Author's Note: A warning that there's a sex scene towards the beginning of this chapter.
34 – The Importance of Armor
"I'll not sit here stewing a moment longer waiting for death. I say we go out there and find him ourselves!" –King Duar Obarskyr, just before the charge at the Battle of Stagshead
Rustling sheets and warm, shifting skin greeted Ashura as she awoke, blinking up at an unfamiliar ceiling. In the faint blue light she could just make out the polished boards high above, and when she tilted her head she recognized Garrick's features on the pillow beside her, angelic in sleep. It took a little more blinking for it all to come back to her: a 'Royal Suite,' one of two such rooms that they had rented at the very top of the Jovial Juggler. She had fallen into bed with Garrick once again, celebrating the end of their odd little adventure, and Imoen and Viconia had taken the other suite on the other end of the long hall. Hard to tell what time it was; predawn at the earliest, or perhaps it was just bright moonlight that wafted through the open window.
As Ashura shifted a bit, Garrick slid away and onto his back. Rolling over, she gave him a long, pondering look. It had been a fun celebration, the night before, but she wasn't certain that it was anything but that. Really, it seemed they kept falling into bed together because it was easy and simple and familiar.
My reliable little puppy, always at my heel it seems. It had been a fun celebration though.
After a time she noticed that the dim light was gleaming off of Garrick's slitted eyes. She smiled at him and he gave her a sheepish grin. "Morning," Ashura whispered.
"Is it?" Garrick asked, stretching out lazily on his back and yawning a little. "Have the rosy fingers of dawn come to pluck me out of bed?"
Ashura rolled her eyes slightly at the cliché line from a poem. "Sun's not up yet. Plenty of time to laze about." Rocking a little against him, she slid her hand across his stomach and beneath the sheets. Down and down her fingers went, until they curled and she had 'Little Garrick' well in hand. Stiff as it got, it felt like. Her fingers toyed a bit.
Every single morning. Just like he said. With a sleepy look and a breathy sigh, Garrick shifted a bit and Ashura did too, climbing over and up until they were chest to chest, nose to nose, her hand still between them.
"You've got something between your rosy uh…fingers," Garrick breathed.
Pressing a fingertip against his lips, Ashura shook her head. "Like I keep saying: stop trying to be a poet."
A theatrical pout appeared on his lips. "But that's my job." His fingertips stroked gently through her hair before finding and tracing their way along her shoulder blades and down the hollow of her back.
"Think you're more an instrument man." She brushed her lips against his briefly. "Good with your instrument too. Should stick to that." There was a gentle sound of skin sliding against skin and soft breathing as they moved together and she climbed and adjusted a bit. After a few moments of teasing she found her way properly on top of his hips, and soon caresses became strokes and squeezes; soft breaths became laughter and little gasps.
She climbed up a bit more, thighs gripping his hips, and the soft rustle became the creek of the bed, her playful touch becoming a firm grip as her palms pressed to his chest and shoulders. Her hips rocked up and down.
Straining and gasping, Garrick tilted his head back, gripping her hips and sliding beneath her, trying his best to follow her rhythm. She climbed and climbed, and for a long time as the faint light grew they searched together for the peak.
It was long after they found that peak that Garrick's breathing grew even, lying beneath her, their bodies entwined. Ashura's arms were comfortably curled under his now, chest to chest, and once Garrick had caught his breath his hands returned to the task of playfully tracing their way along her back.
Perhaps Ashura dozed off for a few moments, because it was properly dawn when she opened her eyes again. Somehow she doubted it. She felt far too giddy and awake. It was a fine way to start the morning.
Climbing up, she threw back the sheets and set her feet on the carpet, padding over to the water basin to wash up a bit. Ah, it was good to be back in her usual, comfortable body. Good to be able to pounce upon Garrick like that again too. She had to admit she had missed that.
