28 - Dance of the Dead
"And lo, Selia recoiled in horror as the waves parted and the sea gave up its dead. Bloated and mangled, the abominations surged forth like the tide." -Shandreth of Highmoon, Black Alaric and the Ship of the Damned
With a quick twang Imoen's bow sent an arrow whistling towards the nearest walking corpse, striking it square in the chest with a meaty thump. The creature seemed to have been a man once; tall and thickly muscled. Now it was a pale, ragged thing, crusted black gunk streaking its torn body under clothes that were worn down to a few ragged strips. Ribs gleamed through open gashes in its torso, and the creature's jaw was gone; beneath its upper lip hung a mess of mangled, rusty black and a long, limp tongue.
Imoen's second arrow flew an instant after the first, again striking true and burying the shaft halfway into the creature's torso. The walking corpse didn't even seem to slow or notice. The feathered shafts just wobbling uselessly as the dead thing shambled closer. Other creatures were advancing more quickly, dry bones clicking as the walking skeletons rushed headlong towards the camp, unencumbered by rotting flesh.
Knocking a third arrow Imoen thought through the spells she had ready, her mind racing. None of her illusions would work on the dead, would they? And what good was a spell of accuracy when arrows are useless? "Help!" Imoen shouted over her shoulder as she took a few frantic steps back from the advancing undead. "Help! Alarm! We-"
"Fall," a voice commanded, echoing through her head as much as through the branches. Imoen's bow and arrow separated and clattered to the dirt as she tumbled forward, suddenly so limp that she hardly noticed when the ground rushed up and smacked her chest.
It only took her a moment to shake life back into her limbs, press her hands against the earth and try to push back up, but by then the walking dead were all around her. The dancing bones rushed by, clattering as they passed and holding rusty weapons high, but some of the heavier creatures lingered and bent closer. Before she could think to rush to her feet she felt cold, clammy hands grasp both of her arms in a death-grip. She squirmed and kicked but the hands held fast, twisting her arms a bit behind her back and forcing her upright between a pair of walking corpses.
A man was approaching from the darkness, the only visible source of heat. He was young but looked almost as ragged as some of the creatures around him; his tangled auburn hair sticking out in every direction, and rust streaked the chainmail that hung from his gaunt body. From his belt hung something more ornate: a golden warhammer. Tufts of uneven hair stuck out from his cheeks in the beginnings of an unchecked beard, and his eyes were wide with manic joy. Those big, gleaming eyes seemed to be fixed on Imoen and Imoen alone. She shivered.
"Oh mother!" the man exclaimed in a sing-song voice as he approached. "It's really truly you!" Behind her Imoen could hear cracking sounds along with the clang of steel. She guessed that the skeletons had reached the camp, and it sounded like her friends were fighting back.
The strange man ignored the battle, instead turning his back and gesturing towards the woods. With a lurch the two corpses that held Imoen's arms propelled her forward, and she bobbed along between them, kicking and twisting as they followed the madman. He led them between brambles and low branches that scratched at Imoen's face as she struggled.
"Let me go!" she managed to shout as she was pulled along. "Somebody help! Help me!" Her cries quickly turned into coughs as the stench of the rotting corpses overwhelmed her. The smell was thick enough to taste, and soon it was all she could do to keep from retching, her body growing slack and her feet furrowing the earth as she was dragged along.
Through all of this the madman in the rusted armor ignored her cries and her coughs, gleefully marching along the forest path and talking all the while. "You look like you haven't aged a day," he exclaimed. "In fact, you look a bit younger than before. Just like in the old days. The good days. Oh mother! My dear, sweet mother! Such a grand reunion we're in for this night!"
Shaking herself a bit, Imoen found her voice again. "I'm not your bloody mother, you half-wit thrice-dumb snot-for-brains! Tell your damn zombies to let me go!"
"Zom-whats?" the madman asked over his shoulder, his tone mildly confused but unperturbed. To Imoen's horror there was more creaking and crackling in the forest all around them. There seemed to be skeletons everywhere along the path, holding ancient weapons against their shoulders like some perversion of an honor guard.
"Zom-bies." Imoen snarled. "The fucking monsters that are holding me! That's what they are. Zombies. Reanimated corpses. Undead abominations. Tell them to let me go!"
