Chapter Twenty-three

(*)

There were people who said that childhood trauma was easy to forget. That a youth would repress the memories automatically, while their minds were still young enough to be malleable. A natural defense mechanism, to let them move on with their lives after something that should have otherwise destroyed them.

It was, in Acherai's experience, a damn lie. He remembered the temple. He remembered every detail. The cages, the knives, the arrow ripping through the little girl while her kiss was still warm on his cheek, every drop of blood still shone in his memory to this day. And the human boy, unusually tall and strong for his age, that had saved his life at the last second…

I told you when I opened the cage: that's the last you're getting from me. That's the last anyone is getting from me.

Logically speaking, it should have been impossible to place the boy as an adult. It had been too long, humans aged too rapidly and changed too much over the years. Beyond sharing the same basic skin tone, this walking wall of muscle had nothing physical in common with the boy that had saved and abandoned him in that nightmarish pit.

But it was him. It had to be him. Not just from his words, but from the blood pounding in Acherai's ears telling him over a din that sounded like the death screams of a thousand terrified souls, that destiny was at hand, that he had to kill or be killed, and that either path was acceptable.

So if you want to survive, if you want your meaningless life to extend one more day, you will kill him, kill him, KILL HIM!

He never even felt his hand move before the wand was in it and pointed at Sarevok's face as he walked down the stairs, his smile lazy and unconcerned. It was a lovely piece, inset with ruby dust and gold inlay, the tip in the shape of a dragon's open maw.

Imoen was not a mage, but she was smart. She was already in motion diving for the tower's front door before the trigger phrase even left the elf's lips. A ball of fire the size of a fist tore out of the dragon's mouth and rocketed across the entry hall, slamming into the stairway at Sarevok's feet and detonating in a bloom of flame that tore through the stairs, igniting wood and shattering marble with the sheer heat and force…

And Sarevok, his single eye glowing a brilliant gold that outshone the flame by far, leaped out of the inferno with inhuman strength, his blade held above his head and a smile of absolute glee on his burned face as he descended like an avenging demon.

Acherai dove back, his own face twisting almost involuntarily into an expression that was equal parts smile and snarl as the giant man slammed down, his blade digging into the marble of the entry hall like it was no more solid than a pool of water, before drawing out just as quickly, untouched by either fire or stone as it slashed through the air less than an inch in front of the retreating elf's face as he danced backward again, a spell already on his lips.

He could swing a staff reasonably well and was a fine hand with a dagger, but fighting this thing in melee was a hopeless pursuit. If he was going to survive this battle, it would be by his magecraft and his guile. He knew, at least, that he was quite good at those…

Sarevok pursued him with agility that would have been shocking in a trained acrobat, his blade slashing in at Acherai's neck with speed that felt impossible, even as the elf watched it happen. The spell abandoned, he dove back again, and again, moving with reflexes honed by a lifetime on the streets fleeing from people bigger and stronger than himself. And yet the colossal warrior kept on his heels; never quite catching him, perhaps, but never giving him a moment to rest or even think. It was all he could do to stay just barely alive...

And then Sarevok stopped in his tracks, his hand snapping up in a blur to swat at something in front of his head.

There was a blur of motion, the smell of fresh blood as something cut into the giant's hand nearly making Acherai dizzy, and an arrow clattered to the floor at his feet. He turned to Imoen, her bowstring still humming, and his smile was more like the grin of a skull than any human expression. "Wait your turn. I want you alive when I shove one of your own arrows into your eye. Now, where were we, bro... ther...?" he said softly, his enthusiasm fading slightly as he turned back to Acherai.

Who had, in the scant seconds he'd turned away, completely vanished from the antechamber.

"'Brother.' That's an interesting choice of phrase..." the elf's voice murmured, seemingly from everywhere at once. "I suppose I should have questions for you, but I just can't imagine any information that would make me happier than your blood cooling at my feet..."

Sarevok grinned, and planted his feet in a defensive stance to prepare for an attack he would never see but could already sense coming. "It is so nice to meet family I have something in common with."

Sephiria sighed, pacing back and forth in the small house that held the exit to the Iron Throne tunnel Tamoko had shown them. "They should be back by now. Something has gone wrong."

"Of course it has. This was a trap," Scar said flatly.

"Possibly, but not one of my making," Tamoko replied gently, sitting cross-legged in the corner of the building, her hands bound behind her back with a rope Imoen had 'legally acquired' from a nearby general store. "I have told you already, Sarevok will kill me if he learns I am still alive. Even if we are able to save him as I hope, he is... he will not forgive me my betrayals. Be they for his own good or not, he will not forgive me. Delivering you to him would earn me nothing but a swift death."

"I don't think it's a trap. I think Imoen did something foolish and now she is in danger!" Sephiria snapped, glaring at the two of them. Scar had not stopped sniping at Tamoko for five seconds, and while Tamoko was more than polite in her constant replies, it turned out that listening to her drone on and on and on about philosophy and her love for Sarevok in her gentle, calm little voice got old very quickly.

