17 – A Fine Day to Die

"Great peril yields great beauty." – old elven saying.

All told the price to use the baths and have your clothes laundered and hung in front of the hearth was seven silver. Well worth it in Ashura's opinion, especially after all they had been through. The steam baths seemed to be a big draw at the Friendly Arm, but she didn't quite understand how sweating more after the long march under the Kythorn sun would be a good thing, so she forwent that. Instead she soaked herself a bit with the oily and salted water that the attendants handed out, and then took the plunge into the great wooden tub that dominated the women's bath hall.

Aches and burdens she hadn't known were there floated away as she lounged in the warm water, along with the dust of the Tradeway. She spent a long time soaking, nearly dozing off at one point before Imoen awakened her with a splash.

With reluctance she eventually rose from the tub. There were sea-sponges for scrubbing and buckets of clean water to finish the job. Wrapping herself in a thick sheet of linen Ashura finally left the bathing hall and went to the front room, a sort of lounge where women in robes or drying-sheets reclined and chatted, warmed by a wide hearth that also dried their freshly laundered clothes. In addition to puffs of smoke from the fireplace there was a scent of spiced tobacco in the air as a few of the travelers puffed on pipes; a gnomish custom but it seemed to have rubbed off on some of the humans. The crowd was a mix of the caravaners and guests of the inn, and much like the first time she had visited the Friendly Arm the air was tense with talk of the dangerous roads along with something new: a persistent rumor that Amn was plotting some sort of invasion.

"Aye," she heard one middle-aged woman say with a nod. "They're flush with treasure from the New World and buying weapons and supplies like you wouldn't believe. Mark my word, an empire gets a little taste of new territory and they start expanding every which way. All this while our swords are still turning to dust in our hands."

After a time Ashura decided the chamber was a bit too stuffy and humid for her taste, not to mention full of talk she didn't want to hear. Quietly she stepped out of the lounge and into the cooler air of the night.

Once she had taken a few careful steps onto the stones she wiggled her toes a bit and stretched. The cobbled walkway beneath her feet was still a bit warm, nearly an hour after sunset. What she wouldn't give for a good solid thunderstorm to sweep in and blow the oppressive summer air away. Still, it was pleasant enough at the moment, and she found herself breathing in deep and smiling.

The faint whispers of the inn and its patrons wafted down from bright windows high above her, and she remembered the last night she had been to here; the night she'd watched the assassin descended from the keep. Where there more bounty hunters lurking up there in the taproom tonight? She hadn't encountered an assassin in a good while. Perhaps Nina the caravan guard had slipped there notice.

"Ah," sang a familiar, husky voice, "a rare smile lights your face, along with the starlight. It suits you. Perhaps you could wear it more often?" Coran had quietly stepped over from the door to the men's baths; a sheet similar to Ashura's wrapped around his waist. In the dim light cast by a nearby lamp it was clear that he did indeed have a tattoo across his slender abdomen. It was a similar pattern to what Chera had described: vines circling his navel from which an impossible variety of flowers bloomed in reds, yellows, oranges, blues and violets. Ashura vaguely remembered seeing the motif before. Some elven symbol of nature's bounty. Beneath the flowers there was a hint of something golden, cut off by the hem of the sheet. Hanali's hair is blonde isn't it?

"Happy to finally have a bath," Ashura stated, looking up into Coran's shimmering almond eyes. Despite the balmy air she felt gooseflesh rise, and suppressed a shiver.

He casually strode closer, moving a bit to the side in a manner that forced Ashura to turn and follow his motions. There was something in the gesture that reminded her of a stalking cat, or a warrior casually maneuvering so that the light is in his opponent's eyes. Of course that warm, disarming smile was always on the elf's face. "What's this? You're trying to flank me?" she asked, fighting back her own smile.

"Finding the perfect light to illuminate your features," he replied, looking almost offended.

Of course he'd say something like that.

He reached out and gestured with a fingertip close to her cheek, not quite touching. He was only slightly taller than she, her nose at the level of his lips. "Whatever makes you happy, keep at it," the elf added. "Most of the time you look as if you're challenging Kivan in a scowling contest." His fingertip traced along her cheekbone, then withdrew. "You may not know it but most of the time you wear a mask of grim anger tinged with sadness on your face. It doesn't suit your beauty."

Ashura scoffed. "You don't know what suits me." Still she could feel a conspicuous amount of heat in her face. How annoying.