"Why mum, this is our family!" the madman explained. "Don't you recognize old brother Thurm?" He pointed at the shambling corpse that was holding Imoen's right arm; the same one she had shot twice. Her arrows still protruded from his chest, bobbing as uselessly as ever.
"Or aunty Jerra over there?" he asked, gesturing at the corpse beside him: a grey woman with stringy tufts of colorless hair, lurching along in a rotting peasant's dress. "Or your little niece Bethris?" He pointed again and Imoen cringed and looked away from the pale, shambling waif that had once been a farm-girl. "Why, even daddy's here!" the madman proclaimed, pointing at an inhumanly bloated corpse that seemed to waddle as it walked. "Your dear husband!"
"That's not your dad," Imoen stated in a scolding tone. "And your mother demands that you knock this zombie nonsense off this instant. Why…real brother Thurm would be ashamed!" In the forest behind them she could still hear brittle old bones cracking, along with muffled shouts and Viconia's voice carrying above it all, calling upon her goddess.
The madman let out a sigh. "Oh mum," he said in a deflated tone. "Seems there's something wrong with your memory. Just like the others." He puffed himself up and started marching down the path again. "Well, I managed to fix them, and I'll do the same with you!"
A few moments more and branches parted as Imoen was shoved through into a small field dominated by a ring of standing stones. The cold, meaty hands dragged her ever onward, under a stone arch towards the center of the ring where a long slab rested, half-buried in the earth. Something dark stained the center of the slab.
Imoen's heart leapt to her throat as she guessed at the source of the stain and she immediately started struggling again, but she couldn't budge the cold limbs that held her. This was some ancient circle of power, and that was a sacrificial altar in the middle! Oh gods!
Struggling wasn't going to work. One slow step at a time she was being dragged to the circle, and now she could see four rusty iron manacles attached to chains at the corners of the slab. It was easy enough to guess how those were put to use, and how the madman 'fixed' each member of his family. Slowing her struggles, Imoen tried to stop and think.
If they were going to lock her wrists into those things there would be a moment when the zombies had to let her go. Just for a blink perhaps, but she could be quick. She took a deep breath, cool night air and rotting stench and all. The second the things let go…
But they never quite gave her the chance. On some unheard cue the zombies whirled her around and violently slammed her onto the slab, the back of her head cracking against the stone as the air was punched from her lungs. Before she could get her breath back one ring of iron locked into place around her left wrist, then the other snapped around her right. By then she was kicking and squirming again, and the madman was holding one of the bindings that was probably meant to trap an ankle.
He fumbled with it a moment, more clumsy than the zombies, then looked over his shoulder. The commotion from the woods was just growing and growing, all splintering bones and ringing steel. Shura's coming, Imoen thought with relief. Any moment now.
The madman shook his head. "Oh mum," he muttered. "They're getting close to our family. Can't have that. No no no." He pulled his warhammer free, and there was a faint buzzing in the air accompanied by the smell of ozone. "You stay right there mum. I'll deal with them."
But Imoen wasn't about to wait. As the madman turned his back to her she stretched her arms as much as she could. The bindings held her to the slab but there was plenty of room to stretch the chains. And there had be a key to release the manacles after the sacrifice was made…
Yes! There! She could see the key, hanging from a thong at the madman's belt. He was out of reach now, but…
Weaving her fingers, Imoen began to whisper a few arcane syllables, her words drowned out by the shouts and the clang of battle.
With a satisfying crunch the skeleton in front of Ashura crumbled, but two more swept in to take its place. She had to twist aside fast to avoid the downward sweep of a rusty axe, batting away a hack from the second creature's sword as she moved. The mindless things made no pretense at fencing; just slashed and lunged like children with toy weapons.
Still, they could be bloody fast, and her swords worked poorly against bare bone. There was nothing vital to stab; she just had to keep hacking, aiming at vertebra until they splintered and severed and the damn things fell apart.
Beyond the melee Ashura saw Imoen get thrown to the ground. With a snarl she pushed forward, and in a few furious breaths a ribcage crumbled and a spine split in two, both skeletons collapsing and crunching beneath her boots. She sprinted forward, between the standing stones, swords and eyes fixed on the ragged man who commanded these things. The madman who had taken her friend. Just a few more paces…
A meaty fist swinging in took her by surprise and Ashura went off course, her back hitting one of the standing stones. She whirled to face her attacker: the half-naked corpse of a man with two arrows buried in his chest and no jaw. The zombie was unarmed, attacking with open hands and lumbering instinct.
