Part Three – Taking It to the Enemy
19 – Wreckage
"On the plus side I was the only survivor. Made out like a gods-damned bandit." –Kagain the Clanless, Gold, Not Glory: A Memoire
Kythorn 21, 1368
The dawn was especially cruel that morning. Its growing light illuminated a tableau of failure, and as he took it in Venkt could do little but shake his head. A field strewn with human and hobgoblin corpses ringed a smoldering circle of skeletal oxcarts, and nothing was stirring save crows and vultures getting their first samples of the dead. Teven was among them, along with the other mage and as far as Venkt could tell almost the entire raiding force save himself and two bedraggled hobgoblins. The two creatures stood beside him, weary and grimfaced, surveying the battlefield and waiting for his guidance.
Shaking his head one last time Venkt simply turned away and began to march towards the trees, passing between large, moss-covered rocks as the hobgoblins fell in behind him.
No treasure and no men to tote it; nothing but blood and ashes. Of course he could have gone searching through the ruins in hopes of finding some salvageable trinkets, but the most likely place to find treasure -the caravan master's carriage- had taken off hours ago. Not to mention that with each step forward the bandit-mage grew more certain that cutting his losses and getting far away from the Wood of Sharp Teeth was his best option.
Being one of the few spellcasters in the company supposedly gave Venkt a bit of protection, but he doubted that fact would save him from Tazok's rage when the ogre found out about this fiasco. Best case he'd be put to use as target practice for the initiates and hopefully given a quick death. Worst case (and more likely,) he'd be flayed alive, something he'd seen the ogre take great pleasure in before. He still remembered that elf girl's screams and Tazok's laughter vividly.
No, he had to ditch these hobgoblins when he got the chance and put the woods as far behind him as he could. Maybe he could go back to Luskan. His sister would have a grand time taunting him if he returned with his tail between his legs and nothing to show for his 'adventures,' but hey, it was better than getting your skin peeled off.
His thoughts were interrupted by the snap of a bowstring somewhere nearby. Venkt flinched and tried to duck, but what saved him was the violet barrier that flared around his body briefly and repelled the arrow. Such a handy spell, and thankfully it was still active. The mage's mud-stained yellow cloak billowed as he whirled around and searched for the archer. Somewhere in the trees to the north was his best guess.
A whistle followed a second arrow, which sailed by and struck one of the hobgoblins through the forehead. She went down instantly, limp and silent with shock. Venkt had seen where the arrow had flown from, but as he raised his fingers into the air he hesitated. The only offensive spell he had left required a clear target, and he couldn't even see a hint of movement in the brush.
The next arrow struck the second hobgoblin in the chest and sent him spinning and stumbling back. He gripped the shaft as blood welled up between his fingers. Well, no need to find a way to ditch the hobgoblins now.
There had been a gleam on the arrowhead just as it launched from the between trees, and Venkt's eyes had managed to follow. There! A hooded figure crouched against a maple trunk, his magical cloak matching the brown color of the bark. That was all Venkt needed for the spell. Rolling up his sleeves he prepared to reply to the arrows with a storm of magical bolts.
He was so intent on spotting the archer that he never noticed one of the large stones nearby rising up, pushing back a grey cloak and stalking towards him. By the time the hidden figure had yanked Venkt's hair back and flicked a dagger across his throat it was too late.
There, Imoen thought with grim satisfaction as she watched the robed man clutch at his bleeding neck and cough his last coughs. Finally got the second mage. Once he shuddered and went still she stepped past his body and trudged through the clearing. Kivan had stepped into view up ahead, still holding his bow with an arrow knocked and ready, just in case. "I'm pretty sure that's all of them," Imoen stated.
"Aye, it is," the elf replied, though he still clenched his bow, making Imoen wonder for a moment if he was just being paranoid or if he saw her as a possible threat.
Turning from the ranger, Imoen approached the ruined caravan, surveying the destruction in the growing light. She approached Branwen's body first and hovered there for a time before pushing the corpse onto its back and bending down to close the Norlander's empty green eyes. "'Spose this is what you wanted," she whispered. "'Tiss a fine day to die' and all that warrior talk. Gonna miss you though." What was that prayer Branwen always used? "A battle-death is a holy ending," Imoen quoted, her throat growing raw.
She stood and walked towards the camp, and as she surveyed the rest of it the term Nar Victory came to mind. The phrase had appeared several times in old histories Imoen had read back at the citadel, and when she had asked Phlydia what it meant the scribe had explained that it was a term for a battle that you survived but have little or nothing to show for it. A technical victory that tastes like ashes in your mouth. This was definitely one of those, complete with a lot of ashes.
