Part Five – Conspiracy
60 – Fate
"Divination is the most underrated school of magic. There's just nothing handier than seeing your doom coming and stepping out of the way." -Laspeera Inthre, Mageduels: A Manual
Uktar 7, 1368 D.R.
A scratch and a scuffing sound had Ashura ducking low and tilting her head, eyes cast down so all she could see were her boots and the roughhewn floorboards of the warehouse. There was a pile of coiled ropes between her and the source of the noise, and a stack of haphazardly-placed crates up beyond to the ropes. The crates made for better cover, so she pushed for them, scrambling along with her knuckles and the crossguards of her swords nearly scraping the floor.
Once she had wriggled past some crates she paused, head cocked, and listened. Beyond a few clinks from her chainmail there seemed to be no sound, which she guessed was good.
Unless the damn creature had gotten right behind her. But surely it couldn't have moved that fast. That was the good thing about these lizards: those fat bodies and eight stumpy legs made them clumsy. They turned slow as a cow, made even more of a ruckus than cows when they moved, and as long as you could track them by sound and keep your head down and your eyes pointed the other way you were safe.
In theory at least. The lizards did have rows and rows of needlepoint teeth and big jaws. They could deliver a nasty bite, as Shar-Teel would attest to from experience, and the fever that came on afterwards could be even nastier.
On the floor just ahead Ashura caught a glimpse of something stony and grey, out of place amongst the shoddy timber, and she couldn't help but lift her eyes a little and take a peek. Stone toes and feet were bound by leather sandals, and above that threadbare trousers covered the lower half of the statue. A belted smock was draped over its torso, and above that grey arms were raised high and crossing defensively. The entire statue was locked in a poorly balanced, recoiling posture, mouth open and frozen in terror. This was the third petrified laborer Ashura had seen in here so far; a nasty reminder of what would happen if she failed to keep her eyes fixed on the floor and obstacles between her and the creature.
More scuffing on the floorboards, somewhere behind her, and Ashura's eyes widened and darted away from the 'statue' and back down to her boots.
Where is it? Close, but not right on her yet. It sounded like the thing might be waddling around the coiled ropes.
Ashura sprang forward and dashed around the petrified man. There were fallen boxes spread out behind him, likely knocked over when he had panicked.
More cover. Good. Ashura leapt over the crates and slipped down behind them, fighting the urge to look up and fully ahead. Supposedly there was only one basilisk prowling the warehouse, but she couldn't exactly know for sure. They hadn't even know it was a damn basilisk until they walked in and stumbled upon the first clothed, life-like statue.
Nadarin Coal, the owner of this place, had simply told them that some exotic monster bound for a carnival in Waterdeep had broken out of its crate. 'The Merry Fools said they had an animal bound and magically put to sleep in there,' he had grumbled. 'Should have known it would be something real dangerous. Adventurers! Bah! It got some of my workers, and sent the rest fleeing. A big, magic lizard-thing, far as they could tell. One of 'em said it shot something out of its eyes, but the rest insisted it was some kind of magic breath. A fire drake maybe? Course none of the survivors stuck around long enough to be sure. And when I get ahold of Gorpel Hind and the rest of those idiots…'
They should have realized then that he might have been describing a basilisk, and taken precautions like they had in the past. A potion of mirror eyes would be real handy right now, at the very least.
Another chilling thought: What if that scuffing noise had been made by one of Ashura's companions all along, and fleeing from it would just send her stumbling into a pair of glowing eyes. The four of them had scattered at the first sight of the flicking tail and way too many legs, a few moments ago, and she'd lost track of where the others were.
They needed to coordinate. Couldn't just keep scrambling around.
"Hey!" Ashura shouted. It wasn't like she hadn't been making a racket already. "I think the lizard's on my right! Where's everyone else? We need to get an angle!"
They had managed one of the basilisks on the salt flats east of Beregost this way, when Skie had accidently jumped one of the things and ended up fleeing with her eyes covered, shouting all the while: 'It's behind me! It's right behind me!' Garrick and Imoen had managed to flank the creature and pelt it with arrows, and when it was immobile Ashura and Shar-Teel had finished it off. Sloppier than using mirror eyes or Viconia's ghoulish decoy, but it had worked.