After a little washing and a sip of the drinking water she walked to the center of the room and dug her toes into rich Calishite carpet, reaching for the ceiling and stretching for a few breaths, then down to touch her toes. Maybe with some time and effort she could have gotten used to the bulky male body, even found some advantage to it, but this was fine and familiar. The perfect amount of space, and her limbs did just what she asked of them. More stretches followed, then she turned and tossed a black tunic over her head, wriggling into it. Next she combed her hair a bit and tied it back into a ponytail.
Bare toes pressing into the carpet, Ashura once again reached for the ceiling and breathed deep. For the joy of it she swiftly tossed her feet out wide and clasped her hands above her head, then snapped back into place again.
And again. And again. Three-hundred-and-fifty jumping stars, counting and breathing at each clap. From there she took a moment to catch her breath before planting her hands and feet on the rug and launching into some lion-stretches.
Still naked and sprawled out on the bed, Garrick chuckled, shaking his head. He had watched her run through her morning calisthenics many times when they were partnered together on the caravan trail. "Can't believe you can do all that, after…"
"You should try it," Ashura said as she rocked forward with her arms and arched her back. "Maybe you wouldn't be out of breath all the time." She had tried to get him to join her back on the caravan as well, but like now he had been content to lazily watch her.
Pushing up and standing again, Ashura looked about the room. Next in her routine she would usually swing her swords around, but at the moment she felt more like morningfeast. And really, this morning's exercises had been more than enough.
She looked over at the rest of her gear, carelessly piled by the wardrobe. Swords and swordbelt, her torn and tattered chainmail along with the arm and shin guards, the enchanted gloves and boots and helmet.
Ugh. As much she had been wearing the stuff lately she doubted she'd ever get used to walking around all day in armor. The swordbelt would probably be enough, for morningfeast. Maybe the gloves. They were fingerless; it wouldn't be too difficult to eat with them on.
A violent thunk against the door shattered all those thoughts and blew them away with the splinters that flew from the loose hinges. Ashura dove for her equipment, planting a foot on the swordbelt and yanking her blades from their scabbards. She had just stood up with them in hand when another blow sent the door collapsing inward.
Over the fallen wood a dwarf bounded into the room, axe in hand and chainmail clinking, eyes sharp and cold beneath the noseguard of his half-helm. He hardly glanced around the room or hesitated; just focused on Ashura and barreled towards her with murderous purpose. It was a form of greeting she was far too familiar with.
A whipping slash of one sword and then the next held the dwarf back and he started circling a little, his eyes still hard and fearless as his small wooden shield slapped her next blow aside.
Fearless huh?
He was armed and armored and had surprise on his side, attacking a startled, barefoot girl, but there was a way to turn that around. Snarling and breathing deep all at once, Ashura called upon the power that slept within her chest and felt the waves flow outward. The dwarf felt it too, and his eyes widened with shock, then panic. He faltered and backed up frantically, though he kept it together enough not to just turn around and flee. As the dwarf backed through the doorway he elbowed a second armored man aside.
The other intruder was human; tall and blonde and similarly armored in chainmail. His eyes widened in surprise as the dwarf slipped by, and they widened even more when Ashura took a step forward and the waves that rolled off her body struck him. She still had no idea where this ability to call up an aura of fear had come from, but she thanked whatever god or angel or demon had granted it. Very handy.
Or it was for the space of a breath. The newcomer cringed, but then he shook himself like a dog shaking off water, and his shock turned into a scowl. Lifting a mace in one hand and making an open palm with the other he boomed: "Iyachtu Xvim knows no fear, nor shall I!"
There was a sudden pressure in the air, and Ashura found herself stumbling back a step as the man grinned smugly. The dwarf had started to cower behind him, but now he was shaking himself as well, and tightening the grip on his axe. As one the armored men advanced, the aura of fear stamped out.
"Garrick..." Ashura began, hoping against hope that the bard had not completely frozen up.
