10 – "I Am Death Come for Thee…"
"Bereth: But is not the theater a timeless, universal thing?
Helot: Not quite. That which we do to entertain changes with the roll of the years and the whims of fashion. The sort of tragedy in style today will be deemed too depressing when more dreary times arrive. Laughter is universal but that which elicits it changes from one generation to the next. Even sex appeal is no sure bet, for that which titillates in one time and place will be deemed too vulgar later and then too safe and facile in yet another age. Though there is one constant all audiences crave and that we players must deliver.
Bereth: And what is that?
Helot: That we die. To bring tears, cheers or even laughter, through one age to the next, we players die in droves for their amusement."
-Raelis Shae, The Pit Fiend's Wager, Act III Scene IV
"Now this looks promising," Imoen exclaimed as she pointed at the colorful sign by one of the tents.
"'Bentha Trasis, Herbalist and Fortune Teller'?" Ashura read aloud. "Seriously?"
"You don't want to hear yer fortune?"
"Not particularly. Either she'll be honest and tell me something depressing or it'll be a load of goblin shit about handsome princes or whatever."
"Aw," Imoen pouted. "Who says some handsome young man isn't about to appear and sweep you off your feet? I think you're due. Maybe he'll be a dashing bard with a deep, sonorous voice!"
Ashura rolled her eyes.
"You're being a bufflehead," Imoen said with a waggle of her forefinger.
"I know," Ashura admitted. "I'm just a little tired." They had been indulging Imoen for the past two days, first by playing dress-up-dolly with Branwen and then by slowly touring the carnival from one end to the other. Ashura felt like she had sampled every kind of confection the Amnish could dream up. She had also lost nearly two gold pieces on a knife-throwing game (damned weighted weapons!) and far more than she wanted to think about in the gambling tents. Either Lady Tymora had not been kind of Beshaba was really pissed about her dead servants. The day before their faces had been painted with vivid tiger patterns (the markings had since faded and washed away,) and today Imoen and Ashura sported a fresh coat of gloss and paint on their finger and toenails (a matching shade of purple.) Imoen had tried her best to get Branwen to join in the manicurist's tent but the northerner had been adamantly against it.
In addition to the heavy stomach and lighter purse Ashura's head still felt a bit tender after way too much spiced ale and mead the night before. Once night fell and the families departed the carnival got a little seedier, with drinks flowing, whores making their rounds, provocative song and dance spilling from the flaps of the pleasure tents, and the pungent scent of black lotus and hemp resin wafting through the air. Ashura had been tempted to give the lotus dens a try but figured that getting sleepy-drugged when there's a bounty on your head was a bad idea. In retrospect getting fall-on-your-face drunk hadn't been any smarter, but she blamed Branwen for that. The woman could throw back mead like it was water. At least they hadn't woken up with the matching tattoos Imoen had joked that they should get.
Over the course of the touring and revelry Branwen had gradually told them her story; that she had left her homeland in self-imposed exile because her countrymen did not allow women to be priests of Tempus, and that she had been petrified in some sort of dispute with her mercenary company over honor. The way she told it the company had found itself on the losing side of a battle and decided to change sides. When she refused to go along with the plan one of the wizards took her out of the equation with a spell. He had probably not meant any meaning by it but she took the petrifaction as a personal insult, as it had denied her an honorable death on the field a century ago.
"And anyways," Imoen was saying, "madam Benthra seems to have yer concerns about fortune tellers covered." She pointed at some tiny script at the bottom of the sign that read:
All predictions only show the most likely future out of a sea of possibilities. All fates are malleable. No refunds!
"I wonder if fate really is malleable or if that's just something diviners say to give themselves wiggle room," Ashura pondered. She gestured towards the tent flaps. "Well, let's give it a try."
Imoen skipped ahead into the fortune teller's tent and Branwen quietly followed.
It was at about that moment that a perfectly good afternoon went straight to the Hells.