Of course, by shouting Skie had functioned as a decoy, and maybe that wasn't the best-
What had been light scuffling on the floorboards suddenly erupted into a heavy, frantic scratch-patter, knocking crates aside as it thundered closer. A scrape and a terrible, splintering CRACK followed, echoing through the warehouse: the petrified man, toppling and shattering. Next Ashura heard the boxes scatter aside, just behind her now.
Nine bloody Hells! Shouting had been a big mistake.
Ashura tried to flee, but she'd barely gone two paces when her forehead nearly slammed into a wall. She found herself squatting there, swords out, eyes pinched shut, fighting to urge to turn and take a defensive stance.
Lovely choice. Whirl around and get an eyeful of petrification, or stay like this and get a piece of your ass bitten off by a giant, charging lizard. Maybe if she stabbed back, blindly…
A clashing, banging, oscillating, gods-awful cacophony that could have made the beasts of Pandemonium jealous sounded somewhere behind both her and the basilisk, shattering any further thoughts. Though even as Ashura cringed and bent forward she found herself grinning a little.
Garrick. You could always count of him to make the biggest racket of all.
There was a lot of tapping and scratching against the floor nearby, neither getting closer nor farther away. Hopefully it was the creature turning on those eight stumpy legs. The sound burst had started to die down, but another noise rose to take its place: Garrick's voice, a few pitches higher than usual and resonating through the whole warehouse.
"Here, lizard, lizard, lizard!" it shouted. "You wanna' petrify someone? Do ya boy! Come here! Here, lizard, lizard, lizard!"
That seemed to do it. The claw-scratches were definitely receding now, away from the boxes and towards the shouting. Hopefully Garrick was using some sort of magic to throw his voice.
Ashura straightened and stood, eyes still downcast. The thing had its back (well, tail at least) turned to her. She knew it.
Turning, she trampled over the fallen boxes, then past the toppled dockworker with his shattered arms and cracked face. She forced her chin up, dashing faster now, towards the sound those scratching claws; that thundering bulk. Between coils of rope she caught a glimpse of a swishing tail. It was definitely facing away from her for the moment.
Now or never.
A leap and a tap of her foot against the rope pile, and then she was sailing over, the orange scales of the creature coming into view. It was a flat, broad beast with the features of a massive desert lizard mixed with a crocodile, its back bristling with sharp spines along craggy ridges.
And it was the largest basilisk Ashura had yet seen; nearly as broad as a man was tall, and longer still! Too late to back out now though. She plummeted, her armored knees striking needle-spines as her righthand sword came streaking down.
The blade missed both skull and spine, wedging into the meat of the creature's neck, and that made it mad. Quills scraped at Ashura's armored thighs, torn chainlinks shedding and flying away as she struggled to hang on and drive her sword deeper.
Worse, the damn lizard was trying to tilt and turn its head, and Ashura caught a glimpse of flickering light before she wrenched her eyes away. Look at the ceiling! Look at the walls! Anywhere but those eyes!
She gripped her sword hard as she could, the whole world shifting and bouncing beneath her. Well I'm not stone yet!
Blood welled up, dark and sticky, as she tilted her sword forward like a lever and clung on, her other hand held high and bobbing with each pitch and roll of the creature's body. It was bucking hard, trying to throw her or wriggle away from the blade, but four-by-four legs tended to stumble over each other. All it could do was squirm really, where a stallion or a bull would be leaping right now.
Through all the mad slithering Ashura tried to straighten up; to hold her lefthand blade high and steady. Like a fisher spearing a catch. A deep breath in, then she stabbed down with all her strength, though it was less a fish and more a massive hunk of writhing fury that she caught with her sword.
The stab didn't seem to slow or weaken the thing (there was so much neck there! Of course she hadn't struck anything vital,) but now she had two levers to grip.
Hold on! Hold on! She twisted the blades, fighting with each jerk the creature made.