"The same things that suit everyone." Coran gestured towards the empty courtyard. "Adventure. Joy. Laughter under the stars."

Where he waved his hand she saw dusty stones, lanterns and shadows. "Don't see much adventure here."

Coran's eyes brightened. "Oh, there's always adventure to be had at an inn. And this one more than most. It's vast and full of cozy nooks, quiet sheds, haylofts and deep cellars just waiting to be explored." He reached out once more and gently placed a hand on her bare shoulder. "Come along and I'll show you."

"You've explored all the little crannies here, have you?"

"At other inns perhaps, but not here. And I'm eager to make new discoveries." He was circling again, turning her with him, perhaps eager to guide her to some hidden-away loft or shed. She was tempted to let him as well, as she smiled up into his eyes for a moment. Branwen's words came to her; how battle and death always threatened to arrive on the morrow, so one should take hold of life's pleasures when they were offered. There had been many brushes with death since that conversation and splash in the mountain river. Close brushes.

Yet there was something else that tugged at her. The urge to not let this transparent little lecher win at the game he was obviously playing. Something told her that if she did she would instantly regret it. It brought a sour memory back as well: Hull, and the way his bragging to everyone afterwards had ruined a perfectly good night…

In the end Ashura backed away, though she couldn't shake the smile from her face. "I don't go on any adventures without my swordbelt," she said. True enough too. Wandering out into the dark in nothing but a cloth, with a bounty on her head? What had she been thinking?

"Oh you won't need-"

She hushed him with a fingertip against his lips. "I always need my swords. Aught to fetch my clothes and armor too. I have picket duty pretty soon."

Before Coran could respond or lose his coy smile she turned and pushed the door of the bathhouse open. On a whim she whipped the linen sheet away as she passed over the threshold and tossed it onto a nearby bench. Before the door creaked shut she felt his eyes upon her, and now it was her turn to smile smugly.

Once the oxen and horses were watered and they had done one last check of the yokes and wagon wheels, the caravan began to wind around the walls of the Friendly Arm. This was the last leg of the journey to Baldur's Gate, a stretch where the road zigzagged a bit and then gradually went northward between the Cloakwood and Wood of Sharp Teeth. Once they passed the forests, the lakes of Peldvale and some farmland the road would turn sharply west and cross the Chionthar River beneath the walls of the Gate.

According to caravan gossip Peldvale was about a day's ride up ahead. Perhaps they could arrange to capture a few bandits and interrogate them the next time they were attacked, for the sake of Xan's mission. Personally Ashura found herself hoping that the journey would be disappointingly uneventful, and they would have to restock and rethink their search for the Bandit King in Baldur's Gate (after getting paid.) There was a tightening in her stomach that told her it wouldn't work out that way though. That and all of the refugees that seemed to keep piling up in the Friendly Arm.

She had once read that the Wood of Sharp Teeth took its name from a notorious band of werewolves that used to live there. Of course all the refugees talked of were bandits, bandits and more bandits. Either way Ashura felt as if they were driving their caravan towards the mouth of some great beast.

White pines and a few proud oaks dotted the open green landscape, clumped here and there in fields cleared by generations of logging. Up ahead the wood grew thicker, forming a wall of green on the eastern horizon. The sky was grey above, for once hiding the rising summer sun.

The road ahead eventually curved and matched the forest's edge, the line of raised stone and gravel falling under the shadows of the tall trees. Long before the oxcarts drew near the woods, the scouts rode ahead, dismounted at the forest's edge and pulled their cloaks tight about their bodies. The dull green of the elven fabric brightened a bit and added grey and brown streaks to match the color of the woods. With a step or two forward the scouts vanished before Ashura's eyes.

Keeping as far on the meadow-side of the road as they could the carts groaned and wobbled along, heading north and skirting the forest. The highway passed slowly under the wagon wheels and the feet of the caravan guards, and as they marched birdsong echoed from the branches above. It was reassuring; the sounds of the forest. In the old adventure stories they always mentioned the birds and other creatures growing deathly silent just before an ambush, though experience had taught Ashura that was not always the case. Birds don't care if the people passing beneath them are simply walking by or readying their weapons for an attack.

It was perhaps an hour after they reached the forest that the usual murmurs went up and down the line of carts. This time the nervous chatter was caused by a lack of news. Neither of the scouts had reported back at the appointed time, much to the captain's annoyance. Over the course of the journey this had happened twice before, but it always sent a prickle of unease through the line of guards. Eventually the captain barked for silence and the talk from wagon to wagon died away.