The silent tension inside was palpable. It hit Ashura in the face like a foul smell as she entered, and she thought of turning and retreating but her companions had already walked ahead of her. At the far side of the round chamber a middle aged woman stood with her back pressed against a bookcase, terror in her eyes. A man with streaks of grey in his dark hair stood in front of her, his hand outstretched, and wisps of electricity danced between his fingers.
Looking over at the newcomers the woman managed to stutter out the words: "H-help me, please! He's mad!"
The man silently scowled, eyes shifting back and forth between the three companions and the woman.
"Um," Ashura mumbled, "we were just on our way…"
The air crackled beside her as a hammer formed of magical force came into being in Branwen's hand. "Release her immediately!" the northerner snarled.
The man shook his head slightly and turned to fully face the terrified woman once more. He barked out a single word and the electricity in his hand congealed into a ball that he hurled with a flick of his wrist. It crossed the space between them in an instant and struck her in the chest with a sharp crack, briefly lighting the room and sending spasms through her body.
She kicked and writhed for a moment, arms and legs flailing, then as the lightning-flash faded her body went limp and she slid down the bookshelf. Her eyes were empty and wide open, smoke rising from the edges of her mouth, and the foul smell of singed hair filled the tent.
"Can we go just one day without someone getting brutally killed in front of us?" Imoen complained as she averted her eyes.
Turning towards them the man shook his head solemnly. "I was hoping the threat of finishing that spell would convince her to give me a refund," he said. "But you forced my hand."
"Well they say all fates are malleable-" Ashura began.
"Don't give me that crap!" the man cut her off. "That bitch's advice cost me a fortune!"
Ashura waved a placating hand. "Sorry," she said. "Sorry. Look, we don't mean to-"
Branwen stomped forward and raised her hammer menacingly. "Oh," she bellowed, "we most certainly do mean to. That woman will be the last victim of your foul sorceries!"
The mage shrugged and waved a hand. "Narris sa'pel." With his words there was a shimmer on Ashura's periphery and when she turned she saw that the tent flap had vanished and been replaced by an unbroken wall of canvas. "I do not intend to leave any witnesses anyway."
No backing out now. Ashura drew one sword after the other and circled away from Branwen, trying to flank the man. He managed to spit out yet another spell before they could reach him and split into five identical versions of himself. Ugh. That spell again.
Lashing out at the first copy of the mage she could reach Ashura wasn't surprised to contact nothing but empty air as the image winked out. All four remaining men were waving their arms in synch, and to Ashura's horror she recognized some of the words and the golden energy that was gathering between the four sets of hands.
"Branwen!" she shouted. "It's a fear spell!"
The priestess nodded and closed her eyes, a serene look on her face. "Foehammer…" she chanted out, the rest of the words coming in the language of the Norheim Isles. Ashura thought she heard drums and battlesong somewhere far, far away and felt a surge of warmth fill her chest. It strengthened and gave her a sort of blind certainty that pushed everything else aside. When the cold waves of the mage's spell hit her the warmth seemed to burn it away.
The mage scowled and his hands drew close together. Something green and hissing began to form between them as he chanted out the words of his next incantation.
At the center of the room beside the herbalist's cauldron Imoen popped up into view and hefted a bucket up with all her strength. From the bucket a wave of liquid flew towards the roof of the tent and rained down on all four duplicates of the mage at once. Each version cringed slightly as the water hit their faces and shoulders, but three of them wavered slightly before reforming.
There he is!
Ashura charged but Branwen was closer, and with an electric crackle her hammer slammed into man's stomach, overwhelming whatever magical protections he had and forcing him to bend over and fall to his knees. Without pause the priestess pulled the hammer up and then slammed it down, splitting the man's skull with a wet thunk. Imoen cringed and turned away.
As Branwen straightened and took a breath Ashura noticed a content smile on her face, along with a few droplets of blood. "Tis good to take part in righteous battle once more," the priestess said.