Then with a sudden jolt the world tipped over, the lamplight was blotted out, and before she could grasp what was happening the back of her head slammed against something hard. Her chest and sides screamed from the pressure, crushed against the floor. The damn thing had flipped!
By all rights the weight should have punched the breath from her lungs, maybe knocked her out, but somehow Ashura held on and kept wrestling with the bulk. Perhaps it had been the enchantments in her ring and armor, protecting her from the full impact.
That was what some standoffish, impartial part of her guessed at least, while she was struggling to breathe and keep her head from banging against the floor again and again, along with trying to rock from side to side and push the damn lizard off! Though as all that went on the impartial part of her found itself wondering: 'Why the bloody Hells do monsters keep falling on me?'
(Because that's what happens when you jump on top of one and stab it, idiot!)
One moment the creature was wriggling like crazy, then it suddenly went stiff. Wha- Ashura was slammed against the floorboards suddenly, harder than before. Three sharp jerks.
Then…it was all just dead weight pressing her to the floor. She was starting to catch her breath when the mass of blood and spines and scales tipped away and slid off, some goopy things smearing along the floor as it went.
Shar-Teel was standing over her now, one hand holding the dead lizard up on its side and the other gripping a wet blade. Then with a grunt she shoved the carcass over and away. Looked like she had disemboweled the creature while it was belly up, and that had been the end of that.
Panting hard and trying to fling and wipe the blood and viscera off of her, Ashura sat and then gradually wobbled to her feet. "You alright?" Garrick asked, close by, a steadying hand touching her shoulder.
"A little sore. Think I'm intact though," Ashura breathed.
By then Shar-Teel had turned away, walking over to the remains of some broken crates. Squatting down, she started to poke through the debris, pushing aside a few rolls of fabric and sifting for anything of value.
Viconia drifted into view then, silent as always, and she gave Ashura a brief inspection, careful not to actually touch the gore. "Nothing worthy of Shar's healing," was her dismissive conclusion a moment later.
Shar-Teel snored, lifting something from the rubble. "Thought I saw a shine! Not bad, though it's not gold or diamonds." Straightening a bit, she held up a handful of large, dull jewels. "Poorly cut and middling, but they'll sell for something."
"That one's a sphene gem," Garrick pointed out, walking over to her to get a closer look. "I heard that there's a famous mystic at the Blade and Stars who'll tell you your future for one of those."
"Ha!" Shar-Teel exclaimed, with a smack on Garrick's backside that made him flinch. "Good plan! Let's all get our fortunes read!" She stood up fully and stretched. "Or, you know, we could toss the gems down a sewer pipe. Either/or."
Uncertain where else to go, the pair had settled in at a nearby tavern. As usual.
The city certainly had no shortage of the places: little drinking houses with rough cut, poorly lit interiors, indistinguishable from each other as far as Xan was concerned. This particular establishment fit the part, though it was relatively clean and calm. The clientele seemed to mostly consist of off-duty soldiers, boisterous but not as bad as the cutthroats who frequented the Elfsong, and order was kept by a stern, armored warrior with the Watchful Eye of Helm stamped on his gilded breastplate.
It seemed a safe place to rest and think, at least, though to Xan's dismay they did not serve tea. Mugs of amber ale were the drink of choice here, although the pair that Imoen had fetched for them rested upon the table, foamy and untouched. How these humans gulped down that stuff at all hours of the day was beyond Xan.
Although thinking on it, in Evereska the wine flowed freely at all hours for some of his kind, and Xan had not cared for such frivolity then either. Perhaps I am simply a prude. That was what his sister had always called him.
Even Imoen was not feeling particularly frivolous at the moment. Instead she frowned down at her glass, a fingertip tracing patterns in the condensation. Earlier she had tried to cheer him up:
'I'm sure'a lead'll pop up when you least expect it! This is just like those times in the Kason the Inquisitor stories, when they can't figure out how the murder was done, but then Kason's manservant Laris says something and it all snaps together. And then Kason says: 'Laris! You're a genius!' even though Laris actually just said something stupid, and then he goes on to solve the crime!'
