Author's Note: With apologies to NoNameAvailable Bis. I totally agree with your criticisms about excessive fight-scenes, but for plot-reasons the next chapter or two is mostly one big battle. Whoops. Thanks so much for the reviews, and to everyone who's reviewed this story!
66 – Gauntlet
"Beware a managed retreat. It means that you are being led into a trap." -Cordell of the Golden Legion, Conquests
"I can feel thine eyes upon me, lascivious one."
"You think- Bah!" Edwin turned away in a huff. "I would hardly consider… (Oh. Of course. She is attempting to bait me!)" In defiance he looked again, glaring daggers into the back of the witch's head. "Of course I am watching you, and closely! Dangerous creature that you are."
Dynaheir had yet to turn from the great tome open before her, though she did sit up slightly, seemingly taken aback. "I have presented no danger to thee. I knew not of thine very existence until our encounter upon the Uldoon Trail. Yet even after that, we attempted to ignore thee and go about our way, until thy foul lapdogs accosted my charge and I upon the Tradeway."
"Exactly," Edwin proclaimed, crossing his arms. "You were attacked and roughly handled by a force of gnolls, under the command of the local Thayvian enclave. Your bodyguard was left for dead and you were chained, starved, and left at the mercy of the brutes for days, until I arrived to secure what information I could from you and claim the bounty placed upon Hathran agents in the region." (I was, in fact, under direct orders from Denak to kill you. But best not to mention that.)
"Oh, and on top of that I sent your idiot bodyguard flying off a very tall cliff. (How he survived still puzzles me. Perhaps he landed on his head and there was simply nothing there to break.)" Edwin shot a glance over at the towering brute after he spoke. The broad, bald, and painted man had his arms crossed at his chest just like the red wizard, and if Edwin had been glaring daggers then broadswords were shooting from the berserker's eyes. He was, perhaps, one to watch even more closely than the witch. It had taken a great effort from Dynaheir to restrain her pet when they and Edwin had first encountered each other in the Candlekeep Courtyard some days before.
"Thus," Edwin concluded, "you have every possible –dare I say even reasonable– reason to turn me into a pile of smoldering ash. And thus it behooves me to watch you very, very closely."
He thought that summed things up nicely, but Dynaheir was not perturbed. "Fortunate for thee that nothing burns in these halls save candlewax and lanterns," the witch rebutted, not lifting her nose from her book. "On grounds so hallowed, watched and warded as these are, I could make no move against thee, even were I to wish it. And stare or glare as much as thy like; the same rules apply to thee."
Edwin's frown became a full-bore scowl. What the witch said was true enough, at least in spirit. He could technically throw fire spells around; it was simply the books that would not catch flame. But any hostile action, especially here in the Great Library, would draw the warrior-monks and spellcasting scribes down on him like a swarm of locusts, and they had many wards specifically designed to deal with magical troublemakers. Here at her studies, locked away for days on end with the books and candles, the witch was completely secure.
Which was damned suspicious and convenient, as far as Edwin was concerned. The rules of the Keep specifically stated that the gift of a valuable tome bought outsiders a mere tenday of study within the library, but somehow this witch had cajoled her way into a far longer stay. When Edwin had subtly inquired among the more chatty scribes as to why, they had claimed that the witch was using her knowledge to help one of the Readers compile a great compendium of Rashemi lore, in addition to adding her considerable skills as a scholar and scrivener to assist around the keep. Clearly the rules here were not so 'very strict' as some of the huffy guardians would want visitors to believe.
And as she assisted the monks the witch seemed to be continuing studies of her own. Some of the gossips had also mentioned that she had talked with nearly everyone in the great citadel at some point or another, inquiring about all the residents of the Keep, from the First Reader on down to the grooms at the stable and the maids –and even former maids– at the local inn. Quite curious to Edwin's ears, as if the witch were carrying out some sort of investigation, though the foolish locals simply considered her to be friendly.
Bah. What is she planning?
Of course his top guess was that she and her trained ape had simply remained in the Citadel for safety. Namely from Thayvian wizards. He had expected to pick up her trail when he had showed up on the doorstep of the library, costly (and as it turned out quite fascinating. He had almost been sad to part with The History of the Nether Scrolls when the time came) book in hand. His plan had been to inquire as to where the witch and her buffoon had gone, follow, and find a way to correct the fail- Ahem!- The delay to Denak's plans that continued to hang over Edwin's head.
But here the witch was, and here she seemed to remain. It was the most unexpected and frustrating impasse.