Flesh made an easier target for her swords than bone, and with three close and desperate slices the walking corpse started coming apart. Organs spilled out, an arm that had been pummeling at her went limp and loose, and with two more quick slashes the creature's head was hanging halfway off its shoulders. That was all it took to reach some critical point where the magic couldn't hold the thing together anymore, and it slumped to the ground, a pile of rotting meat.
"Thurm!" the madman howled, one hand holding up a golden warhammer that crackled with electricity, the other gripping a square piece of ivory emblazoned with the black sun of Cyric.
Ashura whirled towards the priest and advanced. Some vital organs to stab at last!
"You took him from me! Again!" the priest shouted hysterically. A golden glow began to emanate from the symbol in his hand. "By the Prince of Lies I command you be…"
Sprinting, Ashura drove her swords ahead with more than enough momentum to run the madman through.
"…still!" In a brilliant burst of gold the energy leapt from the holy symbol and filled Ashura's vision. She was a hand's length from driving her swords into the man's guts when every muscle in her body contracted, suddenly stiff as a board. Like a poorly balanced statue she toppled forward, her mind struggling but her body simply paying it no heed.
Nine fucking Hells! was all she could think as the ground rushed up to meet her. A jolt ran through her arms as her swords hit the earth first, the force of the fall rolling her onto her side. She found herself awkwardly looking up at the madman, her eyes apparently the only things she could move.
For a terrible moment the mad priest stood over her, his hammer raised high. Then there was a blur of violet and silver behind him, and dark blood spurted from the side of his neck, running in a torrent down his armored shoulder. He dropped the hammer, eyes and mouth wide with shock as he reached and pressed his palm to the wound.
The dagger struck again, this time at the back of the madman's neck, and he stumbled forward before whirling around, blood everywhere. In a raw voice he cried out. "Mommy?! Why?"
The next stab struck the man's windpipe, reducing his words to gurgles. He sank to the ground a moment later in a pool of bloody. "Because…I'm not…your bloody mum!" Imoen managed between deep breaths, panting hard as her bloodstained hands trembled and dropped her dagger. All around them the army of the dead collapsed, the magic that kept them upright suddenly gone.
A moment later Ashura heard a whispered prayer to Shar behind her and her stiff limbs suddenly moved again. Breathing deeply she struggled to find her feet, and once she had caught her breath she sheathed her swords and rushed over to help steady her friend. "Guess you didn't need rescuing," she stated.
"Nope," Imoen finally managed. "Thanks for trying tho." She leaned against Ashura and put an arm around her.
"And you ended up saving my ass," Ashura noted. "Again."
"Maybe," Imoen admitted. "I'm not keeping score."
Sometime later they made their way back along the forest path the priest had taken, Ashura's arm still over Imoen's shoulder with the others walking wearily as their sides. "That's the second time I've gotten dragged off by some monster while I was on watch," Imoen observed. "I'm thinking I'm the one who's cursed."
"Eh," Ashura responded with a dismissive grunt. "You're still alive. Seems more like the favor of some god to me. Lady Luck's smile or something."
"Nah. Wasn't luck." Imoen twirled her fingers. "Prestidigitation. That and some good old fashioned stabbing."
"You're getting rather good at both."
The hunting lodge was a welcome find after a long day walking beneath the towering trees, the party looking out for more tasoli as they went. Ajantis was beginning to feel a stiffness in his neck, though he did not complain. So far the Cloakwood had been steadily rolling hills covered by old growth trees, but all local lore insisted that the terrain grew more treacherous deeper in; rocky and littered with ravines.
"Nice to rest the night with a roof over our heads, I suppose," Xan admitted as they cautiously walked towards the sturdy log cabin, nestled beneath a broad oak in the shaded clearing. "If the residents don't try to kill us. They probably will of course."
"For what it's worth I sense no evil here," Ajantis noted. He realized after he had spoken that it hadn't been an entirely true statement. Shar-Teel was in front of him, stalking towards the hunting lodge, and with his mind attuned to sensing auras he could see a faint, red flicker emanating from the woman.
Best not to mention that though. When he had trained to spot such auras Ajantis' mentors had cautioned him against reading too much into a flicker of malice spotted in some human or elf. The world was littered with self-serving merchants eager to cheat any customer they could and their spoiled sons and daughters. They all had that ember within them, but the selfish and malicious could live their entire lives without ever actually doing anything evil.