"I think Imoen shall be fine! She is a good girl. Clever with brains, like Boo!" Minsc said.

"Oh gods, she's already dead," Sephiria moaned.

"Silly Seffie, that is the opposite of what I said! You must learn to listen to the wisdom of nature, like me," Minsc said cheerfully, patting her on the back reassuringly. It hurt.

"Right. I have to go help her. Something has gone wrong," Sephiria said. "Scar, Minsc, you take the lead. I still need new armor, so I will have to resign myself to guarding Tamoko, but-"

"She is not coming," Scar said flatly. "Or have you considered, maybe, that if she wanted to backstab us and get back into her old boss's good graces, this would be the time to do it? Assuming she ever really left them."

"Scar, we do not have time to..."

"Your friend the druid still has my holy symbol, and I've no spare. My powers would be distinctly limited, should I seek battle," Tamoko said serenely, ignoring the lawman's accusing gaze. "I am not unskilled with a hammer or mace, but you hardly need more strong arms."

"Minsc has two!" Minsc confirmed.

"... Fine. I've no time to argue the point. I will go alone. Minsc, you stay here and if either one of these idiots attempts to harm the other, hit them until they cannot see straight any longer. Scar, give me your armor. I'm muscled enough to fit it."

"What? I'm not giving-"

"You'll do it, or I swear I shall tie you up next to her and take it myself!" Sephiria snapped. "And if Imoen is hurt because you delayed me, I shall do far worse!"

"... Fine. But it's enchanted and cost me a month's salary, so I'll want it back," he muttered, slipping the chain shirt over his head.

Minsc smiled. "Are you prepared, Boo? It is not so good as charging blindly into battle, but we have been placed in charge of beating our comrades if they stray from the path of justice! Little Sephiria is a good leader."

"Minsc, for Torm's sake, please stop making me doubt my choices here," she murmured.

Jaheira had four broken ribs. She knew this because she had felt each one individually snap, one per second, as Tazok crushed her in his grip. She counted them, letting the snap echo in her ears from within her own body.

It helped her focus.

Jaheira was older than she looked; not many realized it but she was in fact only about two years younger than Gorion, Silvanus guide his soul to the heart. She was, in fact, nearly a half-decade older than her own husband, despite the fact they most certainly didn't look it. And in that time, she had experienced quite a lot. She had been shot, stabbed, burned, and one memorable occasion crucified (it was not a wise way to kill someone who could shift their shape into one too small for the ropes, but slaver guards were often more sadistic than intelligent). Anyone who thought pain would stop her from concentrating was destined for a very permanent lesson in humility.

Tazok grinned toothily, blood running down his shoulders and down his tusks, as he ignored wounds that would have killed a human raining down on his back. "Not as pretty as the last elf I killed. But you'll taste just as sweet."

Jaheira, in reply, opened her mouth and hissed the last words of the spell she'd been murmuring under her breathless screams, and with it released a bolt of steaming poison into the ogre's eyes from three inches away.

The beast screamed, a bellow that seemed to shake the tower like a dragon had landed among them, and hurled his captive away to claw at his own eyes and lash about the room madly. Jaheira had just enough time to wonder if she had made a mistake before she impacted against the stone wall on her right shoulder, the sickening crunch the only thing she could register enough to keep from passing out at the sudden pain as new bones were broken and old wounds made ten times worse. And then Tazok opened his eyes, blood and poison flowing out of them, and he couldn't possibly see her through it all but his gaze was on her...

... and an arrow slammed into the side of his head, bouncing off his thick skull and leaving a deep gash along his temple.

He paused. He grinned.

"Elves. And. Their. Arrows," he said, his voice rumbling like an avalanche.

"Oh my. Should have brought arrows for hunting bears," Coran muttered in dismay, nocking another missile and taking a step back as he released it, the ogre not even bothering to note as it stuck far-too-shallow into his shoulder. Still, Jaheira could not complain... it made the beast turn from her to someone she did not know nor particularly care about. Now she merely had to heal herself, and...

Khalid leaped in front of the total stranger, his shield raised to splinter under the impact of the ogre's fist as it descended to crush the archer's head.

Blasted Khalid, why are you so damnably helpful?! she thought in dismay. A distraction was not what she needed right now, trying to focus on a spell of healing that was not coming freely to her mind...

"Hold anon, I have potions ready," Dynaheir murmured, kneeling beside her and pressing a vial to her lips. "Drink, and try not to spit any out. 'Tis a grievous wound."