"Uh…" Ashura mumbled. "Yeah. I guess. We probably aught to get out of here before the guards show up." She was starting to have her doubts about this new companion. A priestess of the god of war from the land of berserkers. Of course she was going to throw herself into battle whenever there was the slightest excuse.
The tent flap was still gone but with some fumbling against the wall they found the gap hidden beneath the illusion and pushed their way through into the light. Thankfully the brief commotion they had caused hadn't drawn any attention and they managed to slip into the crowd. It probably helped that there were always at least two magic shows going on at the fair, and the crackle of the mage's electrical spell was nothing compared to the sound of Oopah the Exploding Ogre.
After they had put some distance between themselves and the fortune teller's tent Branwen asked: "What was that liquid you used on the sorcerer? Something to disrupt illusions?"
"The universal solvent," Imoen said with a grin. After that just got her a blank look she added: "Water. A bucket the witch probably used for brewing potions. I'm just glad it worked." Once they had reached the far side of the fair Imoen pulled two small, mismatched books bound in leather from her pockets. "At least it wasn't a total wash," she said. "(Hehe. Get it?)"
"Uh huh," Ashura said. "Are those…spellbooks?"
"Yup. Between these and Tarnesh's I should be able to pick up a few useful spells."
Ashura gave her friend a puzzled look before she grinned and snapped her fingers. "Oh! I see how you picked that gnome's pocket without even getting near him! You've been studying magic again haven't you Ims? Like you did before you started sleeping through Jessup's lectures."
"Pfft. Imoen the Great will never reveal how she does her tricks!"
Four different shades of fire streaked into the night sky and burst into showers of sparks. The pop-pop-pop made by the lightshow echoed across the clearing, some of the wider explosions hanging in the air for some time; spiraling galaxies of color that slowly dissipated as their stars fell. It was the last night of the Nashkel Spring Fair and the fireworks show was in full swing.
A green fireburst lit Imoen's face. "Now," the redhead began, her eyes gleaming with delight, "it could be even more spectacular if they'd throw some magic up there along with this. Maybe a flying dragon illusion or something."
"Bah," Ashura responded with a dismissive wave of her tin cup, making what was left of the spiced ale slosh a bit. They were reclining on some wooden stands at a sparsely peopled corner of the field. "We've had plenty of magic shows. It's nice to see the acolytes of Gond and the alchemists have a chance to shine."
"Ya, I spose," Imoen said, raising her own cup and taking a tiny sip. "I just think everything could be improved with a dragon or two."
Branwen was somewhere nearby and no doubt enjoying the show, probably with one or more of her admirers. Since being awakened from the stone she had become a bit of a local celebrity. Many of the people of Nashkel had grown up hearing of the Stone Maiden or making visits to her grove for picnics, parties and midnight meetings. They had always assumed she was just a strange statue and useful landmark, so seeing her come to life had caused quite a stir around town.
Once word had gotten around she'd been crowded by locals asking her questions and listening intently to her tales of Norheim and days gone by. It didn't escape Ashura and Imoen's notice that most of the followers were young men. Doubtless the Stone Maiden had been the first impression a lot of them had gotten of what a naked woman looks like and many of them still harbored a bit of a crush. It was hard to tell if Branwen was aware of this, but for the moment she just seemed to enjoy the endless series of men who were happy to buy her mead and more tickets for the Great Gazib's show.
The lilting song of a lute nearby drew Ashura's attention away from the lightshow. Turning she saw a man approach with ebon hair pulled back into a tight knot and black clothes made livelier by bright green piping. There was a calm grin on his face as he slowly plucked the strings of his instrument. "Ladies," the man said in greeting as he inclined his head slightly and strummed out a slow, winding song.
Ashura narrowed her eyes and sat up straight. There was something off about the man. Something that made the hair on the back of her neck bristle.
"Oh, hi," Imoen said with a smile. "I remember you. You played uh…Vido in the production of A Waltz with Brigands right? And Graz'zt in Elminster in the Abyss. You look different without the greasepaint. And the codpiece." She giggled.
