherai said, smiling at the Silvershield estate. "You know, not so long ago, I would have robbed this place. Now I am about to walk in as an honored guest. Times do change, hm?"

Eldoth clapped him on the back. "Well, not too much. You're still going to rob it, just with more style than a sneak thief. A hostage who never tries to escape, that is a prize to be won."

"Oh, I agree. It's like a gold farm, really. A fair lady on your arm, and her father will pay you for her safety? Really, its as though he's paying you to have sex and lounge around fine inns all day. I admire it, I really do," Acherai agreed. "It's just so...small time, though. I have bigger aspirations these days."

Eldoth tensed visibly. "What do you mean by this? Skie Silvershield is the prize of the city. The Duke will pay thousands to keep her safe. Tens of thousands!"

"Valuable, indeed. But the favor of such a powerful man will provide certain avenues far more valuable than just coin, friend. We are not going to rob Entar Silvershield, we are going to become his new best friends!" Acherai said cheerfully. "Shar-teel, if he moves, kill him."

"Finally, something I can enjoy," she said, pressing the tip of her sword against the man's spleen.

"Thank you kindly, my dear," Acherai said. "Kagain? I trust you can work out what to do?"

The dwarf chuckled, shaking his head in bemusement, as he reached into his pack and withdrew a gold brooch bearing the Silvershield family crest. "Forgot all about this thing, I did. Good on you fer thinking to bring it along 'stead of selling it for a few pints."

"Wh-what is..." Eldoth began, stopping when the sword at his back dug in.

"No, no, darling. I am always happy to indulge the curious," Acherai chided. "See, I met Kagain, oh, ages ago when I helped him investigate a caravan his mercenary company was guarding. It was something of a disaster; the caravan was destroyed and all passengers and guards killed, so poor Kagain was forced to abandon his business. Since, you see, one of those passengers was Eddard Silvershield, the Duke's oldest son."

Acherai smiled, taking the brooch from Kagain and idly twirling it between his fingers as he looked Eldoth in the eyes and enjoyed watching the man pale. "I knew returning it would win me some influence. But not nearly so much as I'll get from catching the killer and exposing a plot against the household. Now tell me, can you guess your role in this plan?"