"I... hrk...!" Jaheira murmured, almost choking at the pain of trying to swallow, as if her throat were lined with razors, before the cooling relief of the liquid began to steal away the worst of it. "I... know how to... take a potion. Why are you not helping them?! We must kill this-"

"Wish you, then, for me to incinerate your husband?" Dynaheir asked frankly. "My specialty lies in evocation. Most of the spells I have to harm such a creature would also kill us all in these quarters."

Jaheira coughed again, a few drops of liquid flying from her lips, but strength already flooding into her pained limbs once again. "Then distract him instead, noblewoman, and leave the killing of monsters to professionals."

As seemed to be the case so often of late, Sephiria had no idea what she was doing or why, beyond a vague sense of dread.

She didn't know. She didn't know for sure that anything had gone wrong. Imoen was, despite her attitude, very good at staying unnoticed and even better at talking her way out of trouble. More than one person over the years had started off screaming at her for some petty theft only to end the day as her newest 'lifelong pal.' She could well be blowing Imoen's cover, for all she knew.

And yet there she was, charging down the Iron Throne's escape tunnel, sword in hand and blood pounding in her ears. Because she was absolutely certain that something had gone terribly wrong. She had no idea what it was, or why, but something. Was. Wrong.

There were no torches; rather, the walls and ceiling held occasional crystal orbs that glowed a pale blue in the darkness. She'd have called them lovely, had she been in a better frame of mind; apparently when one had enough money to burn, then one felt that even the lighting in one's emergency escape tunnel had to be higher-class than the peasants. And there, at the end of it all, a seemingly bare patch of wood flanked by two of the glowing lights, and a switch set in the wall next to it. She hit it so hard it cracked, and when the door began to open she slammed her shoulder into it, breaking the mechanism and jamming it open as she passed.

Well. Either I am interrupting a disaster or I just caused one, so I must move quickly. Imoen, where are you...?

From the other end of the same floor, a beast much larger than a man roared in pain and rage, and something shattered beneath a blow that sounded like it would have felled a bear.

From the floor blow them, the sound of a lightning strike filled the air, and smoke curled up the staircase.

... Right then. She could in fact be at either of those, because both sound like disasters. I shall assume that the explosion is more likely to be her, just because she seems to have a predilection for fire, and head down.

She dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, and almost immediately slammed into Imoen, who was coming up the opposite direction without looking.

Sisters know each other well.

Sarevok was, for the first time in a long time, having fun.

The first Bhaalspawn he had killed had been weak. Small, and weak. He had been aware of his heritage, or at least the begging near the end had suggested as much, but he simply hadn't been given enough of their father's essence for it to matter. It had taken Sarevok less than five minutes to hunt, kill, and throw him aside like the garbage he was. It had been like any other murder, frankly, important only due to the victim's bloodline and nothing to do with him as a person. A few scant weeks later and he'd already forgotten the weakling's face.

Sephiria of Candlekeep, despite the hope he'd had for her, was even worse in a way; she had power, a raw strength in her soul that might have even matched Sarevok's own. If she embraced it, channeled it, became what she was meant to be, she might have been the first person he'd ever met to face him in open combat with a true chance of victory. But she fled from her destiny, caged her power within a web of false morality and cowardice. She had the potential to be a worthy opponent, and yet she had willingly crippled herself before the battle even began. If he thought about her after her death, it would only be out of pure contempt.

He would remember Acherai for a long, long time. He regretted that Bhaalspawn corpses apparently dissolved upon death, because he truly did want to keep the elf's head as a trophy.

The elf knew he was no match for Sarevok in an open battle, and so he flitted about the battlefield like a phantom. When he was even visible, which between spells and potions was only in the moments after launching an attack of his own, there appeared to be seven of him, each one smiling with vicious glee. He would appear, launch a bolt of lightning or a ball of flame from a wand at his belt, and leave Sarevok with half the room to cross and a multitude of false targets to choose from in the brief seconds before he vanished again. Each spell did little, perhaps, but would it matter if Sarevok never got a true chance to counter? Would he be worn down before he could land the single decisive blow he needed to end this?

It felt proper. Like fighting another aspect of Bhaal's power made flesh, one foil to his own. If Sarevok was the blood-starved killer, lashing out in power and ferocity, then Acherai was the assassin, the hidden knife in the dark that slid into the victim's back just when they thought they were safe. Both were valid aspects of murder. Both had a right to sit the Throne. But only one could.

And it will be me.

The Iron Throne tower had once been a guard tower of the city, and it was a heavy, sturdy building made to withstand a siege. However, Rieltar had not been a man dedicated to the military arts; he had made dozens of modifications that had weakened the structure in a dozen tiny ways... most notably, tearing out the majority of the walls on the first floor in order to create the lavish, marble-floored entrance hall that instantly told anyone entering the building that they were walking toward money. He had, of course, placed a number of marble pillars in place to support the upper floors in their place.

Marble was a very soft stone. The fire and magic that had ripped through this hall twice in as many weeks had already left things somewhat precarious. A repair crew was scheduled for tomorrow.