The minstrel nodded. "Indeed I did. I am Nimbul, of the Dale Wind Troubadours. Though tonight I play a different role."
Ashura's hand found the hilt of her right-hand sword. She had felt the uneasiness when the man first set foot on stage, though at the time she had written it off to the part he was playing. Uneasiness and an implacable familiarity.
"That's good to know," Imoen said, "since Vido was kind of an ass. A handsome one though." She followed up with a wink.
"You flatter me," Nimbul said, "though twould flatter me more if you allowed me to serenade you with a song or two. You can determine the price of my performance when I am finished."
"Oh!" Imoen squealed. "Of course. Serenade away!"
With a sly smile and a nod the minstrel began to pluck the strings of his lute once more. The tune was slow and meandering, and when he finally began to sing his voice was deep. The lyrics told of a woman glimpsed across spring fields, her eyes like pale sapphires and ruby lips always laughing; her beauty awe inspiring to the narrator.
Leaning forward Ashura continued to wearily watch the bard. The fireworks had died away for the moment and in the dim light of distant bonfires his face looked gaunt and angular, sharp cheekbones casting deep shadows. His fingers gently strummed the lute but his slender arms were all sinew. Strong, lithe and dangerous. And his large brown eyes were fixed on her. Beyond a few sidelong glances at Imoen they had been focused on her alone from the moment he appeared.
The ballad had moved from spring flowers to balmy summer days and cool trickling brooks. The narrator and the woman in the field had become lovers, meeting beneath the moon for midnight trysts and playing together in steaming summer rains.
Something seemed to shimmer at the corners of the minstrel's eyes, a rainbow-pattern that slithered round and round. Ashura found herself following the pulses of color and leaning closer. She couldn't look away.
The song had become melancholy as the first leaves of autumn turned and the singer began to lament that all beauty must wither away. He was guiding his lover now to the field where they had first met, gently laying her on a bed of long-wilted flowers.
"And as my hand caressed your neck
A thought occurred to me,
How content you'd be to lay right here
My eternal beauty…"
Ashura tried to avert her eyes but she couldn't turn from the shimmering pattern. Her whole world had shrunk down to those massive shimmering pools of brown, black and rainbow, and that voice with its promise of rest in ever-blooming fields. At the very corner of her vision she noticed something metallic gleam, half-hidden by the neck of the lute.
"Fear not my love
The dreamless sleep
In fields of flowers cold…"
She was being charmed again! Realization quickly turned to anger. To boiling, indignant rage. There was a crackle in the air followed by the scream of fresh fireworks soaring.
"…for I am death come for thee…"
High above the sky lit up in blazes of red and gold.
Ashura never found out what the bard would have rhymed with 'cold.' Instead of listening she launched herself off the wooden seat with both hands and slammed her foot against Nimbul's lute, sending him reeling and smashing the instrument with a sour note. As the wood and strings fell away a dagger was revealed beneath. Before it could strike Ashura's right-hand sword flew from its sheath and pointed at the bard, forcing him to glide back further.
"So you'll dance this way instead," Nimbul noted with a smug grin on his face. "I offered you peace and ease, but a violent end works as well."
"Wha-what's going on?" Imoen stammered somewhere beside Ashura.
With a flick of his free hand and the utterance of a single arcane word Nimble sent a bolt of golden energy hurling towards Imoen. It struck with a flash and her muscles locked into place, a look of shock frozen on her face.
Ashura charged as the spell hit but Nimbul managed to weave and hop away from her blades before drawing a short sword of his own. Sword and dueling-dagger in hand he struck back and steel rang against steel.
The minstrel proved a frustratingly skilled fencer, managing at one point to trap Ashura's blades and nearly drive his dagger into her neck before she pushed past him. She caught a light slash for her trouble, though her chainmail blocked it well enough. When she whirled back towards him she upped the tempo and drove her blades against his with all the fury she could find. She had him backing up a few steps but then he changed the game entirely with a few strange words: "Umbriel vistias quiel."