Not to mention the other side of the coin. As Sir Keldorn often pointed out there were plenty of people who did not glow with an aura of malice but were capable of committing all sorts of horrible acts in the right circumstances. Kivan and Xan even seemed like perfect examples of the sort his mentor had warned him of. From what he had gleaned from them over the recent journey Ajantis was beginning to suspect that Xan would justify any sort of atrocity if it helped accomplish his mission, and Kivan craved nothing but the blood of his enemy. He would have to watch them both carefully.
Still, the woman made Ajantis warier than most. She seemed very eager to kill; boastful of it in fact.
Shar-Teel took the lead and pushed the cabin door open with a creak, her sword out. Inside it was dark, musky and silent. There were two bolts in the doorway but no other locks, and the interior of the cabin was sparsely furnished with a few wooden chairs, a table, several hammocks and a fireplace; all a bit dusty. The eyes were drawn to the decorations on the walls though: the stuffed head of a great elk, a bear, three large wolves of various breeds, and a head shaped a bit like a dragon but far smaller, just a little larger than the wolves.
"A baby wyvern," Kivan remarked with a nod towards the trophy. "This is the home of a hunter."
Ajantis shook his head. "No, I think it's more a hunting lodge."
The elf gave him a blank look.
"A human tradition I suppose you're not familiar with?" The look stayed blank and Ajantis explained. "Men of leisure often go on hunting trips when the season is right, and build cabins like this on the hunting grounds. A place to take shelter while they're out 'roughing it,' as my father would say. He took me on a few such trips when I was a boy, though the Ilvarstarr family lodge was more lavish."
"So your family is a bunch of gutless fops?" Shar-Teel asked. "What a surprise."
Not taking the bait, Ajantis simply chuckled. "That they are. In any case this is not someone's home, just a shelter. I doubt we'll be disturbing anyone by staying."
"Well, whatever," Shar-Teel said with a shrug. "This is a good secure place to wait out the night, I agree. Especially with those clouds that were rolling in. Smells like rain." She kicked off her boots and claimed a hammock.
The rest silently agreed, and they began to settle in for the evening. As Kivan and Ajantis returned to the cabin with wood for the fire Shar-Teel made a comment about how the 'ranger boy' should make himself useful and hunt up some supper.
"You can't hunt for yourself?" Kivan asked without a hint of emotion, and the warrior-woman launched into a tirade about how she had survived half her life alone in the wilderness and could find game better than any man, thank you very much. She then promptly stomped off.
A short time later Shar-Teel returned with two limp rabbits in hand and a pleased look on her face, tossing them at the elf's feet. When she demanded that Kivan skin and spit her kills over the fireplace Ajantis half-expected the elven ranger to ask: "You can't skin a rabbit?" and see if the woman would take the bait, but instead Kivan simply drew his knife and started preparing their meal.
Hm. Perhaps he really is as humorless as he appears.
Once their bellies were full and rain was tapping against the roof and windows Ajantis volunteered to take first watch, a simple enough task that consisted of sitting in front of the door while Shar-Teel slept in her hammock and the elves meditated. Still, he took his job seriously.
For his watch Ajantis lit a tallow candle to see by and measure the time. It had burned down perhaps two finger-widths when a sound at the door alerted him and his sword silently slipped from its scabbard. Someone had tried to pull the door open, and now they were banging frantically upon it. "Up!" Ajantis barked to his companions. "All of you!"
At the same time a man on the other side of the door shouted. "Let me in! Merciful Illmater! Please let me in!"
"Who are you?" Ajantis asked as he stepped close to the door, ready to swipe with his sword.
"They're right behind me! Please!"
The others were stirring but not fast enough, so Ajantis acted. Two quick yanks and the bolts were away, the door swinging inward as the squire backed up. Really it was no decision at all: his code demanded that walking (warily,) into a trap was preferable to risking the death of an innocent.
Thankfully there didn't seem to be any trick. The man who stumbled, panting, into the hunting lodge was old and grey, but still fairly spry-looking. He wore finely made wool and had a neatly trimmed beard, though mud stained his clothes and a frantic, hounded look marred his face. A large sword hung from his hip in a gilded scabbard. "Oh thank you!" the man panted as he passed Ajantis and then turned around. "Please bar the door. They could be right here!"