Sarevok, with a grin of purest malice and gold fire gleaming in his eyes, slashed one of them through with a single stroke, laughing openly at the rumbling from the floors above them. "A pest hiding in the woodwork still needs the building to stand, little brother! Tell me, do you have any magic to survive this?!"

"Hahaha... I assumed you were a madman as soon as I met dear dead 'Slythey-baby' at the Silvershield estate, but it's almost charming to have it confirmed in such a way. By all means. Bring your own tower down on your own head! I'd be happy to watch you crushed to death by your own powerbase. The irony alone will make this trip worthwhile."

Sarevok shattered another pillar with a backhanded strike, a large section of the stone ceiling bowing inward over it. "My powerbase, little man, is me. Everyone else is so much blood for the grindstone. In the War of Bhaal, it's every man for himself..."

"I'd like to challenge that theory."

He wasn't sure if the scream of rage that echoed through the hall was his own, or just from the blood burning behind his eyes, but when he raised his blade to intercept Sephiria's just seconds before it could take his head off, it was the only thing he could hear.

Acherai should have been relieved.

Despite the confidence he kept in his voice, the simple fact was that he was running low on options. He had spent his time on the road stockpiling potions and magical tools, most of them acquired less-than-honestly and none of them shared with his 'allies,' for just such an occasion as this. He'd burned through the majority of them, and Sarevok showed no signs of slowing down, much less dying. It felt like fighting a living statue, or a demon in human form. Something that wasn't human, didn't feel pain, and simply refused to die like a person should. But at the same time, retreat wasn't an option; he knew, instinctively, that he had to kill Sarevok as soon as possible or die himself.

He didn't know how he knew it, or what this man had against him, or even why he returned the animosity in equal measure, but he couldn't deny it. The hatred he felt for the monstrous man was beyond anything to do with any meaningless conspiracy or some past trauma. He had known Sarevok Anchev for literal minutes, and he despised the man with a fury that went below conscious thought and left his mind a red haze with only his most cruel impulses burning inside it. He needed to see him dead. Sephiria adding her considerable muscle to that effort should have been a godsend.

... I can just let them fight, then kill the winner when they're exhausted. It doesn't matter how they die, so long as they die, after all.

Heh... a godsend.

If Sarevok was inconvenienced at all by the wounds that Acherai had inflicted on him in their own battle, he did not show it. All his exposed flesh was coated in burns and his armor was little more than glowing-hot scraps of metal sticking to his flesh, yet he moved with surprising grace and terrible power still. Sephiria was fresh, striking him from ambush, and yet he matched her blow for blow, the scream of metal overwhelming the flames and crumbling architecture easily...

No. No, he wasn't matching her. When their blades separated and clashed again, the young paladin was pushed almost half an inch backwards, her booted feet sliding along the crumbling marble floor and tearing up small divots as they did. He was more burn than man at this point and he was still pushing her back.

"Focused. Aware. Still so weak," Sarevok hissed, and Acherai knew he shouldn't have been able to hear him, but the words seemed to burn through the air far more obviously than the actual fire filling the hall, slamming his blade into her guard again, the marble floor cracking once again under feet as if he was trying to literally hammer her down into the stone. "You know the truth, but you haven't embraced it!"

"You killed my father. You ruined my life. I do not desire the blood in my veins, and I will never be like you," she snapped in reply, sliding her blade off his and whipping it at his leg; his heavier blade snapped down to meet it, trying to guide her blade into the ground and hopefully shatter it between the stone floor and the enchanted weapon. No. No, he's going to kill her too quickly. I want them both on the edge of death before one falls. I'll have to step in...

When Sephiria very suddenly stepped into his guard, whipping forward to slam her forehead into his one remaining eye. Acherai blinked a few times, open surprise overwhelming other emotions for a brief moment.

... HA! Well, what do you know? She can be taught.

The giant man screamed in mixed pain and rage, suddenly blind, ripping his weapon from the lock to lash out again. But he was aiming at where he had last seen her, fully expecting her to press her advantage and seeking to force her back until he could clear his vision. Fortunately, she had already taken care to be well outside his range before he could even finish the swing because he didn't fully understand one important detail: she was not, despite what every instinct in his body must be screaming, here to kill him.

In part her promise to Tamoko held her back, but she could admit to a pragmatic bent as well. Sarevok was stronger than her, just as fast, and though she loathed to admit it her superior in skill as well. In a straight, one-on-one battle, she was no match for him. Further, the fire in this room was spreading, and had to be visible to anyone on the street by this point. There would be city watch en route, and they were still her unwanted brother's puppets. The simple truth was that even if she somehow managed to defeat Sarevok in the new few minutes (and a swordsman of his caliber most likely could repel her for at least that long, even with his vision impaired), the only thing she would earn for her victory was another trip to the Flaming Fist's goal, and she suspected there would not be another serial killer with a convenient path out for her.