The carts were gutted, blackened husks; a sooty circle in the middle of the field. Corpses lay everywhere, staining the dewy grass red, lightly strewn in the field but clustered close within the camp and at the gaps between carts. During the night Imoen had searched the destruction for signs of her friends as she prowled the battlefield and hunted bandits, but investigating it in the light of dawn was different.
One reassuring fact was that the carriage was gone. Ashura and Garrick had been guarding that, and maybe they had been inside when it took off. Imoen could at least hope.
Searching among the dead hobgoblins, human brigands and guards for familiar faces; now that was something. Somehow she managed not to vomit. Maybe she was too numb. Hard as she looked there seemed to be no sign of Garrick or Ashura's bodies, nor were the elves among the dead. There were quite a few caravaners though, mostly pin-cushioned with arrows from all those early volleys. Even then there were fewer familiar corpses than she had first feared. Maybe more guards and drovers had managed to flee in the chaos than she would have thought. Heh. And unlike her they probably had the good sense to keep running.
She frowned a bit at one of the familiar sights. Captain Kagain's winged helmet was poking out from under the bulky corpses of two hobs. At least the hearty fellow had taken down some of them with him. Still. Poor sod, taking a dirtnap so-
A muffled gasp came from under the pile of bloody goblin flesh, followed by a raspy cough. Imoen hopped back and drew her dagger, but after a longer look she was sure that the masked dwarven helmet was the only thing moving. "Uh…Kagain?" she asked.
There were three more coughs, and then with a voice even more raw than usual the mercenary-captain growled: "Would you get these damned things off me?"
Imoen struggled with the armored hobgoblins for a moment before Kivan stepped in and effortlessly pulled the bodies away. He must be all muscle under those thick greens. She had guessed at first that he was a wood elf, but his attitude and size made her wonder more and more if he was from one of the wilder elven tribes. They say the tribal elves grow a lot bigger and stronger than their civilized cousins.
Beneath the corpses the dwarf looked a mess. No, worse than a mess. How in the Three Glooms, Four Mounts and Nine Hells is he even alive?
The thick splinted-mail that the captain had worn was dented in a dozen places and outright torn away in a few, including his stomach, which was smeared with various shades of red and black and scarred badly. He had worn a steel gorget about his neck but it was battered, torn, and there was a lot of dried dark blood there as well. Despite all that the dwarf managed to sit up, rub his forehead and then wobble to his feet.
"I…I don't have any healing potions," Imoen stammered.
Kagain waved a hand and shook his head. "No need," he wheezed, then drew a deep breath. "Just getting my second wind."
Imoen crinkled an eyebrow. "Are you really okay?"
The dwarf gave a hearty nod. "Dwarven endurance." Under his long, salted beard he seemed to allow himself a tiny smile. It turned into a scowl when he looked about the burnt-out camp. "I guess we're beyond me asking you two for a situation report eh?"
Pursing her lips Imoen thought a moment. "The situation is complete and utter destruction, looks like."
"That I can see." Kagain walked over to one of the blackened carts and looked at it this way and that. "A lot of the cargo's probably salvageable. A fireball ain't dragon-fire at least." He gave the camp another look-about. "The young lord's carriage is gone too. Hopefully the boy escaped. Unfortunately that carriage is also where all the chests of gold and jewels got moved when we lost the supply wagons."
Shaking his head a bit the dwarf walked towards the gap where the carriage had stood. "I guess the next step is to see if we can track the coach and find Eddard. If anything's happened to him I'm in for a world of hurt. His dad made that real clear. Luckily the bandits would probably try to ransom him, and if we're real lucky he's just driving on to Baldur's Gate right now with his tail between his legs."
"I haven't seen A- uh…Nina or Garrick's bodies," Imoen blurted out. "Or the other two elves. They might still be alive somewhere."
"Well, maybe we'll see them," Kagain growled impatiently as the three of them stepped out into the field once more. It seemed pretty clear that he just didn't care, and was more intent on following the ruts made by the carriage wheels towards his gold.
Imoen clenched her teeth and pondered submitting her 'resignation' right then and there. The fact that wondering alone in the forest would probably be suicide gave her pause, but by Mask she was sick of taking orders from this callous asshole.
"Maybe you will," a solemn voice intoned.
Whirling and glancing around, Imoen saw nothing. "Xan?" she asked the open air.
"Indeed," the voice said again. "And I must admit I'm surprised to see that the cloak you borrowed is intact. You seemed so intent on suicide last night."
