38 – Men Are Pathetic
"It was all going so well until everyone died." – Sharwyn of Neverwinter, Ill Met in Undermountain
"So ye're new meat, huh?" the voice on the other side of the wall asked. It was his fourth annoying attempt at conversation, by Shar-Teel's reckoning. He sounded old, and there was something in the accent that made her think 'dwarf.' The accent, and the fact that he seemed to use the words 'ye' and 'lass' far too much for her liking.
"I am no one's 'meat,'" she replied with a growl, feeling her way along the mortared stones of her cramped cell. It was the sort of place she had expected to wake up in when she was first taken prisoner: five feet by five at the most, with a little light filtering through a barred window on the door. There was some straw stacked in one corner and a pot in the other that filled the chamber with a rank odor.
The fine silk outfit Shar-Teel's captors had dressed her up in had been torn in the scuffle with Tazok, and they had taken it away before throwing her into the dungeon, leaving her in the chemise. The undergarment was already dusty and ripped in places; a few days down here and it would turn into proper prisoner's rags.
She didn't have a few days though. Tazok might make good on this threat at any time and send one of his pet mages to ensorcell her, and that would be that. She had to find a way out before then, while her mind was still her own.
"I'll be bettin' that's the attitude what got you in this stinking hole in the first place," the dwarven voice rambled on. "Trust me. Yer pride won't bring you nothing but a lotta' pain down here. Best to swallow it and do as yer told like the rest of us slaves."
"I am no one's slave."
"Just sayin' it won't open that door. Unless ye've snuck something in with ya to break it down."
She ignored the voice, and once she was done groping around the room she leaned back against the wall. Solid stone and a sturdy oak door. Nothing to do now but wait.
"Me name's Yeslick, by the way," the voice added.
"Good for you," Shar-Teel snarled. To her relief he fell silent after that.
Time passed in the damp darkness, silent beyond the hum of Shar-Teel's pulse in her ears. She had nearly dozed off when the sound of shuffling boots made her perk up. Someone was walking through the hallway and drawing close. In a moment there was a clicking sound from the next-door cell, followed by a low scrape. The voice on the other side of the wall gave a hearty: "Thank you very much."
In the darkness Shar-Teel grinned. "Well isn't that polite of you?" she asked, voice echoing off the stones. "Thanking our little nanny for shoveling whatever rat-shit they call food down here into your cell?"
"Stuff's not so bad," the dwarven voice muttered.
"Ha! Just sounds like you're tonging the ass of our little caretaker to me. 'Please sir, can I have some more.' Pathetic. Just like the whipped little slave you are."
"Pays to be polite," a second voice grumbled. It sounded like the man outside the cells. Their jailer.
Good. A bite.
"Haha!" Shar-Teel cackled. "Polite? More like it makes you feel puffed up when the good little slaves lick your boots. Makes you feel like you aren't the guard who drew the shortest stick and has to babysit us dregs down here in the cells. Did you draw the duty or did you just get picked cause no one else likes seeing your ugly face?"
There was a little snort on the other side of her door. "Short straw," the man admitted. By his tone he agreed that it was a shit duty.
Now we're getting somewhere.
With a click the narrow slot in Shar-Teel's door slid open and a wooden bowl was pressed halfway through. It looked like some sort of porridge; a bit better than the moldy bread she was expecting.
Still, now was not the time to be gracious. With all the strength she could muster Shar-Teel rammed her foot into the edge of the bowl and shoved it back through the slot. There was a satisfying yelp of pain on the other side.
"Ah! Bitch!"
"Jarred your fingers? Good!"
"Hope it was worth not eating," the guard growled.
"Oh, definitely. Now clean that mess up like a good little boy."
"I don't have to-"
"Oh, I'm sure your superiors expect it of you. Jailers have to keep a tidy dungeon right?"
"How 'bout I make you clean it?" The man was shouting now, and Shar-Teel's grin just deepened. Sounded like he was quite red in the face. Over spilled porridge and jammed fingers.
"You can't make me do anything," she taunted. "Bet you're under orders not to touch me."
"Bah!" the guard growled. "They said not to 'damage' you. Doesn't mean you can't spend the rest of your time here bound and gagged!"
Shar-Teel's heart raced with a giddy thrill when she heard a metallic scraping and click at the door. She had thought she'd have to wear the guard down over several visits, but it seemed he was riled up enough right here and now.