The goal was not to win. The goal was to keep him busy until Imoen could get to their allies and get them out. Or failing that, at least as long as she could manage to...

To...

"Acherai?!" she snapped, her tone somewhere between disbelief and disgust at the sight of her former comrade-in-arms observing the battle from the sidelines, flame and smoke obscuring his features but his build and the golden light in his eyes giving him away instantly.

How? Why? What possible reason could that amoral scum have to be here? She didn't even bother questioning whose side he was on: a few weeks with him was enough to prove he was always on his own side and nobody else's. But if she was right about their familial connection, and the undiluted loathing that welled up in her soul at the sight of him was proof enough for her, then the flame roaring through the lower floors was almost certainly the result of Sarevok seeking his blood with the same fervor he'd been after hers.

Acherai might be scum, but 'irredeemable' was not a label she wanted to give out. She had sworn to Tamoko she would fight to redeem Sarevok, and she had meant it. She could hardly fail to extend that same benefit of the doubt to Acherai; he most likely didn't even know what they were. The instinct, the blood, ran strong. How could he be expected to fight it if he didn't fully understand what he was fighting?

She sprinted forward, diving beneath a blind swing from Sarevok that was nonetheless far too accurate for her tastes, and rolled through the shallow flames. "I don't know what you're here for, but we must leave! Now!"

"Must we?" he asked, his tone oddly gentle and his features shifting and blurred both by heat and by some defensive illusion. The overall impression was decidedly eerie, like she was talking to a ghost, but she didn't take the time to consider it further.

She reached and grabbed his arm, or at least tried to grab something; she felt cloth in her grasp rather than a solid limb, but that was good enough to drag him out of the building. Through the front door would have to do, Sarevok was between them and the steps, but that was fine; they could escape in the streets well enough, with some luck, and it would lead Sarevok away from Imoen. All she needed was to...

A short, sharp agony ran down her arm, shocking her out of the plan before it was half-formed. Eyes wide in disbelief, she looked down at the dagger impaling the wrist of her off-hand, slid expertly into the seam between Scar's chain shirt and her glove.

Acherai smiled at her as he backed further into the smoke and seemed to meld with it, and it was a terrible expression indeed.

"Look out behind you."

Cursing under her breath, she spun just as Sarevok reached her, his eye gleaming mixed red and gold, blood and rage boiling within it in equal measure.

Imoen was having a bad time. Again. Still.

The building was on fire but it wasn't her fault. Sephiria was fighting a godsdamned glowing eyed giant monster-man, and it wasn't her fault. She had no idea where anyone else was, and obviously that wasn't her fault. It was probably Jaheira's fault, she was always so negative. She had to hope that Imoen was strong and brave enough to find her and save her.

Something roared from down the hall, and a woman she didn't know was driven through a wall by the ogre who had tried to eat Imoen not so terribly long ago, sliding limply across the floor to land at Imoen's feet, groaning painfully. An arrow slammed into the ogre's back, and he didn't even turn to see where it had come as it fell from his thick hide. If it hurt, he didn't show any signs of it, and Imoen could tell this because he was looking right at her.

And smiling.

Oh, Hells.

If there was something 'lucky' about her current situation, it was that there was really only one option for her, 'run away,' and only one direction to go. She couldn't go back down the steps because that would be like running into a meat grinder that was on fire, and she couldn't go forward because there was a hairless grizzly there giving her a smile that she did not like the looks of. So she turned on her heel and ran down the only hall there was. This is a real nice place. Lotsa glass windows. Can a charmin' waiflike beautiful phantom thief girl survive jumping through one of them an' falling to the ground? We're not too high up. Probably fifteen feet? But glass is hard an' so is rock, and I don't got a big iron moose skull like Seffie. I might die.

Tazok roared behind her, a wordless snarl of rage and what she hoped was bloodlust, and not the normal kind of lust.

On the other hand, I definitely will die if I don't lose this big jackass.

That thought pretty much set her on-course. The hallway was ending, a big door of some dark expensive wood open a crack and leading into some darkened office. This place was nothing but boring offices and evil cults, frankly. If she ever decided to get a real job, it wouldn't be a merchant league. She burst into the office, smiling at the sight of the nice, big picture window. Probably cost a thousand gold to install. Whoever worked here was a real good merchant. She turned in mid-sprint toward the opening, twice as big as she would need to jump through, running toward it...

And at the last second, she fell into a slide at the stone wall beneath the window and kicked off it, very suddenly reversing all that momentum to basically turn herself into a low-to-the-ground missile aimed right at the space between Tazok's legs as he came up right behind her.

She didn't see him hit the window, because her eyes were closed during most of this process (she wasn't sure it would work, and even if she had been she wouldn't have wanted to be looking up when Tazok was charging over top of her). But she heard the glass shatter and the roar of dismay, and as she slid to a halt on her back, she grinned. "Not dead yet!" she cheered.