But Xan had been unresponsive, and eventually she given up.
A hint of movement nearby gave Xan a start, ingrained paranoia making him reach for the hilt of his moonblade. A longer look, however, and he concluded that the man approaching their table was far from hostile. He had raised his hands, and there was an easy smile on his stubbly, boyish face, though something about his dress, build, and bearing had Xan guessing that the man was a member of the Flaming Fist. City guards were always easy to spot, uniform or not.
With a hint of a smile and a nod towards Xan, the young guard reached the table. "You're a Greycloak right?" he asked over the low murmur of the crowd, offering an open hand and giving a slight nod towards Imoen. "M'lady."
"I am, yes," Xan agreed cautiously, raising a tentative hand. He tried to suppress a cringe when the man took it and seemed to squeeze with all his might instead of just polity shaking. Humans. It was better than a dwarven greeting at least. Xan had barely survived one of those, once.
"I'm Kent. Corporal in the Flaming Fist. You were talking with Fergus earlier?" He swung a leg over a stool and plopped down.
Xan simply cocked his head and gave the guard a questioning look.
"One of the on-duty guards in the big fort. He said you had some interesting things to say 'bout the Iron Crisis."
Xan sat back a bit, fighting the urge to squirm in his seat, but the man leaned in to follow his movements. The look on Kent's face seemed sympathetic though, not confrontational. This did not seem to be a probing or interrogation.
"Up until a little while ago," Kent murmured in a much lower voice, "there was a lot of talk 'bout the Iron Throne at headquarters, and the big man was investigating them himself. Then all-of-a-sudden Scar changes his tune, and the company line is that it was the Amnish destroying the iron supply all along. All investigations dropped. And if that's not fishy enough, that nobody warmage Angelo gets promoted to Captain out of the blue at the same time, and the past few days we've barely seen or heard from the big man." Kent shook his head. "Not like Scar to not mix with his troops."
"That does sound suspicious," Xan agreed cautiously.
"And all this seemed to start when the big man came back from an investigation, far as me and the others can piece together."
"Into what?"
"The Seven Suns merchant house. You ever heard of 'em?"
Xan shook his head, although he actually knew quite a bit about them, along with the other merchant costers of the region. But it was always better to let the other party do all the talking, when you are gathering information.
"They run caravans all through the Western Heartlands, with a big base here and in seven other cities. Thus the name. Got a bit of a reputation for being a bunch of cheap corner-cutters, not near as reliable as the good old Merchant's League (Lady Luck bless 'em) but they say that being cheap made the Suns bleedin' rich. Or at least they used to say that. 'The shrewdest bunch of beancounters in the Gate,' they'd say, undercuttin' everybody."
Kent shook his head derisively. "They don't say that no more though. All of a sudden old Jhasso started making these real batty decisions. Sends a whole bloody three-ship trade fleet out to sea in autumn, and on a route all the sailors say is cursed by the Bitch Queen. Then there's talk of 'em throwing these lavish parties every night on guild expense. And some sort of investment in linseed oil that went south."
"Linseed oil?"
Kent shrugged. "Don't ask me how the markets work. But the big man found it all real suspicious, especially when the rumor started flying around that the Iron Throne was lookin' to buy the Suns out. The Throne's rivals suddenly turn stupid and go tits-up -Oh! If you'll pardon me m'lady..." He cleared his throat. "And then the Throne swoops in to collect. You can see-"
"Very suspicious, yes."
"The big man certainly thought so. So one night he's off to the Seven Suns, to see one of them parties for himself and talk to some people. Then he comes back early the next morning, insists that he didn't find a thing, drops the whole investigation and holes up in his office." Kent shook his head.
"Blackmail, perhaps?" Xan guessed.
The soldier looked taken aback. "Scar? No way! The man's unflappable."
Xan had his doubts. 'Scar' was hardly the Commander's real name, and a little digging had made it clear that the 'big man' kept his past secret. Quite a bit of room for blackmail or other possibilities there.