"Why they never broke you properly is beyond me," the guard snarled as the door was flung open. Bright light spilled into the cell and forced Shar-Teel to squint, the man a harsh silhouette before her. She picked up the details well enough though: a helmet decorated with short bull horns, studded leather armor in the common vest-and-skirt style, a dagger at his belt and a truncheon in his raised right hand.
Before he could swing the club Shar-Teel had pressed in close and grabbed the man's wrist, her other fist flying up and striking him square in the nose. The blow sent the guardsman reeling backwards and a foot hooked under his calf threw him off balance. Shar-Teel followed him to the floor, driving her knee into his groin and landing with all her weight.
They rolled for a moment as he struggled weakly, but soon she had the guard on his stomach. Gripping the horns on his helmet she slammed his face into the hard-packed floor a few times before yanking back sharply and putting all of her strength into a violent twist. There was a muted crack and the man's body started shuddering like crazy.
She held on steady until the violent convulsions slowed and became twitches, then she yanked his knife free and stabbed him in the back, just to be sure. There was no more shuddering after that. Standing up, Shar-Teel wiped her bloody knife on her ragged garment, chuckling to herself.
"Men are pathetic." Get their blood boiling with something to prove and they'll do all sorts of stupid shit.
"I suppose ye did sneak a weapon in," the voice from the other cell noted.
"Yeah. Good thing the fools never thought to gag me." She bent down and started unfastening the straps on the dead guard's armor.
"Could ye lend an old dwarf a hand and let me out then?"
Shar-Teel slid the studded vest up and off the corpse, sliding it over her head. "Why would I want some frail old fool slowing me down?" she snapped.
"I can swing a mace better than most. And with Clangeddin's blessing to boot."
"Good for you," Shar-Teel muttered as she tightened the straps of her new armored skirt. "But I need no man to fight my battles."
"Maybe not, but ye shouldn't turn away help where it's offered. And I owe these bastards. This place used ta be me home -the old Orothair clainhold- and-"
Slamming the key in place, Shar-Teel twisted the lock and opened the prisoner's door. "Spare me your fucking life story," she snarled.
At the sight of him she couldn't help but snicker. An old, hairy dwarf dressed in a loincloth and sandals, with a big pot belly, long golden hair and a bushy, unkempt beard. "Ha! A half-naked old dwarf. Some bloody help you'll be." She laughed some more as she placed the guard's helmet on her head and adjusted her new swordbelt.
The dwarf was nonplussed. "Ye might be surprised."
This is madness.
The fort at the heart of the Cloakwood looked much the same today as the last time Xan had seen it. The same placid mote. The same walls of sharpened logs. Even the same lack of activity; just two guards at the gate and no sign of movement inside. On top of that it was even the same sort of clear summer day as before, with birdsong from the high trees and the chirp of frogs filling the air.
A familiar footpath led to the bridge, and Xan had to force himself forward, his stomach closed in on itself and his heart throbbing in his throat. This is madness. Absolute madness! Was there not an old saying about such things? 'To repeat the same action while expecting a different outcome is insanity itself.'
And here he was, covered by another mass invisibility spell, walking in the same steps he had taken roughly four days ago; to the bridge and the fort beyond.
There were little differences of course. The warband's numbers had swelled. Nine of them now, and armed with quite a bit more magic. Xan feared that after the last failed assault the enemy would put out traps, but Imoen and Coran claimed they had thoroughly scouted for those earlier and found the fort relatively unprotected.
'This'll work' the smiling girl had said. 'No doubt about it.'
That was another difference: they had the beaming optimist with them now. From time to time she almost managed to put Xan's nerves at ease.
As he crossed the moat Xan noticed another difference, this one less pleasant. Above the wooden gate two severed heads rested on spikes, mouths gaping and tongues drooping out, one with a big square jaw and a scar along the left cheek, the other partially burned. A thick cloud of flies churned overhead.
Xan forced himself to look down at the path before him, swallowing a deep breath as he neared the guards. They were different men than before, of course, though they were dressed and armed similarly. Another difference: they were unmoving and stared off at nothing, one of the men seated and slumped forward, the other leaning against the wall. He seemed to be held up by the two arrows that had gone through his chest and pierced the wood behind him.
Perhaps things were progressing slightly better than before. Perhaps.