"Worry not. With your record, you shall certainly get there eventually."

Imoen opened her eyes, her smile widening. "Aunty Jarrie! How ya doin'? Ya look good."

Jaheira did not dignify this with a verbal response. She did, however, make sure to plant a boot in Imoen's stomach when stepping over her to head to the shattered window, which really got the point across better anyway.

The people of Baldur's Gate were, like the people of any city, predisposed to cluster around anything that seemed mildly interesting. The Iron Throne tower was a large, well-known building placed adjacent to a widely-used thoroughfare; rumors of it being attacked by monsters, invaded by the Flaming Fist, and set afire by Amnish rebels had spread halfway across the city in literal minutes simply from people screaming it out loud and running toward the supposed disaster to see if it was really true. In less than twenty minutes of this, a sizable crowd had gathered around the tower, noticing with the expert opinions of someone who had never been to school that yes, there most definitely was some fire in there. The smoke was a big hint, as they were all well aware. Nobody had seen a monster yet, mind you, but if one of the rumors was true it was possible they all were, and so they stayed, firmly sharing their opinions ("Yup, yup, most definitely some fire in there. Our Georgie, he once set his house afire, and it was much like this.") and making it very hard for anyone to get a bucket brigade going or clear the street for the Flaming Fist.

(To be fair, they weren't rushing. Any Fist officer still in a position of authority knew whose tower this was and did not want to be the one to annoy Lord Anchev with laws when his home was damaged. Nobody knew what had happened to Angelo, but everyone had suspicions, and most of them involved a lot of blood.)

It was a confidence unique to those who lived in a large city, following the same routine day in and day out with as little variation as possible. And for it to continue required, and this was important: that they never actually find any monsters.

A ten-foot ogre, coated in blood, fell from the second floor of the Iron Throne tower and landed heavily in front of the crowd. He stood up, looked at the gathered civilians, and blinked.

The world seemed to go completely silent for a long, painful second. It was if time had stopped.

"Y...you... you are... under arrest..." said the one Flaming Fist recruit who had the unfortunate luck to have gotten to the site of the disturbance in a timely manner. He had been managing traffic down the street, which was once again a busy thoroughfare in the center of the city that would never see any serious threat unless the city had already essentially fallen.

Tazok reached out, wrapped a giant fist around his helmeted head, and twisted it sharply to one side until a sickening crunch tore through the square, audible for what seemed like miles.

And the crowd went wild.

Tazok looked at the sudden riot, pleased at the sight of humans fleeing him and trampling their own defenders in a mad rush to escape in the way only a truly homicidal monster could be. He smiled and turned back toward the tower to find and eat that insufferable little pink thing, to find one of the godsdamned elves staring out the shattered window at him.

"Elves. Elves. Elves," he snarled. "Looking down on me is the only thing you do well, other than die. Wait there little elf, I'll be up to finish crushing your..."

He paused. It was mid-morning, and the sun had been out when he'd fallen from the building. It was not out now. Had his eyes been somewhat sharper, and his respect for Jaheira firmer, he might have noticed the words she was speaking as she looked down on him. It was a bit late for that now, though.

"Gods. Damned. Elves," he had time to snarl, just before Jaheira's spell took effect, and a bolt of lightning as wide around as he was tall ripped down from the skies and slammed down onto him.

Winski Perorate, retreated to his camp outside the Temple of Bhaal that Sarevok had unearthed, sighed.

He was gazing upon the scrying mirror he had tuned to the tower at all times; Sarevok was a brilliant young man, but he was also an insane young man, as most great conquerors were. It was best to keep track of him; there had been more than one occasion where he had been unable to restrain his violent impulses and required quick and efficient evidence disposal. When you were born of murder, it was to be expected. Winski saw it as merely another sign of the young man's impending divinity.

And now he saw the tower where he lived, a fire spreading in the lowest level and his master locked in combat with the ward of Gorion among the flames. Winski had little doubt that Sarevok would win that battle; he was among the strongest of his kin and the girl had shown no particular signs of embracing her heritage in the few times Winski had been able to observe her since Rieltar's death. And of course, whether the Flaming Fist pushing their way through the crowd were in his pocket or no, Sarevok would most certainly slaughter them simply for the glee of it, but this also mattered little. Unless every soldier in the entire city came against him at once, they could hardly stop him. He was a wolf among lambs, and looked more satisfied with himself than he had been in years.

He was also in the lobby of a burning building, and the fire was reaching down to the foundations.

"Semaj," he said, rubbing his temples as he spoke to his apprentice, who was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the tent in meditation. "Have you a Dimension Door and a Stoneskin memorized for the day, and some means of recall to the temple? I would like you to retrieve the master and bring him here before a burning tower falls on him."