"Who could be?" Xan asked as Ajantis locked the cabin up again. "What's going on?" Shar-Teel and Kivan were up now as well, the elf ready with his bow and the human armed with her sword and dagger.
"Hunters of Malar," the man explained. "They've been after me all day. They killed my companion, and now they hunt me!"
"Why?" Kivan asked evenly.
The old man seemed to stammer at that, not ready with an answer.
"Indeed," Xan stated. "If I am not mistaken the time for the High Hunt of Malar this season has already passed. Perhaps you are just making this up and there is a perfectly just reason that someone is after you?" He eyed the man critically. "I have no intention of getting between two warring parties."
"Yeah," Shar-Teel grumbled sleepily. "I say throw this doddering old man back to the beasts or hunters or whatever. None of our concern."
"I'm a member of the Merchant League!" the man exclaimed. "I can pay you handsomely for my protection. Please!"
"Oh." Shar-Teel cocked her head. "Well in that case-"
"In whatever case," Ajantis cut in, "I pledge to protect you." He shot a glare at Shar-Teel. "Without charge."
"Even so, take this," the man begged him, unsheathing his sword and offering it hilt-first to Ajantis. It was a fine blade, gilded and tinted a metallic blue. When the squire tried to wave it away the man added: "The enchantment is attuned to beings that are not in their natural shape. If the hunters have taken animal forms it could be quite useful against them, and it's a fine weapon besides. You look like you could make better use of the sword than me."
Ajantis frowned, still unsure.
"Oh, just take the damned weapon," Xan complained. "But we will see what these druids of Malar have to say. Perhaps there's a way to resolve this matter that doesn't involve us or them getting senselessly chopped to pieces."
With a nod Ajantis finally accepted the sword and tested its balance. It was indeed a fine enchanted weapon, lighter than his own blade but of comparable size.
"My name is Aldeth Sashenstar, by the way," the grey-haired man said, tension lifting just a tad. "And I thank you greatly for your assistance."
"Pleased," Ajantis said with a nod, his eyes on the door. Despite the man's frantic pleas there seemed to be nothing but rain and thunder outside. They stood in silence, ready and waiting.
Xan had hoped the hunters could be reasoned with, but when they finally arrived they came with a roar, not words. First something massive collided with the door, wood splintering and bolts shaking. A few breaths later there was a second crash, and then one of the narrow windows on the cabin's wall shattered, the paw of a large bear briefly reaching through before retreating.
"Shapeshifters indeed," Shar-Teel muttered.
Ajantis nodded and focused his attention on the open window, his new sword held high. Another roar and a loud bang drew his attention back to the door. At the same instant there was motion to his right, and he whirled in time to see a great serpent slide between teeth of broken glass and over the windowsill. The moment its coils touched the floor the scales of the creature expanded and shifted, growing fuzzy and resolving into crude fur clothing worn by a young man.
Wasting no time, the man shot to his feet, his hands gestured before him and his face full of fury.
"Sir!" Ajantis shouted, hoping against hope that they could parley. "Can we talk?"
At the same time Shar-Teel was already charging towards the window with her sword leveled at the shapeshifter's stomach, and the young man was barking out something in a language that sounded more like growls than speech. With a creak and a rustle dozens of vines leapt up between the floorboards of the cabin, glowing and semi-transparent, as if they had been called halfway from another world. One wrapped firmly around Shar-Teel's waist and arrested her motion with an "Umph!" while Ajantis felt another snake up his leg. He found himself kicking, trying to wriggle away from the slithering plant.
Two more large snakes slipped through the window and grew into men, both also clad in light and crudely fashioned furs (a skirt, boots, and light cloaks that covered their shoulders, back and upper chest.) One man was older than the other two, and had a strangely green cast to his skin that may have been the effect of some spell. He stepped forward, an air of command in his voice as he spoke. "You shelter this man?" he growled. "This murderer?"
"We do not," Xan objected, his ankles entwined by the magical vines. Kivan seemed to have dodged the plants, and was shifting from foot to foot as more vines reached out. He had abandoned his bow and was working his way towards the wall where his halberd rested. "I knew there was more to this," Xan went on with a shake of his head. "We can work something-"
But the man was not listening. He had already begun to snarl in the strange language the other had used. Screams of pain erupted from four throats at once as thick thorns grew from the ethereal vines, instantly burying themselves into the ankles and legs of all but Kivan.