Xan held his breath and scurried forward as silently as he could, past the dead sentries and on into the courtyard. There were no card players this time; just a few horses that shuffled behind the stable gates, tails lazily whipping at flies.
The door to the big building that adjoined the stables swung open by a few finger-widths as Xan neared it. With every fiber of his being he did not want to even approach that doorway, where the ogre had pushed his way through the last time. But that was the plan, and it seemed he was doomed to follow it.
As he drew closer the door inched open a bit more, seeming to move on its own, and Xan slipped through, pressing his back to the wall as soon as he was inside. He found himself blinking frantically and hoping his eyes would quickly adjust to the gloom.
The bottom floor of the building was one large room; carpeted and occupied by soldiers. In the hearth a cookfire crackled beneath a cast iron stewpot, and a man in fine chainmail paced before the flames. His movements were exaggerated, as if animated by magic. Five paces across the boards, then he'd whirl and his heel could click loudly against the floor. Five more paces and another click.
Swivel, click. Swivel, click. Again and again at inhuman speed, his mornignstar clinking against his armored hip. Three other men watched him nervously, seated around a wooden table in the center of the room.
When the man finally paused for a moment Xan recognized him: the fox-faced mercenary who had danced away from Shar-Teel's blades in the courtyard four days ago. His face was less sly now, more pinched with worry.
"We should demand that those two witches…" the man began, but his voice trailed off when his eyes seemed to alight on Xan. The elf held his breath and stretched his fingers out. Had he been spotted? His hands still seemed to be invisible before him.
The mercenary pointed, suspicion and anger growing on his face. "Who opened that door?"
There was a blur of red and yellow both behind the man and across his throat as Imoen materialized, her dagger flashing and unleashing a torrent of blood. As he clutched at his neck the dagger flicked in behind him, delivering a stab to his back that sent the mercenary tumbling forward.
At nearly the same time there was a flash of color and steel by the table, Ashura appearing just as she drove a sword down into the chest of one of the soldiers. The man next to him glanced around frantically and began to stand, but a slash of Ashura's lefthand sword caught his throat and sent him reeling back.
Xan aimed his invisible fingers at the third soldier, who had managed to rise and draw his blade, but before the Greycloak could bring a stunning spell to his lips the entire table upended. With the table and Ashura's weight against him the man was knocked off his feet and onto his back, pinned and struggling as Ashura brought her left sword in overhand and stabbed at his exposed face again and again.
Xan's eyes widened with shock. It seems the girls have things well in hand.
There were sounds of commotion upstairs, but when Xan reached the bottom of the flight it had settled. Kivan was already at the top and walking down, his halberd out ahead of him and dripping. He had slung a new longbow over his shoulder, apparently picked up from a weapon rack upstairs. Coran followed, daggers in hand and a grin on his face.
"Hmm," Xan mused to himself. "I suppose that is how you conduct a proper ambush."
"Indeed," Kivan muttered.
The crackle of electric white grew and then burst with a fizzle and a pop, leaving pinpricks of light dancing before Shar-Teel's eyes and taking the magical shielding that had glowed around Hareishan with it.
"Ha! Dispelled ye!" Yeslick barked out as he tramped forward across the burnt carpet. Every step looked pained, and the old dwarf was half-dragging himself when he took the last stride, grey smoke coiling up from the holes in his leather shirt where the lightning bolt had struck. Still, he managed to grunt and swing his mace back.
Hareishan backed up a few steps, her hands thrusting forward as she attempted a desperate spell. "Ishala vrex- gahk!" Invocation turned to a breathless gasp when the mace collided with her middle and bent her over, and with a mindless warcry Yeslick raised the weapon high and brought it down, pulping the back of Hareishan's head with a thunk.
By then Shar-Teel was on the last of the soldiers, her knee planted against the small of his back and her sword ramming down and through. "Guess you can pull your weight, dwarf," she admitted, watching Yeslick stumble back and brace himself against the edge of a table. The dwarf was breathing hard and in obvious pain, but that seemed to lift a bit when he placed a hand to his burnt shoulder and invoked his god.
There were three dead men strewn across the dining hall; guards Shar-Teel had dealt with while the dwarf confronted the Calishite witch. At the very edge of the chamber two other people cowered, an unarmed man and woman dressed in roughspun clothes, obviously slaves.