"No," Kent insisted again, "I'm sure they put the big man under some sort of spell. Charmed or geased or whatever you call it."
"That is certainly possible," Xan agreed. "I am actually an expert on such spells. Perhaps if I can interview the Commander-"
Kent cut him off with a curt shake of his head. "No. There's orders not to let you into the barracks again. But all this started with Scar investigating the Seven Suns. Investigating. That's what you Greycloaks do, right? We're under orders not to, but…well, I'm sure you see where I'm going with this."
Xan took a breath and nodded. "Indeed," he said, then started slightly when he felt Imoen jostle his shoulder. She had been uncharacteristically quiet.
"Well then!" the girl chirped. "That's settled! What are we waiting for, Mr. Investigator?"
Xan looked over at her and opened his mouth, trying to think up some sort of objection. But nothing came out. It seemed a lead had just 'popped up,' as she would put it.
Once they had been paid by the warehouse owner and pawned all of the jewels (that he hopefully wouldn't notice were missing) they had ended up in a tavern. As usual.
Pawned all of the jewels except for the sphene gem, that is. Garrick had insisted.
Stepping out of the dimming light and into the smoke and the noise of the Blade and Stars, Ashura couldn't help but think of the term 'returning to the scene of the crime.' Of course last time she had never actually entered the inn through this door, and she had been wearing a mask. In any case the pair of guards stationed at the entrance had only given her, Garrick, and Shar-Teel cursory glances, making sure that their swords were properly tied with peaceknots before looking away and letting them pass.
Viconia followed, and the guards swung in to inspect her more thoroughly, but to Ashura's surprise one of them actually craned his neck down, looked Viconia in the eye and asked: "You're that drow right? With the bandit-killers?" When she gave the slightest of nods, he stepped aside and waved her through. Apparently, despite efforts to keep a low profile, their little band was gaining a bit of a reputation around town.
The front room of the Blade and Stars was cramped and crowded, boasting only a few round tables and a packed bar at the far end. The atmosphere was subdued and the crowd mostly older folks who gossiped quietly or focused on their drinks and pipes, and the room was near completely full, save one table ringed with empty stools and occupied by a single man. He had the angular look of an elf-blooded human, but his face was riddled with deep, sun-scorched crags, and the thinning hair that hung to his shoulders was wild and tangled; amber streaked with grey.
An ancient half-elf. That's something you don't often see.
Garrick started towards the old man's table with his usual gusto, smiling over his shoulder at Ashura. Behind them both walked Shar-Teel, shaking her head a bit. "Could still buy a lot of ale with that gem."
"Yeah," Ashura muttered. She wasn't particularly keen on this G'axir the Seer business either. Garrick had insisted that the half-elf was famous for his accurate predictions, but somehow that just made her more wary. "Of course it only takes a couple to get you drunk," she pointed out to Shar-Teel dryly. "Pretty sure we have that covered."
Shar-Teel huffed, Garrick snickered, and then he yelped when he took a light punch from a mailed fist to his shoulder. "Shut up, lightweight!"
"Yowch," Garrick complained. He glanced over at Ashura. "You going to defend me here?"
"Yeah. I'll get right on taking my glove off and smacking her with it." Ashura, of course, did nothing of the sort, and then they were standing before the Seer's table.
The weathered half-elf was bent over a tall pitcher of beer, one-quarter drained with just a few wisps of foam lingering on the surface, which he seemed to be staring down at with rapture in his eyes. His hands were curled at the sides of the glass, and he did not look up as Garrick plopped down across from him, fishing the sphene gem out of a pocket and placing it on the table.
Still not glancing up from the fascinating patterns in his drink, the Seer nodded slightly. "You bring the gem from the basilisk's layer. Impressive."
Garrick seemed to inflate a bit at that, looking over at Shar-Teel, who was still standing. "See! I told you he was for real."
"Yeah," Shar-Teel groaned with a roll of her eyes, "I fucking get it. Divination magic is real! What a revelation! It's still not half as useful as some evocation to blast your enemies, or some transmutation to fix a limp dick."