In a flicker Nimbul vanished and Ashura's double-slash met with air as she probed for her foe. She took a step back and stood still, swords at either side. He was invisible. Had to be. She guessed that he would try to flank her next but she remained still. If she moved she could easily just be offering him her back for a clean stab.
Above the sky lit up again in a series of green flashes, illuminating the battlefield. She was standing in the wide corral of silty dirt used for animal shows, jousts and melees. The earth was loose, covered by countless tracks and for the moment lit. Ashura's eyes swept across the ground, desperately searching for any sign of movement in the sand. She began to pivot very slowly.
The light was fading now. He'd wait for it to go out, then strike. Or he was already somewhere safely out of her line of sight and any moment the sword would plunge into her back.
Can't think like that. Movement. Come on! Any movement.
The green glow was almost dead when another thunderous crack-boom sounded above and the field was lit by bright orange. At the same time to her left and dangerously close Ashura saw the sand stir. She turned, slowly, slightly. Head down, eyes wide, tracking the movement but never looking directly. Striking range now. Her heart was in her throat.
Whirling and slashing fast Ashura felt her left sword clang and scrape against invisible steel. A wavy shimmer followed and Nimbul appeared at her left flank. His sword had caught hers defensively. She turned and stabbed her right sword under her raised arm, forcing the assassin to hop back before he could plant his knife in her back.
Once again Nimbul backed up as Ashura slashed and stabbed, probing for a gap in his guard. His face was blank, body turned to the side as she hammered away at his sword and wide-hilted fencing dagger. The assassin just kept backing away, on the defense, even when they reached a set of wooden stands a few paces from the sand. It was the tallest of the bleachers that stood in a rough semicircle facing the field and the empty stage, a full twelve rows tall.
Without a break or a glance back Nimbul hopped up and over the first row of seats as the small crowd scattered before him, some screaming. The assassin leapt over another set of benches, then another, higher and higher. Maybe he was seeking an advantage in higher ground? Or trying to trip her up on the obstacles. Or both. His weapons didn't have the reach to really sweep down and endanger her but the damn benches protected his legs from her swords as she followed and slashed.
Another flight and another, swords ringing. Balancing on the narrow wooden bench Ashura couldn't lunge, forcing her to favor indecisive attacks. She expected some kind of low bending stab from her opponent or another sort of all-or-nothing attack that would take advantage of the height, but he just kept batting her swords away and hopping back. Did he want her to try and knock him off the back of the stands?
Nimbul didn't stop when he leapt his way onto the final row of seats. Instead her barked out the words: "Crey lavisi," and pushed off the top of the stands, flying into the open air beyond. There was a faint white shimmer around the soles of his boots as he gently floated down, leaving Ashura hesitating at the top. She could jump and hit him if she did it right now but-
With a flick of his wrist Nimbul threw his dueling dagger and Ashura dodged to the side, feeling the steel whistle past her face. The assassin's hand shot to his belt after the throw, yanking out a thin, ornate rod painted a flaming orange and carved in the shape of a serpent. A wand! His mouth turned up into a sneer as he spoke a single unintelligible word.
Orange flames bloomed at the tip of the wand and flew with a hiss as Ashura desperately dove to the side. She felt the heat before it even struck the top seat and filled her vision with a golden sunburst. Her leap took her off the stands and she was free-falling when the wave of searing flames struck her.
Overwhelming heat. Her nerves screamed. Wind rushed by her ears as the earth rose to meet her and struck the air from her lunges, replacing it with pins and needles. Long, desperate gulps of air followed. The needles were replaced by a sharp stabbing in her right side. She tried to open her eyes but everything was a burning blur.
There was still intense heat on her back, against her cheek and at her right arm. Oh gods! Am I on fire? It was agony to move but she forced herself, rolling onto her back and rocking as she tried to smother the flames from her cloak. Frantically she patted out her shoulder, choking on the smoke.