Once she had caught her breath Shar-Teel gestured with her stolen sword. "Might want to snatch up some armor," she suggested.
The dwarf looked a comical, mismatched mess: dressed in a studded shirt that was too puffy for him, a pair of stolen boots and no pants. Not to mention that after the skirmish there was a hole in the shirt and his tangled golden hair had puffed up and gone frizzy.
Yeslick eyed the corpses a moment and shook his head. "None near me size."
"You…you're Yeslick right?" one of the slaves asked. It was the man, gaunt as a stork and wrinkled as a prune, with long wisps of hair that seemed to barely be hanging onto a bald pate. "The smith?"
"Aye. They pulled me out o' the hole from time to time to work the iron, the way only an Orothair can. Then tossed me back in soon as I was done. Bloody ingrates."
"I've heard this place was-" the old slave began.
"Me old clanhome? Aye, that it was." Yeslick shrugged.
"You know the secrets of this place then?" the slave asked. "Passages? Escape routes?"
The old dwarf gave him a puzzled look, followed by another shrug. "Suppose I know every tunnel. Should hope I remember. It's been an age."
The slave glanced back through the doorway that Shar-Teel and Yeslick had entered the dining hall from. There seemed to be noise echoing down the halls, footsteps and agitated talk. "We might want to…hide," the slave ventured. "Now that the entire fortress probably wants to kill us."
"Oh. Suppose that would be a good idea." Yeslick stepped forward. "There's no paths to the surface 'til you get up a level at least, but I know of some passages the damn invaders may not have found." He started off for the opposite doorway, the slaves falling in right on his heels.
After a breath Shar-Teel followed as well, picking up a fallen chair and propping it against the first door they passed through. She was incredulous about following this doddering, senile hairball, but there seemed to be no better options at the moment. As long as he didn't start barking orders.
They marched down a passage that twisted sharply again and again, always fleeing the sound of the scuffling feet and clinking arms. The walls around them and the low ceiling were all solid stonework, braced by beams of oak, the floor hard-packed dirt and the passages lit by spherical lamps at regular intervals.
The tunnel widened into an empty room with a few tables and some spears leaning against the walls, which the pair of slaves took. From there Yeslick led them down another narrow passageway and then into a large, vaulted chamber stacked high with wooden crates.
Two men in leather armor stamped with the Black Talon had been lounging against a pile of goods, overseeing three burly slaves in loincloths as they hauled boxes. Both men scowled, and one stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"What's a dwarf doing-" he began before Shar-Teel cut him off with a stab to the chest. The second man caught a knee to the groin and a dagger in the kidney before he could advance or draw his blade.
As she finished the soldier off and looked up her eyes fixed on a third guard advancing through a doorway, a startled look on his boyish face. "What's going on?" Soon as the stupid question had left his lips his eyes bulged with realization, and his hands shot up, open and surrendering. "I give up. I swear! Mercy! Please."
Before Shar-Teel could advance, a spiked mace swung in, smacking the back of the guard's head and sending clumps of brown hair flying. He dropped like a sack of stones and the slave who wielded the mace stepped closer, finishing the guard with a few more swings before looking up and giving Shar-Teel an ugly grin. "Been wanting to do that for ages," he said. "That one especially. He never shut up."
Shar-Teel let out half a chuckle and walked further into the storage room. It seemed the spiked mace had come from one of the boxes, and the other two slaves were arming themselves now as well.
"Don't suppose you're here to free us?" the man who had killed the guard asked.
"Not really," Shar-Teel said with a shrug. She peaked into another open crate. Fine steel swords, stacked as high as you please. Another was filled with arrowheads, and another with raw chainlinks meant for armor. "I just want to get out of here." She grinned at the weapons. "Though I suppose a good old fashioned slave revolt would make a fine distraction for the escape."
Keep moving. That's one of the first rules of war, when you have inferior numbers. Nine soldiers -half of them invisible and most of them capable of using magic- wasn't bad, but Ashura kept moving nonetheless. Through the winding tunnels of the mine she went, swords out and ready as the torches flashed by.
From time to time Imoen would slip out of the shadows, just briefly shaking her head before disappearing again, her unspoken way of saying 'Nothing to report.' She had taken the magical boots off the man she had killed in the barracks and was taking full advantage of them, zipping through the tunnels ahead fast as most people could run, yet silent as a ghost.