There was a response from the bed, thank Talos, and the pressure of the armored priest's invocation was nothing compared to what came from Garrick. A windgust threw Ashura's ponytail against her chin and she stepped to the side as air rushed past her and struck the two intruders, exploding in an indoor thunderclap that made the walls shake. Both men's eyes pinched shut and their hands shot to their ears, weapons momentarily forgotten.
A split-second decision for Ashura: try to somehow bar the doorway? Grab and don more of her gear while the men were stunned? Or just charge the bastards, swordpoints leading the way and bare feet slapping on the carpet and the boards?
She charged.
With a metallic jangle and a pained gasp the point of her sword broke through the priest's chainmail coat and sunk deep. She twisted the blade before slamming the hilt of her other sword into the man's face, sending him tumbling down the short flight of stairs that led up to the suite.
Immediately Ashura whirled towards the dwarf, but he had recovered fast and was swinging his axe. She danced away, scowling as the blade nicked her arm and opened a gash. When she tried to retaliate he hefted his shield and used it to knock her blow aside. Another swing was easily parried by his axe, and the furious series of blows that followed did little better, though the dwarf quickly gave ground and scuttled backwards down the stairs.
At the bottom of the flight he took a hop back and she pursued, the fallen priest by her feet and the dwarf's back to the wall. Across the hall someone was chanting in an unfamiliar, nasal voice, the sound drawing her eyes. Sitting on a nearby windowsill was a third man, short and stocky like the dwarf but perhaps a bit gaunter, with a weathered face and a neat black beard beneath a bald head. He tossed his runty fingers forward and finished his incantation.
'Fuck!' Ashura mouthed as she tried to leap aside.
It was an obvious trap, but here she was stuck in it.
The glowing green bolt that leapt from the little man's fingers hissed through the air and bit into Ashura's left shoulder, just above the arm, and it bit hard, burning like the hells themselves. Her eyes clouded instantly with tears, and she barely managed to knock aside an opportunistic strike from the dwarf. Worse still, there was movement to her right; the glint of a sword and the clink of armor as a fourth man approached from the other end of the hall.
How many of these bastards were there?
Feet pattered on the stairs behind her as Garrick rushed down and hit the landing. Briefly they stood shoulder to shoulder, the bard dressed only in his trousers and carrying his rapier in one hand and a silver wand from the pirate's hoard in the other. Swinging the wand he sung out a single word, the slender object shattering as it released a shimmer that flew through the air and struck the dwarf in the chest. In less than a heartbeat the wave of magic ran across the dwarf's stiffening body and seemed to lock it in place, face frozen in a scowl and axe tightly clenched beside his head.
From there Garrick swiveled and bounded towards the armored man who was advancing on them both, and Ashura didn't hesitate to lunge and show the frozen dwarf as little mercy as he had shown her when he charged into her bedroom. Her sword stabbed through solid chain and stiff muscle, then chain again when it burst out through the bastard's back.
Rapier tapping against the heavier sword of the other man, Garrick ducked and wove with speed and precision that must have come from his agility spell. On the other side of the hall a burst of violet drew Ashura's eye. It was one of the magical arrow-shields mages are so fond of, she realized, deflecting Viconia's throwing ring. The drow's attack drew the little man's attention towards the stairway beside him and he pointed a finger, but before he could speak something flew down at him that his spell couldn't deflect. Imoen collided with the little man, her dagger out above her head, and whatever spell he had been preparing flickered out.
Whirling, Ashura took a step towards Garrick and their mutual foe. The bard's nimble swordwork didn't seem to be doing much good, each thrust easily hammered away by the bigger man's sword. One blow was followed through with a riposte, and Ashura cringed as she watched the tip of the armored man's blade stab deep into Garrick's bare stomach, doubling him over. He went down clutching at his gut, black blood spilling across the carpet.
Before the shock of Garrick's wound fully hit her Ashura found that she was passed him, protectively placing herself between him and the swordsman as her righthand blade lashed out in a furry of strikes. She tried to lock blades and bring her lefthand weapon in for a surprise stab, but her attack was far too sluggish. Even lifting her left arm was an effort, through the burning pain where the acid had splattered.