The younger man opened his dark eyes, and frowned. It was his default expression, Winski had found; he was a gifted mage, and had been a fine apprentice and conspirator to Winski in recent years, but he was not much for personality. "I refuse. The last few weeks have made it abundantly clear that Lord Sarevok has gone mad, sir. He will most certainly murder me for pulling him from a battle he's so hungered for."

"Which is why you should be certain to cast the Stoneskin upon yourself before leaving. I have a scroll, if you've not memorized it, and I would recommend invisibility as well. Bring him back to the temple and hide until he calms himself. He's intelligent enough to work out that the tower's foundations will be giving out soon. If he dies along with his siblings, his life has been a waste and he accomplished nothing save crushing a fat merchant. If we save him now, then he still has his chance at godhood."

Semaj frowned more deeply. "Sir. Perhaps I should be worrying about your sanity as well. I know your legacy is important to you, but there must be some other way to build it."

Winski chuckled bitterly. "But that is just the problem, my young friend. There truly isn't. Go out and kill a dragon every day for a fortnight, and you'll still never be remembered as half the hero that Elminster or the Blackstaff are. Become a lich and dominate a kingdom for a thousand years, and all they'll say at your eventual death is that at least you weren't as bad as Szass Tam or Larloch. We live in an age of legends, apprentice, and if you want to carve out a place among them, you need to think very, very big. I would rather die today and be remembered forever, than live another hundred years as a nonentity."

Semaj considered this. "I'm not sure I would."

"And that is why you should cast the Stoneskin before you leave. Which should be now, unless you wish me to replace your terror of Sarevok with a far more immediate fear of me."

Semaj frowned yet more deeply, and Winski had to fight the urge to laugh in his face.

Sephiria had, as a child, spent some time imagining the Hells. Not out of any real concern for her eventual place in the afterlife, of course, she had barely been eight years old and all children believe they are immortal. No, it was merely a child's naturally insatiable curiosity for anything that left them too frightened to sleep with the lantern shuttered, combined with a budding young paladin's absolute moral certainty that someday she would storm those terrible pits, slay Asmodeus in single combat, free every soul in all nine layers, and presumably marry someone (all the heroes in the stories married a princess at the end, but princesses were terribly boring so she hadn't really pondered the details on the assumption someone else would take care of all that when she eventually got there). Looking back on those childish fantasies as an adult, however, she felt a small surge of hatred for her younger self over them.

Because she had pictured the Hells as being quite a lot like this.

The fire had spread to the level beneath them, and between that damage and the sheer brutality of the battle, the floor was shattering beneath their feet with every step. There were already a dozen places she could see through the marble to the inferno beneath them, a maze of barrels, crates, and casks all ablaze; burning pools where liquor barrels had burst surrounding bonfires that had once been bolts of expensive cloth. Smoke was flooding up through the floor like a solid black wall, making it nigh-impossible to see or breathe, much less fight.

And through it all, Sarevok strode ever at her heels, his one eye burning red-gold, the blood flowing from it seeming to boil where it touched his skin. It was impossible: he had taken ten times the wounds she had, made no effort at all to avoid the flames licking every wooden surface or the clouds of toxic smoke. And yet he moved with the same unbreakable force that she had faced on the day of Rieltar's death, as if all the pain flowed off him harmlessly... or perhaps more accurately, as if the fire without simply couldn't burn hot enough to match the fire within.

This is what the blood of Bhaal can mean. Do you regret denying your true self, yet? It's never too late...

She hissed in frustration, something behind her eyes trying to break her mind while Sarevok tried to break her body. She knew which one was more likely to succeed, but she wasn't happy about either one, certainly...

"This has to be hard on you both with all those wounds. Does the smoke make them burn?"

And then there was him.

Acherai had never been a good person. But he had always been, at the least, pragmatic. They had never liked each other, and they had never worked particularly well together, but he had not struck her as the sort to kill his only ally in the middle of a fight for his life. This building was rapidly becoming a deathtrap. There was likely to be an army outside if any of them managed to escape alive, and not one that had any interest in helping any of them other than Sarevok. They needed to be running, not fighting this monster.

Acherai was a demonstrably bad person, but he was not one that would willingly end his own life in order to kill an enemy. Something was very, very wrong with him, and she was alone here.

"You scuttle in the shadows like a spider, little brother. You remind me of Rieltar!" Sarevok said, his blade slamming against Sephiria's again, striking a burr in the steel as a horrible grin twisted his face, looking practically demonic in the flames. "Do you think this nothing will stand in my way? She's barely worth killing."

"Liar. You want her dead so badly it screams to me..." Acherai said, the smoke shifting slightly with his passage as he picked his way around the room, never staying still long enough for anyone's eyes to focus on him, not that either of the clashing warriors could spare the time or attention. "This is your only chance. It's all falling apart on you now. Do you think your reputation in this city can survive again? You may as well just lie down and die right now. There's no future for you."