Nothing yet. Besides the constant clink of picks working at the stone all was quiet, and they had yet to meet another guard.
The miners stopped their work to watch the party as they passed, a little curiosity in their aged, weary eyes. Gaunt, half-starved faces, mostly men but a woman here and there, clad in loincloths, sandals and chest-wraps. Their skin was stained with dark dust and smeared with sweat.
The slaves taken from the caravans, branded and broken. That could have been my fate.
Though no, somehow Ashura knew that it never would have been. Somehow she just knew that for the rest of her life –short though it may be- she would fight or she would die.
A sleepy-looking man in leather armor stepped out from a little alcove up ahead. He had shaggy blonde hair and an Illuskan look to him. It seemed most of the bandits they fought were northerners, living up to their reputation as raiders, slavers and pirates. The guard had a sheepish smile on his face, and his hand was nowhere near his sword. "Hey. Are you guys new-"
His words were interrupted by a stab to the chest, followed closely by a slash across the neck. The smile vanished with a "Gurk!" and turned to shock and fury before the blood and vigor drained away.
Ashura kept moving, boots stomping the gravel. A few steps further and a face peaked out from behind an outcropping, dirty, sweat-streaked and aged like the rest of the miners. His eyes went wide at the sight of the guard's dead body and Ashura's blood-drenched swords.
"It's alright," Garrick said in a stage whisper. "We're here to-"
"M-murderers!" the slave stammered. "Invaders!" He whirled around, dropping the pickaxe from his hand and waving his arms frantically in the air. "Guards! Guards!"
Ashura leaned in and rushed forward but one of Viconia's throwing rings spun through the darkness ahead of her, biting deep into the man's back and knocking him off balance. His knees hit the gravel and he wobbled a moment before toppling fully.
"That's a little excessive," Coran muttered from somewhere in the darkness. "He's a slave…"
Viconia ignored him and silently padded towards the fallen man, her black cloak swishing and her silhouette nearly invisible in the gloom. "A slave who would turn us over to his masters." She planted a foot and yanked her chakram out, sending a shudder through the prone man.
"We could have…stunned him or something."
"And wasted a spell? When we may face real opposition soon? Waela!" Viconia shook her head, leaning down to use the sharpened edge of her throwing ring to slit the man's throat. "There. What needed to be done is done. Let us move on."
Ashura was already walking around the corpse. "Yeah. Let's."
A few more strides, then Ashura stopped short when she caught sight of another slave. His back was pressed against the stone and his hands tightly gripped a pickaxe. He was as scrawny and filthy as the man who had tried to call the guards, though the look he gave her was not one of fear. More of a cautious glare.
Ashura tried to think of something to say, but the miner spoke up first. "I won't miss Faber over there," he stated grimly, head nodding towards the dead slave. "Was always lickin' the boots of the damn taskmasters. And I won't go shouting for them either. Hope you won't kill me just for being here."
"We won't," Ashura said. She caught a glimpse of other slaves in the shadows behind him, faces half-hidden behind rocks and carts and beams; nervous and ready to flee.
The slave looked down at his pick. "When I swing this thing I imagine every stone is one of the taskmaster's skulls. I suppose it's too much to hope that you're here to free us all." A brief silence. "Well, hope you at least kill as many of the bastards as you can."
"We will."
"Good." Ashura had started to walk by when the man spoke again. "There's a way to destroy this whole wretched place you know. If you're inclined."
She stopped. "Oh?"
"There's an underground river that runs by these tunnels. They sealed it up with a big device, but the master of the mines has the key that locked it. They joke sometimes, about drowning us all when the iron's tapped out."
"The master's key? We'll keep that in mind."
"More than that," Kivan growled from the shadows. "We will free you all if we can, and destroy this place. You have my word."
"Thanks. Hope to see the sunlight again. Barring that I hope you at least drown this place, and Davaeorn along with it."
Ashura nodded, and they tromped on, the slaves eyeing them cautiously as they passed. She was here for answers, more than anything, and burying this place prematurely might bury those answers as well. An option to keep in mind though.
When they entered a wider area crisscrossed with mining tracks Imoen appeared again and held up a cautioning hand. She jabbed a thumb towards one of the half-dozen tunnels that wormed out from the chamber. "That way leads deeper," she whispered, "down some stairs. And the tunnels get straighter. Looks like a proper dwarven complex. Or…how I guess one would look. Never seen a dwarven clanhold before." A nervous laugh.