"Rather than scowling at mine back," Dynaheir suggested, intruding upon his thoughts, "mayhap ye ought use thy time here for study? You've an interest in the lore of ancient Netheril, no? And in particular its lost, miraculously malleable scrolls?"
Edwin couldn't stop himself from recoiling slightly. She still appeared to be buried in the book. Did the rodent whisper to her as well? How had she- Oh, yes. Likely she simply had some divination trained upon him; a wizard eye following his every move or some such. Doing something like that himself rather than constantly glaring at the witch would likely be prudent. Though…hrm. Edwin had few divination spells at his disposal. It was not a school of magic he had completely neglected (a spell of true sight could be crucial in a mage-duel), but hardly one of interest.
"I've a taste for all lore of true and significant power. Though I would note that you seem to be absorbed by the vague and whimsical ramblings of some long-dead soothsayer instead." Her reading habits were as easy to notice as his: always something related to Alaundo's prophecies.
"Amusing," Dynaheir noted, and Edwin could indeed hear the (obnoxious) smirk in her voice. "Dost thou realize that our choices of study rise from a similar source?"
"I…" He completely did not follow. "Well of course. Alaundo's vague (and thus useless) prophesies and the ever-unraveling puzzle of the Nether Scrolls…" Think! What is she getting at? Or is she playing you for a fool? But if you call her out on that and she does actually have a case to make you will look…Bah! Best to preempt this unraveling conversation right here and change the sub-
"As thy well know, judging from thine choice of reading materials, those scrolls were the instruments that led to Netheril's great invocations and constructs, but the mere humans-"
"Ah! I see where you are going. Common knowledge that every schoolboy learns by rote in Thay. The basic –and in many ways most powerful– forms of the arcane were all the design of the most ancient of races: dragons and their serpentine kin the Sarrukh, namely. To us the scrolls appear miraculous; to them it was as simple as the written word."
"But hast thou sussed out the connection between that creator races and-"
A roll of the eyes, a wave of the hand, and a "Yes, yes, yes" interrupted her. Edwin still had no idea, of course, and the witch seemed to be leaving a trail towards a certain conclusion that could have been a trap. But what good would stalling do him here and now?
"Alaundo's prophesies ring true throughout the ages" (they had, in fact, endured far better than any other sort of divination) "because they are built upon the firm bedrock of the Sarrukh's magic. Some master snake-diviner first saw all of these events flowing out from where he stood, and we dim mortals interpret those to this day."
With an echoing clap Dynaheir closed her book. "Exactly. Thou art smarter than thee appear."
Oh. He had really just been guess- But perhaps this witch had new information to give? Best to play along.
"For mine own studies it is of course logical to look into the secret knowledge of the ancients," Dynaheir went on, "but for thine might I suggest that thee search for more contemporary accounts of the scrolls? If thou truly wishes to learn their proper use in a modern context, and perchance even their location, of course."
Edwin's eyes narrowed. "And why in Kossuth's name would one such as you wish for me to succeed in obtaining such power?"
Her response was an indifferent shrug. "Consider it an olive branch. I bare thee no ill will, and could even assist thee in thine studies, provided there is reciprocation. Alaundo's prophesies art the subject of a staggering number of the tomes here, this fortress having been built in his honor."
For once Edwin was at a bit of a loss for words. "You…you would…"
"I still say this evil wizard deserves none of your mercy, friend Dynaheir," the great baboon boomed from his nearby corner, finally speaking up. "I care not for the way he casts his eyes upon you, and the best solution would be to turn those eyes around with a violent snap! Not to indulge the underserving!"
"In the wider world, perhaps," Dynaheir conceded with chilly calm. "But while we are cramped together in these halls, both people of the scholarly persuasion to begin with, why not seek common ends?"
A million retorts flashed through Edwin's mind, but he held them back. Perhaps he could learn something of this witch's mission, being close by. Even…gain her trust? Doubtful though. He HAD tried to kill her! Well, at the very least a little study together would annoy the hulking ape. And…"Some assistance could be useful with the tomes written in Roushoum. It is not a script I am completely fluent in." (Can't read a word of it in truth, but she need not know that.)
"There is a simple divination to assist with that. Decipher Script."
"Well yes. Of course."
"Thou dost not know it." It wasn't a question. Edwin's scowl deepened, but the witch stood and turned, surprising him with a smile and a hint of pearly teeth. "Then I shall teach thee."
Atop the tower of The Iron Throne stood the armored form of Sarevok Anchev, a foot braced upon the ledge right where the roof began to slope. Convenient that the black cast iron fence remained peeled back, having never been repaired. It made for a fine spot to lean through and look over the western quarter of the city.