"I only need one future. The one I rip from your beating hearts," Sarevok said, grinning viciously as his blade slammed the guarding Sephiria back another five paces, forcing her to leap backward over a fallen pillar, magical fire still clawing at the stone where it lay, ripped into chunks from Sarevok's blows. He charged forward, the weight of his steps collapsing yet more of the floor beneath him and a demon's smirk on his burned features...

And without stopping his motion even slightly, without even looking, he ripped a jagged chunk of red-hot marble from the crushed stone with his bare hand, and hurled it like a javelin with superhuman power.

Acherai blinked in shock, a chill that burned far more than any flame rolling down his entire body. No pain, just cold so deep he could barely understand it, surely it couldn't be possible in this hell, but...

But...

He looked down, and it was like seeing someone else's dreams as his mind struggled to acknowledge the shard of burning shrapnel buried in his stomach, so deeply embedded barely an inch of it could still be seen.

And then, slowly, he smiled.

Ignore it. The pain is nothing. Think of Davaeorn and Nimbul. You can rip the life from him to heal yourself. The power is a part of you, beyond any petty magecraft or child's prayer. In the bone, in the blood, use it, USE IT or you'll DIE HERE. BECOME DEATH, THERE IS NO HIGHER PURPOSE FOR YOU!

He smiled like a hungry shark as his hand burst into a pale blue light that seemed to draw the heat from the flames raging around them. The grin was matched on Sarevok's face as he charged, his blade reflecting the ghostly light, finally facing the final battle he had sought for so long...

"I. Think. Not."

Sephiria leaped between them, her blade slamming down into the floor like the hammer of an avenging god, the stolen Fist blade finally shattering under far more abuse than any sword deserved... and the long-suffering floor of the Iron Throne entrance hall joined it. With a sickening crunch that echoed over half the city, wood and stone supports finally gave in, sending three-quarters of the entrance hall simply vanishing into the roaring flames and sending up a hideous cloud of ash and embers that flooded what remained of the opulent chamber, forcing all three clashing godchildren to leap backwards, scrambling for the few platforms that still stood among the flames, clinging to the edges of the room... and beginning to crumble.

"What have you done?!" Acherai and Sarevok screamed in unison, and the fury had colored their tones so much that Sephiria could barely tell them apart.

Sephiria ran a bloodied hand across her face, smearing soot and sweat across her face. "If one of us dies here, all of us die here. Are you willing to kill yourself for this ridiculous divine vendetta? I'll not let brother kill brother before my eyes while I can stop it."

"I could have finished him, you useless weakling!" Acherai snarled, falling to his knees and pressing a hand to his bleeding stomach. "It could all have been over right here! How dare you..."

She held up her hand, blood still flowing freely from a cut just barely shy of the artery. Had the dagger plunged in an inch further in either direction, she would have bled out by now. "I feel as if you owe me, at this point. Please, shut up, and I may consider tending that wound for you."

Sarevok took several deep, panting breaths, like a beast whose prey had just escaped it, but who was too exhausted to take on a new chase. "You... hahahaha... you. You. You. YOU. You could have been the strongest of us if you'd just answer the call of the father. But as it is, you're just a child who thinks she can change the course of a river by standing in the current and preaching to it. Killing you means nothing to the war for our father's Throne... no. No. it will be for my pleasure alone. You're a naïve brat, a child unworthy of your blood... but I cannot truly be happy until I see your corpse cooling at my feet."

"Well. You will be unhappy for some while to come, I think."

His smile was mad, and he bunched his legs under him as if he planned to leap across the flames to skewer her then and there... when circle of blue light carved itself out of the air next to him, and a man in robes stepped forward onto the wrecked floor that held him aloft, his face set in a nervous frown. "M-milord. This building is structurally unsound, and my master..."

Sarevok swung his blade without looking, the weapon slamming into the new arrival's neck and bouncing off as if he had slammed it into a stone wall, as the mage struggled not to fall from his feet. "... Bah. Mages. I suppose we'd fall if I took the time to cut through your defenses, so I'll go speak to the old man. Winski has much to answer for in presuming to send you, insect."

"Y-y-y-yes, milord..."

He turned to the other two, and smirked. "If you survive, seek me out. There is a temple to my glory, buried beneath this city. Let your blood guide you to it, and face me. As long as I live, neither of you will ever find peace. I will hound you to your death, ensure you can never live another day in happiness. I will kill, and kill, and kill until everyone you know and love is rust on my sword. You know I'm not lying.

"Brother and sister, born in darkness... seek me among the blood of our siblings who were too weak to see this day. I await you where it all began."

He stepped into the portal beside the terrified mage and was gone.

Sephiria would have found it far more dramatic if the ceiling above her hadn't chosen that moment to begin cracking, and a disturbingly large chunk of the second floor crashed down...