Ashura nodded.
"But there are lots'a soldiers down there. I counted urm…ten. And the funniest thing 'bout 'em. They're all running around like there's a fire or something. I think there's something going on deeper down."
"Good luck for us then," Ashura said with a shrug. "Explains why there's hardly anyone up here." She pointed with her righthand sword, a few drops of blood still dripping from it. "Alright. Let's press on."
As one they marched down the winding tunnel, the light growing brighter. The few, flickering torches that had lit the honeycomb caves were soon replaced by evenly-spaced globe-lanterns along the walls. Angry shouts echoed up from the depths, and with a deep intake of breath Ashura plunged down the final steps and into a wide square room.
Lots of men and a few women in scaled armor or reinforced leathers were lined up across the chamber, standing by some crude carts full of boxes and other assorted mining equipment. They were all facing the wrong direction, backs to the intruders and their swords and poleaxes aimed at a nearby tunnel. A man with bushy brown beard and a halfhelm seemed to be issuing orders as he waved his sword about.
"Krisk!" he shouted. "Grab three men and run them up to the mines! We can't let word spread to the slaves…" His words caught in his throat and his eyes grew wide as he gestured towards the stairs and caught sight of the advancing party. "Who the fuck are-"
His question was cut off by the hiss of a burning arrow from Kivan's bow, which caught him squarely in the face, his beard bursting into flames. And with that all hell broke loose.
Breathless, aching from several fresh bruises and covered in blood, Shar-Teel swung her shoulders through the narrow doorway and watched the stone slide into place behind her. She had always heard that dwarves love their seamless secret passages, and Yeslick was proving it so.
"This be a good spot to cool our heels for a while," the old dwarf announced after they had walked throughdown a few dark passageways, lifting his lantern to illuminate his face, along with those of the slaves they had picked up. "A back-passage they never scouted all the way out, looks like."
Shar-Teel glanced around and nodded. The walls here were a bit slimier than the inhabited chambers, and there was a musty smell in the air. "Shame we couldn't fight our way to the surface," she muttered. They had found a good chokepoint, and between her blade, Yeslick's mace and the long pikes the slaves had picked up they had killed perhaps eight hobgoblins and half as many human guards before backing to the secret passage. "A bloody stalemate," she muttered.
"There are a few options," Rill, the male slave they had picked up in the dining hall, said. "There's a shaft that runs to the very top of the mine, with a rope-and-pulley system. If we got to it we could take it all the way to the surface. Though the mechanism requires a key. Far as I know only the master of the mines and a few of his lieutenants have those."
Shar-Teel grunted. "Well, if I stumble onto this 'master' I'll make sure to run him through and take the key. Sounds like a longshot though."
Rill shook his head. "A very long one. Davaeorn is a powerful mage."
"Bah."
Yeslick had leaned back against a stone wall, looking as relaxed as a halfling in a comfy chair. He had geared up quite a bit in the storage room, dressed now in relatively well-fitting chainmail along with mismatched leathers and a horned iron helmet. He had even snatched up some leather thongs from one of the crates, and was using them to bind up locks of his bushy beard. "Well, we're safe for the moment, and freer than we were before."
"Free to starve in a musty hole," Shar-Teel muttered.
"Maybe not," Yeslick said, beginning to tie a second fork in his beard. "If I'm not mistaken this tunnel goes right past the spot where they've set up the kitchens. Probably ought to lay low for a little while before we go raiding the larder though." He stroked his beard a bit, pleased to be bringing order to the chaos that hung from his chin, and started to work on the third fork.
Well, they had sure kicked a bloody hornet's nest! No time to lament about it now though.
No sooner had the line of soldiers broken than reinforcements started pouring in from both side-tunnels; disciplined and well-armed hobgoblins from one and furious looking Black Talons from the other. Ashura's group had quickly lost any advantage of surprise or narrow spaces, and it became a confused, chaotic melee in the open chamber.
Warned by a whistling sound, Ashura ducked under a wide and awkward swing of Kivan's halberd. As she dodged around she bumped into someone, nearly ramming an elbow into his face before she realized it was Garrick. They fumbled around till they were back to back, turning with the momentum of the battle and slashing wildly at the soldiers who surrounded them.