Accompanied by nothing but the clicking of the oxen's hooves and the creaking of crates they trudged down the road. Hooves, wheels, crates…but the sound of birdsong was gone. Ashura noticed just as the air was filled with the whistle of a dozen or more arrows flying from the woods. As she dove behind the cart and the sounds of thumping and piercing screams filled the air she wondered if maybe there was some wisdom hidden in those old adventure stories.

Amili -the slender drover- had been been the source of one of the screams. An arrow had struck her side and sent her tumbling off the wagon. Limp, she rolled to the lip of the ditch as the oxcart continued to thunder along, the beasts snorting and braying. Garrick had begun one of his songs now; hopefully he'd calm the oxen and horses before there was a stampede.

From her seat atop the cart Chera howled with rage and fired a crossbow bolt wildly between the trees. As soon as the bolt was loosed she jumped from her seat and rushed towards her friend. The archers among the caravan guards were returning fire now, hunched behind their wagons.

Through the gap beneath her own wagon Ashura could see Chera rushing towards her fallen companion. The teamster grabbed the slender woman by the shoulders, intent on dragging her to safety. Amili was still limp as she slid through the grass, and the arrow and wound in her side seemed to leak a strange white mist. A few tendrils of the same frosty substance puffed from her nostrils and open mouth.

Nine bloody Hells! They're both on the wrong side of the carts!

Sure enough the next volley of arrows flew from the trees before Amili had been dragged five feet, and at least half of them were aimed at Chera. Five struck and four sunk deep, shock and pain dropping the woman to her knees. More white mist rose from Chera's chest and when she fell forward across the still body of her friend there was a brittle, crinkling sound. Some sort of frost magic on the arrows was Ashura's best guess. Damn.

At least the second volley had given the guards a better idea of where the bandits were, and their counterattack included a hissing ball of flame that set trees ablaze and sent a few cloaked bodies flying. The explosion was quickly followed by a streak of lightning from Imoen's wand, which hit a different patch of underbrush but seemed to strike true, judging by the screams.

The next time arrows flew from the forest it seemed sporadic rather than a coordinated volley. Unfortunately several oxen lurched and fell, and despite Garrick's best efforts cries of braying terror accompanied the oxen's screams of pain. Ashura found herself stumbling back as the cart in front of her lurched and took off.

Somewhere nearby Kagain was shouting. Something about forming up, but Ashura had no desire to stand there in the open while arrows were flying. So -as in many battles before- when there seemed to be nowhere to go but forward she simply leaned in and charged.

It was a fine, familiar feeling: the wind whipping by her face as the stones and gravel and grass passed beneath her. The twinging sensation that came when her boots sensed danger ran across her brow and she twisted her head and dipped a bit to the side. Sure enough an arrow flew by, missing her head by half a finger's length. Icy mist trailed it like a comet's tail, and a cold sting bit into Ashura's cheek.

The pain was invigorating.

Without breaking her stride she plunged into the brush, swords leading the way. The face of a hooded man who was knocking an arrow suddenly loomed before her. His eyes were wide with shock, then his face contorted as she ran him through and crashed into his body. The bandit stumbled about three steps before his back slammed into a tree trunk. Ashura's sword pierced the bark.

Nearby movement made her turn from the convulsing body and raise her lefthand sword, but not quickly enough. Sharp pain in her side sent her hopping back and her fingers released her righthand weapon as she went. Bits of chainmail fell to the forest floor while her opponent raised a longsword and attempted a second blow. Ashura managed to lash back, steel following steel.

Her enemy was a blonde woman with Illuskan features, and she wore well-made scale armor under her forest cloak. She deftly wielded her sword as well, weaving through feint after feint that Ashura barely managed to follow and counter.

Backing slightly Ashura pressed herself close to the trunk of the tree and the shuddering body she had planted there. Her right hand found the hilt of her other sword. If she could just find the strength and leverage…yes! The sword was not buried deep and slid out of the dying man with a decent yank. The Illuskan woman was going for a high slash too. Ashura's left sword followed that of her enemy's and their blades locked briefly, giving her a chance to press in close and slam the pommel of her righthand weapon into her opponent's stomach.