Her opponent was dressed from neck to toe in chainmail, buttressed by gilded plates and decorated with elaborate runes. His head was cover by a spiked kettle-helmet and he wore a broad sneer on his face as he slipped his longsword along Ashura's blade and forced her to dance aside, barely dodging the riposte. He followed up with several fierce slashes, the sneer shifting to a look of concentration as Ashura turned his attacks aside and lashed back, steel ringing again and again.
Right beside them a door creaked inward and the hall filled with high-pitched, feminine shrieks. There were two women screaming from the bed inside, and Coran peaked out through the doorway, wearing nothing but his quiver and clutching his longbow and an arrow. It seemed an odd weapon to pick for a frantic battle in close quarters, but any help was welcome.
A few more slashes and Ashura pushed her foe back, managing painfully to catch his blade with her lefthand sword and hold it up, at the same time ramming her righthand blade in past his guard. The swordpoint struck his chest cleanly and sent a numbing jolt through her arm, bouncing harmlessly off his armor. The sneering man replied with a blow of his own, whistling over Ashura's head a she ducked. His swing left him open and she slashed at his stomach, but once again the blade simply bounced away, a slash even more useless against the chainmail than a stab.
Next the man raised his sword over his head. He was feinting or preparing a big downward slash, but Ashura never gave him the chance. If her swords were useless she would find another way.
She sprung forward, colliding with her foe in a full tackle. There were a few staggering steps backwards before he found his feet and pushed against her, and then they were turning and turning on the carpet, seeking leverage. The man laughed, the full sneer in his voice. "Feisty eh?" Ashura's swords ground together as she locked in a full bear hug. "So you want to dance with Molkar before the end? Ha! Useless!"
Ashura just grunted, especially when the pommel of his sword struck her unarmored back, trying to dislodge her. Ignoring the pain, she kicked and tussled with her legs against his. More turning, round and round, then she let go and his weight sent him tumbling. His back struck the window at the end of the hall with a loud crack.
Before the man could right himself Ashura dropped her swords, grabbed at the edges of the windowsill and leapt forward, planting her bare foot against his armored stomach and driving all her weight against him. The cracking sound turned into the full scream of shattering glass and the window gave way, sending Molkar tumbling into open space. Shards of flying glass glittered in the dawn all around him before he plummeted out of sight.
There was a thunk and a gurgle behind Ashura and she whirled, suddenly face to face with the priest that she thought she had killed. His spiked mace was raised, but he seemed to have forgotten it, his other hand clutching at a bloody arrow that had emerged from the front of his neck. He sank down, struggling to form words from choked gasps. It seemed Coran had managed to effectively use the longbow in close quarters after all.
Ignoring that she was out of breath, Ashura dashed forward, past the elf and the open door to his room where the two women were clutching one bedsheet tightly to their chests and still screaming. Imoen was hunched over against a wall and the enemy spellcaster was by her feet, unmoving.
Garrick was pale as a sheet, eyes wide open and flicking quickly left to right, as if he were reading something. His breathing was loud, shallow and strained. Kneeling down, Ashura placed her hands against the backs of his, pressing hard and hoping between the two of them they could hold his insides in. He had already lost a lot of blood though; he was curled up in a wide pool of it. Ashura looked up and made to shout for Viconia, but the drow had already appeared over them and was kneeling down, her hands rubbing together and a healing invocation on her lips.
At the same time Imoen flashed by them, saying: "I'll take care of Mr. Chainmail." She muttered something to herself before she casually leapt out through the broken window and slowly floated down.
Viconia pushed at Ashura's numb and bloody hands, peeling them away along with Garrick's. Next the drow pressed her glowing fingers against the wound and closed her eyes in concentration. Garrick's breaths grew a little deeper, his face still clammy and pale. "A healing potion would be helpful," Viconia suggested. "No doubt there is internal damage."