Sarevok remembered the night that he had broken the fence well enough. The duel in the upper chamber of the tower. The trouble Shantrel, slight but quick, had given him. Until the fires of perdition had rolled up, of course, the rage taking hold and The Blade of Chaos snapped the little knight's sword like a twig. A chase to the rooftop had followed, and then Sarevok had held his 'brother's' light, armored form out over the abyss, squeezing at his neck until something broke, then casually dropping the dying man into the awaiting darkness.
Armor had been found the next day on the street, but no body, and Sarevok knew why. He had seen it all in his mind's eye as his brother died and became glittering dust, drawn to Gehenna. Drawn to the caldron their father had built for his scores of children; the crucible from which Bhaal's divine power would be reforged.
Annoying that, even after all his time studying the Bhaalspawn prophesies, it was still unclear to Sarevok what was being forged down there. Many interpreted it as a scheme by the Lord of Murder to reform himself after his own destruction. Others claimed that, realizing from the prophesy that he was in fact 'mortal,' Bhaal had simply sought –as mortal men are wont to do– to sire a worthy heir. And it was easy enough to imagine how the selection process to replace the Lord of Murder would go: brothers and sisters slaying each other until the most deadly Child remained.
Impossible to know the motivations and thinking of a god, in any case. Shaking off the urge to ponder (as his adoptive father was so prone to do: cautious planning and far too little action. A good thing Rieltar was not here), Sarevok instead turned his head and took a breath. They would be coming from the north, likely down Glowing Eel Way.
And his sister would be among them. What a strange turn: yet another of Sarevok's siblings would enter the tower soon, and hopefully she would meet the same end as Shantrel, though she was not even the primary target today.
Semaj stood nearby, his scrying mirror held up between his hands, and once again Angelo's face swam into view. When the Flaming Fist commander spoke his voice was low and tense. "We're setting off any moment now," he hissed. "A force of twenty-six men, five of them elite, along with the duke and his personal archmage."
Sarevok inclined his head in the slightest of nods. "And the freelancers?"
"Greatly diminished since the Cloakwood. Don't think they're much of a threat. There's the two idiot girls, some elf mage, a boy who looks like the definition of 'green recruit,' and some woman in heavy veils. From the south, maybe…"
"She's a drow. Far more dangerous than she looks. They all are." A chuckle. "Well, except for the boy." Bards. Bah.
"Need to go," Angelo hissed abruptly, and with that the light in the mirror faded. He had sounded nervous; on the verge of panic really. Odd to see, as Sarevok had always thought the old warmage unshakable, at least in battle.
And right now all Sarevok could feel was elated. Giddy even. There had been enough meticulous planning and slinking in the shadows, and now it was time to see where the blades fell. To test his mettle against an archmage once again; to test the power of his Gift and strike the woman's head from her body or fall trying. To see who could think and act the quickest in the chaos.
Behind him there was already a bit of a crowd on the rooftop, but with each passing moment more and more followers and hirelings gathered. The four cultists from Calimshan stood in a calm little circle, their white desert cloaks bundled about them to hold back the chilly winds that rolled in off the bay. Nearby, Zhalimar Cloudwulfe towered above them all, silver plated arms crossed against his sturdy breastplate, his half-orc partner kneeling to polish his sword. Closer to Sarevok stood Tamoko and Semaj, both near the ledge and peering out at the city, and Cythandria leaned against a fence, studying her nails and feigning boredom to hide her nerves.
The latest arrival to step upon the roof had just passed through the doorway: a man dressed in a thin, form-fitting black wool body-stocking beneath strategically placed plates. Slight of build but all muscle, his eyes twinkled with self-amusement and his sharp, lean face was adorned with thick black stubble, his mid-length black hair combed back and displaying a widow's peak. The very picture of a rake, to Sarevok's eyes, and no doubt it was a carefully cultivated image.
As the man strutted forward Semaj shifted a bit closer to Sarevok, pitching his voice as low as he could. "The woman accompanies him. Invisible."
"Of course she does," Sarevok muttered. Good to know.
"You finally called," the man in black –Slythe– observed.
Turning his armored bulk away from the overlook, Sarevok nodded. "Yes. A grand duke approaches this tower. In a hurry. Rash and furious."
"Which one?"
"Eltan. He'll be leading a small force of soldiers. Use the poison, but do not kill him outright."
"Aww," a disembodied female voice pouted. "I think you might have misunderstood the point of hiring assassins."
Sarevok opened his mouth but then thought better of it. With the exception of this pair of hired killers those gathered here were completely loyal; either his longtime companions or fanatical Bhaalite cultists. But capture could easily change that. Best not to speak of the entire plan in front of so many: of how he needed the other dukes for the moment, and couldn't risk making them too wary. The full trap had to be in place before it could spring.