The wild elf had managed to reach his halberd now, and used it to vault over the clinging vines. As soon as his feet hit the floorboards close to the three men Kivan swept out with a stroke of his weapon, the axe cutting into the calf of one of the young men and sweeping him off his feet.
Through the pain Xan had managed to chant something in a low voice. A dazed look came over the face of the man who had first summoned the vines, and a breath later the magical plants winked out of existence.
Ajantis found himself surging forward, legs suddenly free and instinct taking over. The older man who led the shapeshifters was calling on his god once again, flames leaping from his hand and dancing into the shape of a sword. The magical fire was solid as steel when Ajantis struck and the man parried, but the shapeshifter was no fencer. Ajantis managed to knock the sword aside and bring his own blade to the man's temple all in one stroke. The blow should have bitten deeply into his foe's skull, but what he struck felt more like a tree trunk than a man, and the blow simply sent the druid stumbling back with a light cut and jarred Ajantis' arm.
The man Kivan had knocked off his feet was not so well protected, nor was the man that Xan had caught with a spell. As Kivan split the head of his fallen foe open with his halberd Ajantis pushed past the older shapeshifted and his sword bit deep into the dazed man's midsection, doubling him over and releasing a torrent of dark blood and darker innards.
Shar-Teel charged forward at the same time. Her longsword bounced off the older druid's chest without leaving a mark, but she didn't slow. Hitting the man with a tackle, she pushed the hand that held his burning sword aside with her own sword arm while her left hand stabbed down, driving her dueling-dagger into the druid's eye.
"Not protected there are you?!" she snarled as the man's body shook with shock, Shar-Teel's voice a mix of pain and fury. The moment her foe grew still she rolled over and lost her weapons, one hand clutching at her stomach and the other pressing to a deep wound in her thigh. She seemed to have taken the worst from the summoned spikes, since the vines had been clinging to her legs and midsection instead of just her ankles.
Ajantis rushed over to the prone woman, taking a deep breath as he focused and drew what healing power he could find into his hands. As gently as he could he pushed Shar-Teel's hands aside and pressed down on the wounds, warmth flowing between them. The torrent of blood seemed to slow as the injuries closed.
"A murderer huh?" Xan snarled, looking over at Aldeth while he clutched at his bleeding ankles.
Aldeth snorted. "I am not."
"Tell me the truth or I will force it out with a spell," Xan commanded.
With a defeated sigh Aldeth looked away. "It was all a terrible mistake. And it was not my arrow, mind you. It was my companion. He…"
"I'm waiting."
"He thought he was hunting a wolf. When the arrow struck and it fell, well…it shifted into a young woman's body…"
Frowning, Ajantis looked up. "A horrid tragedy, then. All around."
"If he's telling the truth," Xan noted. After a moment he cocked his head and then shrugged. "I think he is though."
"What does it matter?" Shar-Teel groaned from the floor. "Long as we get paid."
"I'll keep my word," Aldeth stated carefully. Next he tossed a bag onto the floor, coins clinking. "That's not much I'm afraid, just silver that I carry when I'm traveling. But if you're ever in Baldur's Gate go to the Merchant League guildhouse. I'll pay a handsome reward, let's say a hundred gold coins, for saving my life. And you may keep the sword as well."
"We'll hold you to it," Shar-Teel said, her voice weak and gravely.
They spent the next hour bandaging their wounds and moving the corpses outside, before once again settling in for the night. Ajantis stretched out in the hammock next to Shar-Teel's, but found it hard to sleep. Adrenaline, the driving rain and the smell of recent death hanging in the room all conspired to keep him awake for what seemed like hours while the warrior woman breathed softly nearby. He found himself envying her and her simple outlook on things, though eventually he did drift off.
The smell of brine and the whisper of crashing waves brought a slight smile to Ashura's face as she took a deep breath. It felt like home, right down to the cold wind rolling off the Sea of Swords, though she was fairly certain Candlekeep lay many leagues to the north.
Imoen stopped and smiled too, looking across the craggy hills to a spit of blue-white beyond. There was the sea, or at least a small finger of it, forming a cove that bit deep into the land. "Just like home eh?" Imeon asked.