G'axir paid her no mind, reaching over to touch the grass-green jewel without yet looking at it, his thumb tracing the rough edges of the stone.
"Divinations just give you some vague signs that you won't be able to read until after the fact," Shar-Teel went on. "Happened with my old band a few times, when we got a reading before a battle. Led to more second-guessing than smart choices. Or maybe this guy'll be different, and he'll give you the ugly, honest truth. But who the fuck wants to hear that?!"
She stood up straight, made a goofy face and struck a mocking tone. "'Your dumb ass is going to be dead within two weeks. Thank you for your business!' You really want to hear that?" With a snort she whirled away and marched towards the bar, off to spend her coin on more important things.
"Ahem. Well then…" Garrick managed awkwardly.
Ashura had taken a seat beside him, eyes narrow and and focused on the Seer. Despite herself this was all making her very nervous. Probably something to do with skulls ringed by tears of blood. Maybe Garrick would at least have fun though.
The Seer's eyes finally shifted away from his glass, holding the gem up between thumb and forefinger and cocking his head as he inspected it. Each movement was slow, deliberate, and as she watched Ashura realized that she was holding her breath. Ugh. Of course Garrick would be drawn to this sort of thing. Showmanship.
"Yes," G'axir finally murmured absently. "You braved the basilisk for this, did you not girl? Even took a ride on the thing!" He chuckled. "For this I will tell you your fate."
Ashura stabbed a thumb in Garrick's direction. "How about you tell him his. He's more-"
The Seer half-shook and half-cocked his head, eyes still flickering over the surface of the gem. "Your fate…far eclipses his. Burns bright…burns fast. Burns out all around you."
Ashura found herself swallowing involuntarily, something cold stirring in the pit of her stomach. Yeah. This was a bad idea. They really should have sold the jewel for beer money.
G'axir's sharp almond eyes shot up from the gem and fixed on Ashura's, and she noticed that they were more than a little bloodshot. "You know this, child. Know that you draw chaos and destruction like a loadstone."
"So what can I-"
"Nothing," the Seer cut her off in a flat tone. "You have no choice. No…agency. Turn left or turn right. There is blood on either path. You are steeped in it. It is tied to your very nature. The curse of a god."
"Lovely," Ashura muttered.
"There are worse things," the Seer offered. "A tide of blood and fire is rolling in. You might just halt it. Beneath muck and shadows…in the city beneath the city. In the house of your father. You might just stop i-" He halted suddenly, mid-syllable, and cocked his head, as if catching something hidden in the crystal. "Or…no. It's your sister who will."
"Sister? Uh…adopted sister?" She'd always thought of Imoen that way, but technically they weren't related. Did she have others?
The Seer shook his head. "No. One of your father's other daughters. That kind of sister." He peered into the gem. "I see her clearly. Doing what you cannot. She has always done what you cannot, hasn't she?" He chuckled. Briefly the gem spun round and round between his fingers, then it plopped down to the tabletop. "And that is all I see." With that he reached for his mug, downing several long gulps of ale.
"Thanks." Shar-Teel had been right. Bloody useless.
Easing his mug down, the Seer glanced over at Garrick. "You wish for this seer to peer upon your fate as well, young man? You carried the gem, after all."
"If you…if you could," Garrick asked, voice dry. Not so certain now.
With a nod, the Seer pinched the gem and brought it up close once again, peering sharply at the gleaming green contours. "Yes. Your…" His eyes widened in surprise. "Oh my!" A pause. "Perhaps I shouldn't have offered…"
"What is it?"
The Seer tilted his head one way, then another, examining the facets from different angles. "Sorry, but that friend of yours was right. Or almost. As she said: your dumbass is going to die."
"What!?"
"I see you return across the great bridge, after a long…after a walk among the dead…" As he spoke his head kept tilting, fingers relentlessly twisting the gem counterwise beneath his gaze. "…and on that bridge you are captured. Overwhelmed. And there your fate is sealed. A prison floor, and your lifeblood spilled upon it. An example to the others." The seer shook his head a bit and pinched his eyes shut; bleary when he opened them again. "I am sorry."