Arrows were useless in the free-for-all, and she caught glimpses of Coran and Imoen ducking and scrambling away from lashing swords.
Spells were still useful though. A cloud of darkness had quickly welled up at one of the doorways, and there were panicked shouts and pained screams coming from within. A moment after the cloud appeared the battle turned in their favor even more when a ripple rolled through and nearly half the hobs and humans were locked into place, turning the chamber into a garden of life-like statues.
A good thing Xan had saved his stunning spells for this.
Imoen used one of the frozen hobgoblins for cover, dancing around him like a pillar to dodge one chop from a soldier's axe, then another from the other side. A feint, and then she managed to spin around the hob and plant her dagger in the axeman's side.
No sooner had Ashura seen the man go down than three more Black Talon soldiers blocked her sight, shoulder to shoulder and pushing towards her. She parried one sword-thrust and shifted in with an underhanded lunge, trying to both stab the rightmost man and twist away from the others' blades. The stab bit through hardened leather and flesh with a wet ripping sound, but at the same time something heavy struck her in the side and threw her off balance.
Two lurching steps, then another blow sent a jolt through her side and she fell against a nearby minding cart, upending it. There was furious thrashing and she felt a heavy weight. The man who was stuck on her sword had fallen with her, and he was very angry.
Hands clawed for her face and neck, and she had to drop her swords to grip the man's wrists, twisting her head to avoid gouging fingers poking for her eyes. They snarled and struggling, grappling against the bed of the cart. Even with a sword through his guts the man was annoyingly strong, and she found herself struggling for leverage, or at least an angle where she could ram him with a knee.
Before Ashura could come up with anything the world upended around her and she was flung, rolling and dizzy across the dirt. Someone must have pushed the cart fully over and flung them out. The impaled man slid away from her fingers and she found herself crawling on the ground.
Pressing a hand against the earth, she tried to push to her feet and bumped into a pair of knees. Boots came into view: tight, utilitarian leather with studs running through. The same sort of boots she had seen on dozens of Chill hobgoblins before.
She scrambled backwards on her hands, and the gleaming blade of an axe fell right in front of her face and sank into the dirt.
No weapons, but she managed to jump to her feet and grip the axe-handle before the hob could lift it all the way up for another swing. Her right hand reached up farther and found the goblin's helmet, bending him down with a yank as she brought her knee up and slammed it into his jaw.
The blow jarred the hob enough for him to lose his grip on the axe, and Ashura wasted no time catching it fully and bringing it around in a swing. The edge sunk deep between neck and shoulder and the hobgoblin's legs crumbled beneath him. A kick to dislodge the axe and Ashura was turning and frantically casting her eyes about the room, heaving in breaths.
No movement. No one was left to attack her. Just a forest of lifelike statues; three hobgoblins and four leather-clad guards locked in place by Xan's paralyzing spell. A few were trembling hard, struggling to break free.
The grizzly chores were never done. Ashura gripped the axe with both hands, took a step forward, and swung at the nearest guard.
Once it seemed that all the guards were dead Ashura spared her companions a glance, managing a grim smile. "We're still alive?"
Xan was huffing hard, pulling his moonblade from one of the last hobgoblins. "It would…appear so," he breathed, voice toneless as usual. The last of the invisibility spells were gone and the leathers that wrapped Kivan's chest were torn and ripped open in two spots. Garrick stepped forward and attended to the shallow wounds with an open palm and the low hum of a mending song.
Everyone was splattered at least a bit with blood, except for Eldoth, who had somehow stayed pristine and smug in a corner of the room, clean cutlass in hand. Ashura shot him a glare and then turned her head from him to Imoen and back. "Make her invisible," she ordered.
"Of course," Eldoth nodded, sauntering forward and weaving an empty hand in Imoen's direction as he sang out the words. "Umbriel vistias quiel."
Good that he had that spell handy. It made scouting easier. Wonder if it's all he's good for.
The instant Imoen started to shimmer she zipped away, the slabs in the wall distorted where she passed. Fast as she moved with the new magic boots, Imoen still managed to make no sound. Kivan and Coran slipped down the other tunnel, their cloaks taking on the dun color of the walls and wrapped tight around their bodies.