"The poison," he repeated. "The one useful thing that bumbling fool Marek came up with. Eltan needs to be incapacitated. For now. Of course everyone else is a fair target."
By the fourth bell of the afternoon the small army was shouldering its way through the city streets, more an entourage hurrying to keep at Eltan and Moruene's heels than an organized force. Most of the soldiers trailing the pair were regulars dressed in white tabards over chainmail, armed with sturdy guardsman's spears and shields, though a few carried bows. Others wore the bandedmail of elite Fist troops, and there were three dressed in full plate keeping steady pace beside the leaders, acting like bodyguards, along with an armored priest of Helm who stuck close to the grand duke.
There was also Commander Dosan of course, along with a younger man dressed in a similar uniform who was likely a spellcaster as well, and mixed in with the lines of soldiers came Ashura and Imoen's little mismatched group. "We really ought to come up with a name for our mercenary band," Imoen whispered as they trudged along. "So we can tell Eltan, when it's over, that: 'Payment is due to The Order of the Pink Archer.' Mebee?" That last word came out a bit like a plea for a Deadwinter Day gift.
"We're definitely not going with 'The Order of…' anything," Ashura muttered back. "Sounds way too pretentious."
"Well, then come up with a name yerself!"
Pedestrians and drovers parted or stumbled aside to make room for the force, and a mule let out an irritated bray as its cart was violently shoved out of the way, the owner backing up and shouting apologies that were ignored by the armored duke. The street soon cleared completely beyond that; a good thing as Ashura figured it. It looked like Eltan was about ready to cut down anyone who got in his way, if Moruene didn't disintegrate them first.
They turned a corner and the smell of dead fish that hung over the Chionthar and the harbor rolled in with the stiff autumn winds, the great square tower that was their destination rising above the wharfs and warehouses. It was a building Ashura had noticed countless times while strolling through the city, tall and broad, with cathedral windows overlooking the bay and a crown of sharp ironwork at its peak. An impressive fortress, but she had never bothered to ask who owned it.
The tower of The Iron Throne. Perhaps they should have tried to infiltrate the place the day they entered the city, little evidence as they had had at the time. The way things had worked out seemed preferable though: it was nice to be marching safely behind one of the city's rulers and a platoon of his best soldiers. Tall and sturdy-looking in his gleaming, runemarked silver armor and plumed helm, the grand duke made for an impressive meatshield, and the woman beside him practically crackled with power and confidence.
Like the duke, Moruene appeared to be perhaps in her mid to late fifties, her round face lined and weathered and her hair a sandy grey, tied up at the moment in bun. She marched forward in fine black riding boots, woolen hose tucked into them beneath her unadorned but sturdy black dress, belted with steel where a few neatly arranged pouches and wands hung.
Grand Duke Eltan himself had a commanding look to him, as one would expect; a square, cleanly shaved jaw, close-cropped brown hair that was just starting to gray, and small, sharp eyes. And currently those eyes were glaring at the double doors of polished oak that served as the tower's main entrance. The grand duke stomped right up to them, stopping for the first time on the afternoon march to hammer his mailed fist against the wood. "Open up!" Eltan bellowed. "In the name of the Flaming Fist and the Council of Four!"
No response, and Eltan gave the door another impatient bash. The adjacent door creaked open a breath later, ever so slightly, and the head of a nervous man peaked out. His eyes were wide with shock, face dusted with black beard-growth and hair slicked back, and he looked to be wearing some sort of bulky gambeson.
"Ye…yes?" the door guard stammered. "How can I help you?"
Grabbing the hapless man by the front of his coat, Eltan shoved his way through the doors, flinging them open and pushing the guard along. "Where is Rieltar Anchev?!"
"Oh…th…the…"
"Where?!"
"The upper floor!" the guard squeaked, finally finding his voice. "I'll take you to him immediately, sir."
Eltan let go, though he stomped forward before the guard could even start to lead the way. "Do."
The guardsman scurried to get in beside and then past the grand duke, and the rest of the entourage filed into the great foyer of the Iron Throne tower, mail clinking as they went.
After seeing some of the city's grand estates, guild houses, and expensive inns, Ashura had thought that she knew opulent, but this place looked to top them all. Polished greenstone marble ran the length of the great chamber that must have taken up most of the tower's first floor, polished pillars of the same stuff buttressing elegant arches and breaking up the openness. The broad stairways that gently curved up to the next story were made of the same veined, seagreen stone, the vaulted ceiling high above a contrast in slate grey. Hanging blue glass glowlamps cast diffuse light across the foyer, mixed with the flickering wicks of bronze candelabras and the diffuse sunlight that filtered through the countless high, arched windows.