Exasperation and shock seemed to be warring on Garrick's face, his eyes wide. "Well…how can I…I mean can I..?"
The Seer's eye snapped up and met Garrick's, suddenly lucid. "Avoid this fate? You can. Absolutely." He looked over at Ashura. "Get as far away from your lover as possible. Run. Flee. She draws death and destruction to her, and one day it will consume you. Not her fault but…there it is. Her fate."
Ashura was numb as she watched the half-elf toss his mug of ale back once again and finish it in an extended series of gulps. He slammed the glass down onto the tabletop, then stood, the sphene gem gone (did he slip it up a sleeve?) "Sorry to bear tidings of an ugly fate," he said, voice a little weary now. He seemed wobbly on his feet too. Doubtful that that was the first or even fifth drink he had finished this afternoon. "But a seer sees what he sees."
And with that he straightened his frayed and sweat-stained shirt and turned, making his way through the crowd. Off to relieve himself, buy another drink, or perhaps sell the gem, Ashura guessed. Wherever he was going, he quickly disappeared.
Ashura turned her head, scowling off at nothing in particular. "Are we sure that wasn't just some rambling drunk?"
"He was a rambling drunk," Garrick agreed. "But…"
They both let out a breath. Both sat in silence for a few moments. Then they turned, and found themselves both speaking at once.
"I won't-"
"You'll have to!" Ashura growled right over him, glaring into his eyes. A glare that turned into a sigh. "Please," she added. "For me?" You're going to have to leave. Knew it all along. We've had enough tense moments. Close calls. Dead friends.
Eventually Garrick nodded. For a maddening moment Ashura thought he might get up and leave right there. And maybe that would be for the best.
But no. Garrick remained perched on his stool, and eventually, in silence, Ashura stood. Perhaps this would have been a good time, after receiving a prophesy of doom and all, for sober reflection and planning.
But they were young, and brash, and in over their heads. So instead they both looked over towards the bar, separately and silently resolving to order the stiffest drink in the house.
"Can you bring me a glass of whisky?" Garrick asked as Ashura turned away and took a step foward, and she gave him a nod. It was what she was heading there for. Two tallglasses of dry amber whiskey. Then maybe two more.
Crossing the room, she approached the apron-clad man on the other side of the bar: a squat, nondescript fellow, busy cleaning a mug with a piece of cloth the way bartenders always seemed to be doing. Long before Ashura reached him the barkeep spotted her, and once she had shouldered her way between the patrons and placed her order he immediately turned and snatched up one of the colorful decanters on the shelf behind him. In no time at all two tallglasses were filled.
Nodding her thanks, Ashura raised her glass then and there, hesitating briefly as the sticky-sharp smell struck her nostrils. Then she took a quick, deep sip of the scalding stuff. Experience –lots of late nights drinking with Shar-Teel and Garrick mostly – had shown her that it would soon go down easy enough, after that initial burn was out of the way. Best to just get it over with fast.
If only it could all be nights like those, drinking and laughing with her friends. Nights without the shadow and the pressure of this strange fate she felt but barely understood, hanging over it all.
Adventuring. Mercenary work. You risk life and limb for a bit, and then you find yourself with more money than a farmer or craftsman could earn in half a decade. Then you just sit down and enjoy it. That was how it was supposed to work anyway, and at this point they had the money part covered.
The next draught of whiskey was long and deep. Didn't burn all that much either. And steadied her nerves just a little. She'd probably left Garrick waiting long enough too. Garrick. Ugh. She'd have to find a way to gently make him go-
Huh? Something was off. A feeling almost like when her boots warned her of someone taking aim with a bow, but not quite. Looking up from her glass, Ashura instantly locked eyes with the bartender, who was watching her with a cold, critical eye. Like he was expecting something.
Oh. Payment probably.
She made to reach for her coinpouch, but stopped when she realized that the bartender was…spinning? The light around him blurred and pulsed, and her knees buckled. Something was very wrong.