With a nod Ashura rushed up the stairs. She returned as fast as she could, unstopping the cork and pouring the healing potion between Garrick's lips. As she did she winced at her own wound, every motion of her left arm and shoulder agonizing. It felt like her skin there wanted to peel off.
Through the doorway of Coran's room the two women who had been screaming peaked out. "Is it safe?" one asked breathlessly.
"Should be," Ashura found herself saying. She had no idea really. Probably safer for them than her though. The pair took her word for it, stumbling into their shoes as they came out into the hall, both naked and clutching bunched up clothing to their chests. Ashura vaguely recognized their faces; two of the prostitutes she frequently saw soliciting passersby under the lamplight by Feldpost's Inn. One had dark brown hair and the other's was strawberry red. One way to spend your share of pirate's treasure, she thought as the pair hurried down the hall and then the stairs.
With Garrick stabilized Ashura hastily made her way to her room to fetch their things. What passed for authority in Beregost might arrive at any moment, and it was probably best to be gone by then. More importantly: she really wanted to be back in her boots and armor. It seemed you could never have too much armor.
Beregost had constables, in theory, but they sure were never around when you needed them. Imoen rubbed her arm a bit, fidgeting on the stoop of the abandoned shack as her eyes swept the street. She should have been glad that the local law didn't seem to be searching for them, and that the only looks they got were cursory glances from townsfolk going about their morning chores. They seemed quite content to turn a blind eye to whatever it was three armed people were up to, lounging on the porch.
It was good that there were no lawmen around now, but earlier that morning when Imoen had stood over the unconscious assassin she had hoped the Flaming Fists or whoever would show up already. She had yanked the man's sword away and tied his wrists behind his back, his ankles together too for good measure. That's what heroes did right? Tie up the bad guys and hand them over to the law.
But Viconia had other ideas. 'Good that we captured one alive. If we can find time and privacy we should interrogate him thoroughly,' the drow had said, cold as ice.
Imoen had cringed at that but Ashura had spoken up immediately. 'I may know just the place.' Before Ashura and Coran had lifted the armored man between them and silently dragged him down the street Imoen had hoped that the constables would show up. They'd explain how these strangers had attacked them, sort things out, and she could wash her hands of the whole business. But the streets had been empty.
So here she was, guarding the stoop of the abandoned shack that she had hoped to never see again, close as it was to their usual haunt at the Jovial Juggler. She had lockpicked the door and then the heavy padlocks that kept the cellar shut before excusing herself, not wanting to witness what Viconia had in mind for the prisoner. At least she hadn't heard anything in the few minutes she'd spent uncomfortably waiting on the stoop: no screams of pain, muffled or otherwise. That was good, right?
Garrick sat nearby, pale and still clutching at his stomach, and Coran lounged on top of a barrel with a calm look on his face.
With a low creak the door swung open and Viconia stepped out, wincing a bit at the morning light through the slit between her hood and mask. Ashura followed close behind her, face stony. She was dressed in the bronze-trimmed chainmail coat the assassin had worn.
"That was quick," Garrick noted, almost cheerfully.
"And fruitful," Viconia said. "It appears this Molkar and his band were hired by a merchant cartel called 'The Iron Throne,' through a man named Zhalimar Cloudwulfe, to kill Ashura specifically. He suspected it was for her interference with their operations in Nashkel and the Wood of Sharp Teeth, but he was not certain, or at least not told specifically. Zhalimar had said something about those places, and what a 'thorn in our side' she has been."
"And assassins started coming for me long before that," Ashura noted, "but it's another piece of the puzzle. A name for our real enemies, maybe." She walked down the steps and out onto the street, her companions falling in line behind her. Not a word about Molkar. No doubt he was spider-food now.
Imoen shuddered.
As they headed aimlessly through Beregost, little mind on anything but putting some distance between themselves and the Juggler or the shack, Viconia turned to Imoen. Her voice was low. "I notice your discomfort child. It was not so bad as you may think."
"Don't want to hear about it," Imoen murmured, but Viconia paid no mind.