"Aye," another familiar, smiling voice added. The voices were coming from the same spot. "Speaking of the cloak…"
There was a red-white waver in the air and a nearby patch of tall flowers transformed into a stained purple cloak and robes next to a set of equally ragged traveler's clothes and leathers. Xan and Coran rose to their feet.
"That invisibility spell would have helped me escape a bit more-" Xan began but his words were cut off and turned into a grunt as Imoen slammed into him with a tight hug. "Hey now, careful please," he said after a moment.
Stepping back and smiling up into the moon elf's eyes she clasped his shoulders. "Yeah, you're fragile. I know," she teased. Turning from him she gave Coran a brief smile and reached up to unclasp the broad elven cloak and pull it from her shoulders. "And I 'spose I owe this back to you." She folded the magic garment up, handing it over. "I think it's relatively intact."
For once Coran's smile was weak and forced, weariness in his almond eyes. "I'm just glad you're intact," he said as he took it.
"Well sod it all," Kagain muttered in a defeated voice. He had been marching along hard and steady down the road, forcing Imoen to jog behind him and wonder how he managed such a pace with those stumpy legs. Truth be told the dwarf was only a little shorter than her, a head-and-a-half or so, but still…
Now Kagain's shoulders drooped and he looked deflated. They had found the wreckage of the horse-drawn cart, broken near in half by the plunge it had taken from the steep road above Peldvale. Nearby lay Eddard Silvershield, three arrows stuck in his chest and his eyes bulging wide open on a paper-white face.
"I can't ever show my face in the Gate again," Kagain muttered. "Lost the son of the richest man in the whole soding region. That's the end of my caravanning days in these parts. Hells, it might be the end of me if old Entar feels like heaping the blame at my feet. Told the boy I'd take a finger off his hussy every time he poked his head out during an attack, and it seemed to be working too. But he goes and gets himself killed trying to escape!" With a sigh the dwarf slammed the edge of his axe into a nearby piece of carriage and left in there. After that he turned and began rummaging through the wreck.
"So um…" Imoen ventured.
"First thing," Kagain muttered, "I'm going to see if any of the bottles in here are still intact. I need a bloody stiff drink." He fished through a cupboard but found only shattered glass and crockery. Shaking his head he muttered. "Damn, it's all been picked clean. Not just the wine and spirits, the blasted rugs and chests are gone too!"
Letting out the deepest sigh yet Kagain plopped down on the fallen dresser.
"Well, Garrick and Nina aren't here," Imoen pointed out. "They could still be alive."
Kagain looked at her with empty, bleary eyes and gave a shrug. Nearby Kivan was kneeling and studying the ground. Eventually he pointed to the south. "The bandits who picked this wreck clean went that way," he stated. "A large group but not near as large as the one last night, and some of them are weighted down with treasure. We can track them."
With a gentle shake of his head Coran turned towards the road. "Count me out," he said wearily. Kivan glared up at the other elf. "I've heard enough of the dying screams of companions," Coran went on, all the humor dried up from his voice.
"These bandits-" Kivan began with a hiss.
"The bandits who killed our comrades are all dead," Coran retorted. "And I've made no vows to Shevarash. Do as you wish, but I'll seek adventure elsewhere."
Kagain shrugged. "I could say something about your contract, but we all know we're beyond that. Do as you please."
Coran nodded and stiffly started towards the road.
Imoen wanted to try and call him back. She thought of ways to convince him that hunting the bandits would be another sort of adventure; that maybe they had captured Ashura and she was a damsel in distress worth rescuing. But she was just too weary and worn to even try. Hard enough to convince herself that her friends were alive out there somewhere.
Looking away from the departing elf she stared back at the thick band of woods to the south. Where are you Ashura? She turned her head up to the grey sky as the first drop of rain struck her face, followed closely by another and another.
"You may not believe it," the bandit woman drawled, looking back over her shoulder, "but you two are quite lucky. You have a choice ahead of you. A grim choice, but a choice nonetheless." Warm rain fell between the leaves, just a steady drizzle now compared to the deluge they had trudged through earlier. Most of the bandits had hoods and raincloaks wrapped tight around them, but their apparent leader seemed oblivious to the weather, not minding her soaked leathers or dripping dark hair in the least.
Earlier Ashura had learned that the bandit's name was Safana when the woman gave a dramatically courteous introduction. She had not asked their names in return, assuming that they would go on in sullen silence and not seeming to care.
"You see," Safana went on, "it used to be that every soul captured from the caravans would instantly become a collared slave and get sent straight to the mines. Not a pleasant fate. But our little band's taken some…losses since then, and me and the boys got the idea that maybe we should press some of the caravan guards into service when we take a prize, the way we do it on the high seas when we take a ship. We need able-bodied men," she emphasized the word and gave Garrick a sly grin along with an appraising, full-bodied look, "and women with the right sort of mercenary temperament.