Instead of the purse Ashura's hand shot to her righthand sword, quick but clumsy. Bloody Hells! This was a familiar sensation: the strength seeping from her limbs, head spinning like she'd had eight glasses of whiskey instead of just two sips. And the bartender's face and form were growing more and more blurred.
Blurring, and then resolving. It wasn't just an effect of the drink (and poison!) clouding her vision. The apron and pudgy physique and even the face had all been an illusion! The bastard was wearing black now, his face sharp and narrow and his hair close-cropped.
A face she recognized: the assassin from the bathhouse at the Friendly Arm!
Clumsy or not, it was easy enough to yank the one string in the peaceknot that made it all unravel –the way Shar-Teel had taught her– and the patrons all around shouted, squirmed, or stumbled back as Ashura's sword streaked free and slashed across the bar. It missed the fake bartender by a wide margin though; he had skittered back several steps, face calm and grin fixed.
It had been a slow swing to begin with. Bloody poison!
With an inarticulate snarl Ashura raised her free left hand, ghostfire crackling to life along her palm. Ghostfire to purge her of poison; a power she scarcely understood, but it answered her summons well enough. She slammed her hand against her chest, willing the flames to find whatever it was that was seeping through her veins and draw it out. Burn it away.
In answer mist of gold hissed out from beneath her armor, stinging as it rose from her pours and seeped out of the corners of her mouth, and as the stuff boiled away control returned. Knees that had been wobbling and threatening to pitch out from under her straightened and tensed. Ashura's sword rose and pointed.
She took a sidestance. Glared at the bastard.
On the other side of the bar the assassin's brief grin had flickered out, but he did not seem surprised either. A crossbow had found its way into his hands, light but larger than the tiny dart-launcher he had used in that first attack at the Friendly Arm, loaded with a bolt instead of just a poisoned needle. All around them glasses clinked and wood rattled, voices hissing or shouting as the patrons of the Blade and Stars got out of the way.
"The Hell's going on?"
"Who's he? And where's Aundegul?"
"Someone stop that crazy girl before she starts swingin' again!"
"You stop her!"
Ashura kept her focus on the man behind the bar. He hadn't raised his crossbow yet. And she couldn't sense that he was about to take aim either. Bah! She wasn't going to wait.
With a snarl Ashura slipped her swordarm behind her and planted her open palm on the surface of the bar, launching herself forward. But her arm wobbled, elbow bending against her will, and then her knees went weak again, faltering.
In a blur the crossbow raised and took aim. At the same time Ashura felt a prickly sensation right above her brow. Her eyes widened.
Shit!
Click.
A buzz, right past Ashura's ear, and she felt the fletching tickle there, her neck craning as she violently tilted to the side. Wind brushed her cheek, and then the bolt struck something far behind with a wooden thump.
Something whistled over Ashura's head next, streaking in from the other side. Retaliation.
A wisp of magic flared around the assassin –some arcane shield– but it wasn't enough to stop the ring of spinning steel. It cut through barrier and leather and flesh all at once, imbedding itself deep in the man's shoulder and sending him stumbling back. As he lost his balance there was another whistle over Ashura's head, and one of the decanters behind the assassin exploded, showering him in glass and clear liquor.
Ashura found herself taking a few involuntary steps back, wobbly as a sailor. Why were her knees still weak? Shadows fell across her as she slumped: a cloaked figure on one side and a man in a brown leather jacket on the other, reloading his crossbow. Garrick and Viconia.
"Doesn't matter!" the assassin snarled in a pained voice, dropping his crossbow rather than risking another shot. His thumbs pressed together and his fingers fluttered. "That poison was laced with a relentless curse. Try all you like, you're not drawing the essence of it out! You'll be dead within days."
There was a scraping sound as Shar-Teel shot past them, leaping over the bar with her sword bared and hefted, aiming at the assassin's head. But at the same time the man's fingertips stiffened and aimed outward, and before Shar-Teel could take a full swing a thousand blazing stars burst out from those fingers.
A thousand stars. A thousand colors. Filling Ashura's vision, dancing and mingling till it was all a blinding-bright white that blotted out the world and took consciousness with it.