It would have been a perfect move if not for the bandit-woman's armor. As it was the pommel-strike barely fazed the Illuskan, and Ashura got a punch to her face for the trouble. They tussled like that for a moment, too close to use their swords, before disengaging and hopping back a pace each. That gave Ashura a chance to turn her righthand sword around and take a proper dueling stance, both weapons ready. Now to see if having them both could make the difference. Ashura didn't fool herself; her opponent was obviously an experienced fencer and two weapons were only better than one if you were truly ambidextrous and used them just right. Otherwise the extra weapon (and the amount of your body that you exposed swinging it,) simply became a liability.

She was denied a proper duel when an arrow sailed in and struck the Illuskan in the back. The woman lurched forward and stumbled a bit, her sword hanging weakly at her side. Grateful, Ashura took full advantage. She stomped forward, knocked the bandit's weapon aside and drove her other sword through one of her opponent's bright blue eyes.

After ripping her weapon out of the dying woman's skull Ashura looked up and saw the archer who had relieved her. Kivan already had another arrow knocked. He looked worn and covered in blood but he managed to give Ashura a pained nod of his head before turning towards the sounds of battle and stalking away. As the scout slipped through the brambles Ashura followed, clumsily pushing branches and undergrowth aside.

In a clearing beyond Branwen and Kagain stood back-to-back, fending off three remaining bandits. The priestess was a riot of colors: there was a nimbus of golden energy around her whole body, her shield shimmered with violet light and familiar blue energy danced on her hammer. Kagain was just caked in blood. The bandits they faced all wore heavy scale armor similar to the Illuskan woman's.

As Ashura raced forward she saw a bandit's sword slip past Branwen's guard and bounce uselessly off the barrier around her. The Norlander countered with a blow from her hammer that seemed to cave the man's chest in and double him over. Her next strike buried her hammer almost fully into the back of the bandit's skull. A surprise arrow from Kivan and slash from Ashura's swords took the other two raiders down.

"Alas," Branwen pouted as she lifted her blackened warhammer and watched Ashura slit the throat of the bandit she had just knocked to the ground. "He was next for my hammer." Elsewhere the sounds of battle had died away.

"Bah," Kagain growled. "No time for personal glory. I suspect your healing arts are in great demand. Starting with him." He pointed at Kivan.

Kivan shook his head weakly. "No."

"Don't be a baby," Kagain barked.

"Others may be dying," Kivan said through gritted teeth. "I'll live. She should go tend to them first."

The captain cocked his head and shrugged. "Don't like it when folks disobey orders but that's actually a good idea." Reaching out he grabbed Branwen's bicep and pulled her towards the highway. "Let's make a quick sweep of things and regroup on the road. Prioritize the most grievously wounded." He then pointed at Ashura. "Nina, you're just a bit scratched. Search these woods for survivors best you can. I'll try to send other guards with you when I find 'em."

She nodded and began making her way through the now eerily quiet forest. Thankfully she found only corpses and burnt trees.

Thanks to one of Xan's spells the runaway oxcarts had been halted and gathered back together, but the attack had been devastating nonetheless. As Ashura had suspected both teamsters from her cart were dead, as were three others who had been caught by stray arrows in the initial ambush. Four guards had been killed as well, and they were down to fewer than the minimum amount of oxen they needed to pull every cart.

Beyond the dead much of the caravan crew was badly injured, including Coran, who Ashura was glad to see alive. The scout had taken a surprise arrow in the stomach when he and Kivan had been spotted by wary bandits, and his partner had barely managed to fight their way out. Branwen and the other cleric's healing prayers were quickly tapped out bringing the survivors back up to strength.

Ashura was surprised to see young Lord Silvershield out and about, assessing the damage. In the end he concluded that they needed to abandon both supply wagons. If worse came to worse they could finish the journey with one teamster minding each cart, but it took a lot of oxen to haul their heavy iron cargo.

As the teamsters got to work consolidating the wagons the captain sent some of the guards out on 'ragpicker duty,' searching the bodies of the dead bandits for anything of value. It was something the copper-pinching old mercenary ordered after every battle, but he seemed especially stern this time when he shouted: "Squeeze the bastards for all they're worth. And if I catch any of you pugs skimming coins or jewelry I'll chop off your hands m'self. That's company property, and we'll all get a fair percentage from the pot when this is through."