"Now, I won't coat it in honey overmuch," she continued in a voice that sounded awfully honeyed to Ashura. "Even if you prove worthy of joining us it'll still be a sort of slavery, and you'll be kept on a short leash until you've proven your loyalty. Still, it's a chance for eventual freedom and some small share of the loot if you carry your weight, which is far better than getting a brand seared into your ass and then choking to death on dust in some dark cave." A few more paces and she stopped on the forest path, the small company slowing as well. "But what do you say?" she asked, looking from Garrick to Ashura and back again. "No doubt you hold a grudge against us for taking your caravan?"
They had been trudging through the rain and winding forest paths for hours, the prisoners' hands bound securely behind their backs with rope. Their ankles were tied together a little more loosely, but still tight enough to impede them if they tried to run. The bandits had taken their weapons and jewelry, along with Ashura's helmet and metal armor, leaving her in her padded doublet, hosiery and boots. Both prisoners were soaked to the skin, and Ashura's loose hair clung to her face. Annoyed, she kept trying to blink it away. At least they had left the boots. If she got a chance to make a break for it maybe she could dodge their arrows. But those damn ropes…
After about two breaths Ashura shrugged. "They sure didn't pay well for all the hassle."
Safana smiled at her, and Garrick blanched and looked away. "We'll pay a bit better, if you take a big enough prize, if you pull your weight and if you prove willing."
"Oh, I can prove myself," Ashura growled. She had never been good at bluffing (Imoen and the piles of copper she won at Archers could attest to that,) but she had always been able to glare the boys down when they tried to tease her or pull one over on her at the barracks of Candlekeep. It was easy enough to put the same stony face on now. She doubted any of these bandits were half as tough as Reevor, or Hells, even Hull and Fuller.
The bandit-woman chuckled. One of her companions spoke up, talking past Ashura. "What about you pretty boy?" he asked Garrick. "Just gonna' stare at your feet like a shy little maid?"
The boy didn't look up to meet the bandit's eyes, just started off, sullen and silent. Damnit Garrick! He was going to get himself sent to those mines (or worse,) if he kept on like this.
Ashura cocked her head towards her companion. "He's a bit green," she admitted. "This was his first sell-sword job. He's tougher than he looks though. Good shot too, and has a talent for magic."
"And I take it he's good in the sack?" another bandit asked, teasing.
"Oh yeah," Ashura replied. "Real forceful and commanding and always finds a way on top. You'll love it."
The bandit scowled and one of his companions chuckled and boxed him on the arm.
"And who says you know anything about 'tough,' little girl?" the bandit who had taunted Garrick asked, stepping a bit closer to Ashura. He was half-a-head taller than her, kind of broad but his arms were thin and he looked a bit on the underfed side. His complexion was the same sort of olive shade as Safana's, and a few other features gave the impression that he was Calishite.
"You will," Ashura answered, glaring up into his eyes, "if you untie this rope. You can leave one hand bound if you like." She tried to keep her glare steady, though she was bracing herself in case he tried to deliver a blow. Thankfully the man just snorted.
"It'll be up to the boss to decide who qualifies, in any case," Safana noted, a wave of her hand guiding them back down the path and resuming the march. "Maybe the lovely, quiet lad is the one with spine, and the puffed-up little girl is all talk. We'll find out at the camp." Ashura gratefully began to trudge along. The woman hid it well, but she had a casual way of getting her band of men to do what she wanted. Good thing she didn't seem to want her prisoners damaged.
Hours later when the heavy rains returned they took shelter in the vine and moss-choked ruins of an old stone tower. The bandits enjoyed a late highbite while they waited out the storm, and Safana gave her prisoners a little taste of salt-dried venison washed down with gulps of watered wine. Everyone reclined against the stones, the murmur of gossip present between the bandits but barely audible over the drumming of the rain.
Taking advantage of the noise Ashura turned and put her mouth as close to Garrick's ear as she could. Through clenched teeth she whispered: "Garrick. You're an actor right?"
He started to open his mouth.
"No," Ashura went on, "just listen. You're an actor. And right now you need to act the part of a tough young mercenary with something to prove. Otherwise they're going to eat you alive and throw you into those mines they keep talking about." Beside her the bard was silent. "Just think of it that way," she whispered. "It's a part to play."
"Hey," one of the men across from them groaned, "no conspiring over there."
"Was just asking him which of you he thought was the cutest," Ashura said.