"Right down to the ground," Ashura noted, smiling back and beginning to walk again. The stony earth beneath their feet was treacherous and uneven. There were patches of sodden moss and grass here and there, and between them lay jagged rocks and low spots packed with slick white pebbles. The careful walk they were taking towards the waves was not unlike the path Imoen and Ashura would sometimes take down along the cliffs to the ocean near their home. It brought back a flood of memories: climbing, swimming, sandcastle-building. Along with a lot of scraped knees.
Safana wobbled a bit, walking along ahead of them and attempting to climb along loose rocks that formed a crude stair up to a sort of plateau. Behind her Coran slipped in, placing his hands against the woman's slender waist and steadying her. "Thanks dear," Safana purred, smiling over her shoulder at the elf. She took his hand in hers and encouraged him to help her climb the stones. When the elf boosted her to the top with an enthusiastic push on her bottom Ashura expected that he'd get a slap, but Safana just laughed.
"Sheesh," Imoen whispered.
"Maybe he's getting closer to the real 'treasure' that he's after," Ashura noted with a frown.
"Good," Viconia added in a sarcastic tone as she climbed from stone to stone. "Perhaps he won't notice if we take all of the gold." She nimbly followed Safana and Coran up the rockfall. At the dark elf's belt hung the golden warhammer they had taken from the mad priest, wobbling as she danced her way up.
At the rear of the party and the base of the rocks Garrick offered Ashura his hand. She just shook her head. "Can climb on my own," she told him gruffly.
Please don't start imitating that fool, she thought as she hopped up onto a mossy stone. Your own kind of foolishness is bad enough. The climb was easy anyway, far less of a challenge than the sliding rocks in the Valley of Tombs. In the end Ashura did help pull Garrick up when she reached the top though, giving him a smile and a squeeze of her hands as she obliged.
On top of the little plateau they got a better view of the sea and the craggy landscape. Safana had her map unrolled between her hands, eyes sweeping the land and sea before her. She pointed at the little finger of seawater to their south. "If I'm not mistaken the peninsula where the treasure is hidden is in sight, just south and west of that cove." She took a deep breath, enjoying the briny air. "We go around the water and follow the shore from there. The landmark we're looking for is a ruined lighthouse. Black Alaric's cave should be on a strip of land north of it, along the coast." She rolled up her map and began to march forward.
Catching up with their leader a bit, Ashura asked: "And what about this cave? What's in it?"
Safana gave her a curious look.
"If there was just treasure in there," Imoen pointed out, "you wouldn't need a group of 'big strong men' to get to it right?"
"Ah," Safana said with a nod, seeming to catch on. "Yes. There's some sort of guardian."
"Of course there is," Imoen muttered.
"It's nothing we can't handle," Safana reassured them.
"Yeah," Ashura said dismissively, "but what specifically is it?"
Safana sighed. "A golem," she admitted, "stitched together from human body parts and reanimated by sorcery. It prowls the cave, but it's slow and easy to avoid. And we've more than enough arms to take such a creature down."
"Hm," Ashura mused, thinking back to the countless bestiaries she had read as a child. A flesh golem. Slow but tough as ten ogres, and immune to magical spells. Fire wouldn't actually damage it but would supposedly slow it down (something about disrupting the magic that reanimates the flesh,) and their magical weapons would help. A nasty thing to fight though; no wonder Safana had waited till they were almost to the treasure to mention it. "We probably could," Ashura agreed. "We should be cautious though. Take advantage of how slow those things move. Hit and run, if there's room to maneuver in the cave."
"I was going to suggest that," Safana said with a smile.
"Of course you were." Ashura was unconvinced. The Calishite woman always seemed to keep her cards close to her chest. Then again that habit had probably saved their asses back at Tazok's camp, when Credus had betrayed them without knowing their full plan. "Anything else we need to worry about?"
"Well, there are always unexpected dangers on the Coast," Safana said with a dismissive shrug.
Author's Note: Wherein Imoen shows us why you should always have mage hand memorized, and Ajantis demonstrates a lot more moral nuance than he shows in the game.
I figure paladin orders would teach that you shouldn't go around attacking anyone who sets off your magical evil detector, since spoiled children or greedy old ladies who've never actually hurt anyone might end up setting it off.
The inspiration for Bassilus kidnapping a party member and trying to sacrifice them came from Laufey's legendary Baldur's Gate novelization In the Cards. Before recently reading that story I'd never made the connection between the circle of standing stones and the 'family' that Bassilus is creating. I'd like to think that the scene ended up being different enough from Laufey's to be considered relatively original.