A black and green smear floated down to the ground a few paces away. Ashura forced herself to focus. Nimbul lazily approached, his sword raised. Flames illuminated his gaunt face, his smirking eyes, and trails of embers flew in the space between the two. Her right sword was nearby and visible but the left weapon had flown from her hand and fallen gods know where.
Glaring at the assassin Ashura clenched her fist and ghostly light crackled there, making Nimbul stop and raise an eyebrow. With a raspy snarl she threw the gathered energy, leaving an umbilical trail of blue-white light between her hand and the assassin's chest where it struck. His life-force thumped through the trail to her hand, and she drank as deeply as the brief flash of power would allow her.
Comforting warmth flooded her chest and limbs. The pain at her side subsided and she felt something shift and grow whole there. She had obviously broken a few ribs in the fall. Reaching out she grasped her sword and wobbled her way to her feet while Nimbul stumbled backwards, scowling and shaking his head.
The scowl on the assassin's face was quickly replaced by a wolfish grin. He flicked his free hand forward and ghost-light exactly like what Ashura had wielded appeared in his palm. The cold fire shot forward and struck, burrowing deep and taking back what she had stolen. Ashura felt the warmth leave, replaced by numbing ice. Her wounds did not return but her strength fled and she dropped to her knees.
"You are not the only one who can pull the very life from your enemy and drink it," Nimbul stated with as he stepped closer.
"You…you're like me aren't you?" Ashura rasped out. "I could sense it."
The assassin gave the slightest of nods. "Like you and not. You don't even know do you?"
She shook her head weakly.
"We are both children of Death. But I will be His favored. Hold still now sister. I can make this quick and clean."
As he pointed his sword forward a look of surprise appeared on Nimbul's face and he reared his head back. Less than a heartbeat later an arrow hissed through the air and flew right past the assassin's nose.
They turned towards the source of the arrow: Imoen, carrying a bow she must have lifted from an archery display. The redhead already had another arrow knocked. As she let it fly Nimbul twisted his body to the side and the missile went past his shoulder by a finger's width if that.
The attack bought Ashura enough time to hobble to her feet, but she was in no condition to duel. With a shaky hand she felt at her belt. The bottle there hadn't broken with her fall. The last healing potion.
Flicking the stopper away with her thumb, Ashura brought the vial to her lips and drank the sticky-sweet liquid down with one long gulp. Warmth once again filled her body and her arms and legs straightened.
"You should still be held," Nimbul snarled at Imoen. She just knocked another arrow and fired. Once again the assassin casually dodged, as if he could sense the exact trajectory of the arrow before it flew and move just enough that it missed him.
There was a crackle in the air and something blue-white and glowing hurled towards Nimbul. He hopped to the side but the arm-sized object followed his movements, slamming into him and sending him spinning. After the strike the object rose slightly and hovered, buzzing in the air. It was a hammer made of force, the sort that Brawen kept conjuring.
Stepping from the shadow of the burning stands the warpriestess marched towards Nimbul, the scales of her armor clinking and her shield hefted. In her hand she held a warhammer made of wood and steel while her summoned weapon floated nearby. "Enough dirty tricks assassin!" Branwen shouted. "Face me in righteous battle!"
"No," Nimbul replied, following the word with a few more that Ashura didn't recognize and a rolling gesture of his hand.
Something dark shimmered in the grass beneath Branwen's boots and she began to slide, kicking frantically for purchase before her feet flew all the way out from under her. By then Ashura had managed to find her second sword and, praying to Talos that it gave her a little advantage she charged.
The assassin had his back to her. Maybe…but no, he whirled around and parried her first attack, nearly cutting through her guard and delivering a blow himself. She was forced to hop back and pivot a bit. They exchanged ringing slashes for a moment and again Nimbul backed up, fighting defensively. It's his style, Ashura realized, he's a good enough swordsman to keep the blades off of him, and he uses that to lead you into a trap. What was the trap this time?