"The one with the forked beard, definitely," Garrick added, playing along.
The bearded man rolled his eyes and looked away while two of his companions chuckled.
"You know girlie," the Calishite bandit who had taunted Ashura earlier growled, rising to his feet and stalking towards her. "I don't think you quite understand the gravity of your situation." For a little extra emphasis he played with the clasp that secured his belt.
Ashura said nothing, instead narrowing her eyes and fixing a glare on the man.
"Now now Knott," Safana said in a silky voice. "I shouldn't need to repeat myself. It's for the boss to decide."
"Aww, Saf," the bandit complained with a leer at Ashura, "you never let us have any fun." Despite herself Ashura's stomach was tied up tight, muscles tense, and she found herself testing the rope at her wrists.
"You get plenty of fun, but this woman could be our future companion. So she's our guest, and under our protection." With a pointed look at Ashura she added: "Of course if they act in a manner unbecoming a guest you can have all the fun you like."
Knott nodded and sat back down, meeting Ashura's glare for a time before turning away. The threat remained, hanging in the air, and Ashura figured it was a good time to say absolutely nothing.
Head bent low and arms tightly hugging her chest, Quenash carefully made her way along what she judged to be the northern road. The stones were hard, cold and slick, and raw pain ran through her bare feet each time she took a step. She still ached from the fall out of the carriage, but that pain had dulled over time at least, eclipsed by the stinging of her feet and her general misery.
But she had to keep moving. She just had to. Those killers who had set the camp afire were behind her somewhere, maybe on the hunt.
All around her tall oak trees loomed, skirted by dense little pines at the road's edge. More men like the ones last night could be lurking there, beneath the needles of every branch for all she knew. Maybe she was just walking right into more of them, a lost little lamb on the open road. But what else could she do? All she knew was that Baldur's Gate was somewhere north along the road. She had hated the city so, and had loved how Eddard had swept her away for an adventure in the countryside with promises of a manor home in Beregost. But now she just wanted the secure walls of the city around her again. That or Eddard's secure arms.
Poor Eddard. Maybe he was still alive, but somehow she knew the hope was vain.
There were farms too, past the forest and before the city. If she could just find a friendly homestead…
Her eyes were cast down at her feet, watching each step lest she trip or slip on a stone as she tried to shield her face from the constant downpour. Long ago her blonde hair had become a dark, tangled mess against her face and shoulders. For hours her arms had been wrapped tightly across her, hands gripping her biceps in a hopeless attempt to keep the chill out. The little white silk gown that was her only garment did nothing to keep the rain from her skin, and though it was at least a warm summer storm the long hours out in the elements had her sniffling. Hours earlier she had sobbed constantly as she put one foot ahead of the next, tears and rain all flowing together, but her eyes were now too raw for her to cry.
One sore foot in front of the other, watching them closely lest she stumble and fall. She never noticed the man who silently stepped in beside her and matched her stride; not until he reached over and placed his long green cloak upon her shoulders.
Quenash's blood froze in her veins. She twisted towards the stranger and let out a sharp cry. He was taller than her but not by much, elven, and there was a familiar green tattoo around his eyes. There had been a faint smile on his lips but it quickly faded.
"Y-you're…" Quenash stammered. "…o-one of the scouts? Right?" Voice and body both trembled.
The elf gave her a steady nod. "Aye." Carefully he reached over and smoothed the cloak out across her shoulders, covering her more securely.
"Are you…what are you…"
"I wasn't sure where I was going," he stated calmly, "but I'm guessing you're headed to Baldur's Gate. How about I escort you? I'm pretty sure the two of us can slip past the bandits easier than a caravan would."
A hint of a hopeful, tired smile grew on her face. "That…that would be nice." Next came tears, shimmering at the edges of her eyes. "Gods. I'm so lucky you found me."
Several wiseass comments about luck and 'getting lucky' bubbled up in Coran's mind, unbidden. Instead he frowned, and for once said nothing. This poor girl had been through enough.
Nina (who could very well be dead right now,) had been right: sometimes great peril just yields ruin. But maybe he could help this poor lost girl find her way to the Gate. It was the least he could do.
Author's Note: This isn't the last we've seen of Coran. It just seemed in character for him to bail when things stopped being what he'd consider a fun adventure.
I think a lot of players miss it (I certainly did the first few times I played the game,) but in Baldur's Gate you can actually join the bandits and infiltrate their camp peacefully. Safana's little press-gang seemed like a more dramatic way of making that happen. And in the meantime Imeon's on the outside trying to find the camp, so we get the best (or worst…) of both worlds.