His tone of voice made it clear he still believed they would get through, at least. Ashura was one of the guards sent into the forest, and strange as the little ritual of combing over corpses was she was growing used to it. It seemed like at least a quarter of the time spent 'adventuring' involved picking out choice steel weapons, unfastening and stripping off undamaged pieces of armor and rummaging through the clothing of dead people for coins and jewelry, all while doing your best to ignore the smell. Most gruesome of all was the fact that they were required to collect a scalp from each bandit. Supposedly the Flaming Fist was offering a reward for those.

Still, it was a little thrilling every time something bright and shiny was spotted. She was tempted to drop a few gems in her personal coinpurse, but she opted not to tempt Kagain's axe. The fact that there was still enough gold from the Nashkel reward and other assorted looting to live off of also helped.

It was some time before everything was in order, and well into mid afternoon before the caravan began to cautiously lumber down the road again. Ashura and Garrick were moved to replace the team that had been guarding Eddard's coach, where they marched beside the captain himself. It seemed like a place of honor, but if Kagain had extra respect for their skills he didn't show it. Silent and tireless, the captain marched them on.

The caravan only hobbled along the road for a few hours before they found a field that seemed like a good spot to make camp. Kagain ordered that they park the wagons in a tight circle, and the few gaps between them were filled with wooden barricades. There was enough space in the circle for them to build a decent firepit and lay their bedrolls out, which they did as the shadows deepened. Once again eveningfeast would come from the carcass of one of the oxen.

Ashura found Coran and Branwen by the fire, their faces long and haggard. The elf was on his back, cloak wrapped around himself like a blanket, and when he looked up to watch her approach he cringed, as if every slight movement brought pain.

Kneeling down Ashura placed a hand on the Coran's shoulder. "Glad you're still alive," she said.

"Glad enough for a kiss?" he asked weakly.

Ashura chuckled. "You still think this is some sort of pleasure trip? Really?"

"They say that…" he grimaced for a moment, shifting under his cloak. "That 'Great peril yields great beauty.'"

"I'm pretty sure it just yields death and destruction," Ashura retorted. She was a little sad to see the laughter leave Coran's eyes. "Hey now," she added. "Don't you start scowling like me and Kivan."

Bending down she briefly pressed her lips to his. When she rose and leaned back there was a shocked look on Coran's face, and for once he seemed at a loss for words. "Maybe they're right after all," she said as she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before standing up. "Get your strength back okay?"

After some time on a shift at the picket Ashura retired to her bedroll and tried to settle in. Finding a comfortable position while laying down in her armor was something she doubted she could ever do, and the tension that hung over the camp was enough to keep her awake regardless. Perhaps at some point she dozed off briefly.

When shouts of alarm echoed across the camp and icewater surged through her veins it was clear she would not be getting back to sleep. Throwing the bedroll aside she clambered to her feet, winced at a crick in her back, and strapped her swordbelt on.

At least there were no arrows flying yet. It seemed the alarm was raised simply because the outer guards had spotted something. What that something was became clear a moment later when a strange man's voice boomed from the darkness.

"You are surrounded, outnumbered and outarmed," it announced. "Lay down your weapons and surrender, and you may leave unharmed." So the bandits were actually talking this time. How novel.

"Sod that," Kagain hissed back. "We've cut our way through hundreds of you up the coast. What's a couple more?"

Ashura found her way to one of the wooden barricades propped up between the horse-drawn carriage and an oxcart. She huddled down beside Garrick and peered into the darkness.

"Wish I had your nightvision Nina," the young man whispered.

Ashura shrugged. "Can't see shit at the moment. If there're warm bodies out there they're hidden behind the trees." Hm. Maybe the bandit was bluffing.

Again he shouted: "We've been watching your caravan bleed its way up to our forest, and I'm betting your all on your last legs. So know this: if any of you grunts decide to surrender at any time you'll be spared. Might even get to join us and make some real coin. Of course we're going to kill your boss, and we're going to make that slow as possible. And if you want to help us off the dwarf you're welcome to it."

He let the words hang over them for a time, but no one moved or replied. Finally the bandit lost his patience and shouted: "Alright then. Light 'em up lads."

Ashura cringed at that, wondering if fire was about to start raining down, but instead eight bright globes of light arched up from the trees and hung over the camp, illuminating the faces of the guards and teamsters. She recognized the spell: a minor light cantrip. Lighting us up. So the archers can find targets.

Her guess was right, and as she curled up small as she could behind the barricade there were whistles in the air and sharp thunks everywhere. A storm of arrows was raining down.