Nimbul ducked low under one of Imoen's arrows and as he shot back up he sang out some familiar words: "Umbriel vistias quiel." There was a red shimmer along with fainter rainbow hues as his form flickered and vanished.
Oh. Same trick again. Ashura guessed that he would move to her left and slashed out in that direction, but just hit emptiness. The ground here was all grass. Would it even stir enough under his invisible footsteps to be helpful?
A few paces away Branwen had carefully found her feet. She pressed her boots against the slippery grass as best she could and raised her shield and hammer high into the air. "I said enough dirty tricks," she bellowed. "Foehammer! Gjore det usynlige sett!"
White light burst from the space between her upraised hands and covered the field like a lightning flash. Something wavered and moved behind Ashura and she turned just in time to sidestep Nimbul's attack and drive her own blade deep into his torso. The assassin let out a shocked gasp and flailed on her sword. Familiar ghostly light began to swell unsteadily at the palm of his hand.
"No!" Ashura shouted at the man's face as she stabbed her second sword directly into his chest. "Die! Now!" There was rage in his eyes. She twisted the sword and that rage subsided into spasms of pain, quick and fast and weaker and weaker. The light in Nimbul's palm died as the hand went limp. Finally his rolled back and he slumped to his knees, still stuck on the swords.
Ashura panted hard as she watched her foe slide down. It was over. Or not quite.
There was a strange glow on Nimbul's still face; pinpricks of fire here and there as if he was burning beneath the skin. Those flames quickly grew as tiny embers lifted from his face and hair, gathering into a cloud that billowed slowly away. Briefly his skull was revealed, then that too burned to nothing and the glowing cloud floated off.
Turning her head Ashura followed the burning dust, and even when it slipped off into the darkness she felt as if she could still see and follow. In her mind's eye she saw the cloud float along and then plunge down and down into the ground. Her vision plummeted with it, moving at impossible speeds through deep tunnels and into the bowls of the world where fires burned eternal. At some point she felt that her vision had passed through the veil and she and the burning cloud were falling towards somewhere far beyond this world.
Down and down she went, into a vast pit of bubbling magma and chocking smoke. The embers fell before her to the shimmering red and black surface and lit something hotter and brighter in the pit. There it was again: the grinning death's head and the halo of tears that surrounded it, lit up in the flames of Gehenna.
She was awakened from the strange trance by the sound of wood cracking followed by the collapse of the burning stands. There she was, back at the fair, swords in hand and the pile of Nimbul's clothes and weapons sitting at her feet. The fire had spread to another set of bleachers along with a nearby tent where the theater company kept its props.
Looking over Ashura saw expectant looks on Imoen and Branwen's faces. She shook herself slightly. "We'd better get the hells out of here," she said.
A mist-shrouded dawn was turning over into clear morning as the three companions descended along the northern road. Nashkel was long out of sight, and the tall pines of the mountain forest loomed all around them now. Hours ago they had briefly stopped at the manor house to gather their equipment then slipped out into the night. Ashura wasn't certain how many people had witnessed her battle with Nimbul or if she would be blamed for burning down a third of the Nashkel Fair, but she felt that they had overstayed their welcome anyway. Not to mention the threat of more assassins in a town where everyone knew her real name.
Despite the odd hours she didn't feel the least bit tired and no one else was complaining. Maybe adrenaline could carry them along the road. Or for most of the day at least. From there she supposed it would be on to Beregost, and then who knew.
As they rounded a corner a man came into view far up the road, tall and broad and swaying a bit as he walked. A drunk perhaps? Drawing closer it became clear that there was blood running down his face and a nasty black gash along the top of his hairless head. Past the blood there was something else: a circular purple tattoo, and although it was torn and battered in many places Ashura recognized the man's lacquered armor.
"It's that Rashemi woman's bodyguard," Imoen exclaimed, rushing towards the injured man. "You're Minsc right? Are you okay?"
The tall man shook his head frantically, the loose greatsword at his back clinking against his armor. "Not okay. Not okay at all!" he bellowed. "They've taken my witch!"