Moments passed in tense silence, and eventually the elves returned, backs to the wall and crouching. Coran shook his head. "Lots of storage back there. There's boxes packed with weapons, armor and all manner of iron tools."
Xan sighed. "Iron. Of course. At least we grow a little closer to the heart of this convoluted conspiracy."
"Funny thing though," Coran added. "The passage seems to dead-end. And there were quite a few bodies." He swept his hand across the floor. "Just like these sods."
Xan's brows pressed together. "Odd. Surely it's not…"
"Shar-Teel," Kivan muttered.
"She's somewhere in here killing half the Black Talons by herself?" Xan asked incredulously. Then he let out a breath. "I suppose I should not be surprised."
"This passage goes pretty deep," Imoen piped up from the empty air. "Shall we move up?"
And that was what they did, advancing little by little with Imoen's unseen presence guiding them forward. The tunnels seemed to gradually slope down, taking sharp turns. Eventually they passed through a long dining hall, the chairs and tables overturned and the finely patterned carpet strewn with bodies; more guards along with a woman in fine silk, her skull caved in.
There was an empty kitchen, recently vacated with a cookfire burnt down to embers and half-chopped onions on the cutting board. More tunnels stretched beyond, and eventually they passed through what appeared to be a hall lined with prison cells.
A man lay on the floor, flat on his stomach but his face bent unnaturally towards the ceiling, dressed in nothing but a loincloth. As she glanced at his vacant eyes and passed the corpse Ashura wondered if they would simply be following the trail of Shar-Teel's dead all the way to the bottom of the clanhold. Hopefully.
Faint sounds were beginning to echo from the walls; the rhythmic ring of hammers on steel, and soon Ashura thought she could make out the low mutter of voices. From the sound it seemed like there was some sort of smithy ahead, though it was hard to judge if it was truly closeby.
They stopped once again at the top of a long stone stairway and awaited their invisible scout. The cycle repeated: the silent, nerve-wracking wait as indeterminable time passing and Ashura watched the flame in a globe-lantern subtly shift and listened the sound of her own pulse. If something went wrong how would they even know? How long should they wait?
But once again Imoen's voice chirped up from the shadows, low but sing-song as ever. "Seems clear. There's a big forge down the righthand hall though. Hot as Gehenna, with some slaves working the molten iron and a few guards. And we might need ta be extra cautious from here. Lots of closed doors lining the other halls. Might be barracks."
Ashura nodded, and with a deep breath she led her little army down the stairs, into another open chamber with a vaulted ceiling. It was plain as could be, with the same dirt floor as everywhere else and a few empty, roughewn tables and chairs lining the opposite side.
Plain as could be, until the last of the group reached the bottom step and a mirage-like shimmer ran along the entire far wall. Empty tables winked out of existence and reappeared overturned, lines of humans and hobgoblins kneeling behind the makeshift cover with bows in hand and arrows knocked.
Most of Ashura's companions began to back up, knocking arrows of their own, Kivan and Viconia the farthest up the stairs.
Between two tables a man stood in the open, lit brightly by what must have been several protective spells emanating from his bulky black robes. He was tall and imposing, with a square and firmly set jaw and thin grey hair that came to a widow's peak. His narrow eyes glittered in the lamplight, and with a thick Luskan accent he sneered: "You've come far enough into my mines, I think."
He gestured and there was a quick metallic snapping sound behind them. Ashura glanced back in time to watch a complex series of steel circles slide into place, suddenly blocking Kivan and Viconia from view and locking with a click that echoed through the cavern. She whirled back to face the Luskan mage.
Once again Ashura got the feeling she had just kicked a hornet's nest. And once again the hornets came buzzing out, this time in the form of arrows.
Author's Note: Davaeorn takes a more hands-on approach than just waiting in his layer while his complex gets ravaged, and Shar-Teel shows us that sometimes there is a method to her madness/misandry. The version of Shar-Teel in this story is meant to be less of a cartoon-misandrist and more someone who just really loves pushing the buttons of her (ideally male,) opponents.
Also it occurs to me that there are a couple of parallels between what happens in this chapter and in Sunnysoul's (wonderful!) Baldur's Gate story Til Love Do Us Part. I'm not sure how much of it is coincidence or influence (what happens to Faber is similar but does happen under very different circumstances,) but I just wanted to acknowledge that. Not trying to rip you off Sunnysoul, honest!