"I had thought I would have to use my knowledge of drow…interrogation techniques, but your friend had a better idea that proved far swifter. She opened the door to the cellar a little ways and briefly shoved the rivvil's head through. Then she pulled him back, said that we hardly had any time, and gave him a simple choice: he could be thrown down with the spiders alive, or he could talk."
This really isn't helping with the discomfort thing.
"The rivvil proved to be the practical sort, and chose to talk. I used a spell to discern lies from truth, and he told us everything he knew. A most swift and clean interrogation."
Still think I prefer Xan's way of interrogating. "She…she kept her word at least?" Imoen asked, her eyes on the back of Ashura's head.
"Indeed. He did not go into the cellar alive. Your friend is merciful, in her way."
Imoen shook her head. Yeah, real reassuring. She was sure Ashura would shrug it off if she broached the subject. 'Hey, we haven't killed anyone who didn't try to kill us first.' Not to mention that they had witnessed Xan dispose of a prisoner in about the same way. Still, it sure smelled like murder to her.
Aimless wandering through the streets of Beregost turned into more certain strides, and Ashura found herself walking north, a glance revealing that the other four were close behind. Garrick was closest, right on her heel. My loyal puppy.
She sighed, and slowed, stopping just past the obelisk at the center of town. It was near here that they had first met Garrick, juggling in the square and looking for mercenaries. She had thought he was a bit of a dandy back then. Honestly, she still did. "You nearly died," she stated flatly, turning to face Garrick.
He chewed his lip, a bashful look on his face. "Yeah. Sorry, I should try-"
"No." She shook her head and waved the rolled up bounty-notice that Molkar had carried in Garrick's face. "What I mean is: strange people keep trying to kill me, one of them nearly killed you, and I'm going to seek them out and find out what this is all about." She stabbed the end of the paper into Garrick's chest, a sharp, icy look in her eyes. "You got your stomach opened up by a longsword and you nearly bled out. It could easily happen again. And it could easily not be a case of 'nearly' next time. Wouldn't be the first time someone's died traveling with us."
She turned to the whole group. "This goes for all of you. I'm being hunted and I'm going to find who's sending the hunters and take it to the enemy, or die trying. I don't have a choice." Her eyes swept across them. "You all do. We can part ways right here. I'd understand. Hells," she was looking at Garrick again, "I'd encourage it."
Coran immediately chuckled, the butt of his longbow pressed to the ground as he leaned on it. "You're mistaken if you think this is my first death-defying adventure. Life's nothing without them. You can't scare me off."
"And you know I'm not going anywhere, like it or not," Imoen said.
"Well yeah," Ashura murmured. The message hadn't really been for Imoen. No speech would change the fact that they were attached at the hip. Garrick seemed to be studying his shoes, and Ashura's eyes fell on Viconia. The drow's reasons for traveling with them had always seemed purely pragmatic, and marching towards more inevitable battles hardly seemed practical.
Viconia just shrugged though. "My opinion has not changed," she stated flatly.
Looking up, Garrick spoke. "So, the Cloakwood then? Seems like our closest thing to a lead, and there's only one way to find out if the assassins and bandits and such are all connected. And," he glanced over and added, "Imoen's buddy is there investigating already."
"Yup," Imoen said. "He keeps saying it's a doomed mission."
"We should prove him wrong then." Garrick nodded his head vaguely towards the north. "Go take it too the enemy."
Ashura shrugged, eyes still locked with Garrick's. "If you insist. Just don't want your death on my conscience."
His smile was warm and genuine. "My choice. Really."
They had resumed walking and put some distance between themselves and the crossroads when Garrick spoke up again. "Do try to keep me alive though, okay? Someone has to write the story of this adventure when we're finished with it."
"I'll do my best," Ashura replied with a grin. No promises though. There was a long road ahead, and she had a feeling they'd all have to harden their hearts a bit before they had finished walking it.
Author's Note: Molkar and his band usually ambush you near Gullykin, but I guess they got tired of waiting.