Many of the pillars and arches were adorned with the stylized symbol of the Iron Throne, stamped especially large across the entire central floor. And everywhere, ringing the lower spaces and the upper balconies, stood marble statues, holding dignified poses and underlit by braziers. Countless figures were depicted, dressed in finery or elaborate armor, though at first glance they did not seem to portray any gods or heroes that Ashura was familiar with.
Although… Yes. That cloaked statue up ahead actually was familiar: Wise Alaundo, clutching a book to his chest. What an odd decoration to find here of all places.
Bootfalls echoed as they all swept in and forward, the soldiers lining up in two rows of bobbing spears just behind their leaders. Then, as Eltan and his partner set foot on the great throne-like glyph etched in the floor, the grand duke halted, shoulders rising and squaring as he straightened and glanced around. His gauntleted hand shot up in a gesture of caution and the soldiers formed up behind, spears all sweeping down in unison as their bodies shifted.
"Bows on those balconies," Eltan commanded. "This is-"
Then his order became a sharp gasp, the Iron Throne guard he had been dragging along suddenly right up against the duke, a short blade in hand that just seemed to have appeared from nowhere and found its way under Eltan's armpit all at once. At the same instant a black cloud bloomed into being right where the guard and the grand duke stood, expanding with a smoky whisper and enveloping everything.
Ashura crouched down, blinking in the darkness, completely blind for a heartbeat or so. Then her infravision kicked in and vague, red silhouettes floated into view. Next to her Xan was intoning something, Garrick was humming in a low voice, and someone howled in pain. Then with a woosh the darkness evaporated.
Moruene was standing tall, an arm waving as if she were conducting something, and Eltan had dropped to his knees beside her, clutching his side as the warpriest rushed in to help. The gambeson the Iron Throne guard had been wearing was shed upon the floor, a door at the far side of the chamber had been flung open, and a glimpse of black hair and gleaming blade could be seen slipping through that doorway. In an explosive blur of motion Moruene took off after the man, obviously sped up by some sort of magic, and Commander Dosan and one of the guards in platemail broke off to follow her.
The soldiers seemed to have tightened ranks, shoulders pressed together in a sloppy phalanx, and there were a few laying prone, black fletching protruding from chainmail. Arrows. Oh shit-
Up on the balconies above the great chamber men and women in reinforced leathers were leaning over the railing, bows in hand as a second volley was aimed. Among them was a towering figure in gleaming plate, armed with a longbow, his foot braced against the banister and ringlets of golden hair spilling out from under his helm. He drew, aimed and loosed, the others following his lead and shooting a fraction of a beat later.
In a blink and a flash of violet a protective shield lit up around Xan, arrows rebounding off as Imoen and Garrick wisely slipping in behind the Greycloak. Squatting as best she could behind shields and armored soldiers, Ashura trusted in her enchanted boots instead. No premonitions came, so she kept still as the arrows whizzed by or clattering against broadshields.
But then the man in platemail knocked yet another arrow, quick as a cat, and Ashura finally felt the familiar prickle of someone's aim upon her. She dove to the side in the same instant that he loosed, a ping ringing right in her ear as the broadhead scraped across her armored shoulder.
Rolling on the floor had moved her towards the edge of their piss-poor phalanx, and on a whim Ashura kept going, rushing for the nearest alcove and calling "With me!" over her shoulder. Hopefully her friends would follow. They were sitting targets if they stayed out there in the chamb-
Another intuitive prickle, this time from the front. Three archers were leaning over the railing she was about to pass under, one taking aim and pulling back the bowstring.
Ashura tried to dip and twist out of the arrow's path, but at the same time a great cloud of inky blackness hissed into existence up on the balcony and blotted out the archers. Panicked shouts erupted from the darkness rather than arrows, nearly drowning out a sizzling rumble that sounded somewhere behind Ashura, and then she was between a pair of statues, nearly under the awning and-
The sizzling sound became a roaring explosion, then a blast of hot wind struck Ashura's cloak and sent it billowing ahead of her as she instinctively hunched. There had been a flash of white-hot light, but it was already fading down to the orange and red of a curling wall of flames, tinged with streaks of smoke and rolling up from the marble floor.
As Ashura turned around to get a better look several people slipped in beside her or shouldered past. Flutters of familiar clothing and hair: Imoen. Garrick. Viconia. Her friends had followed her, and the explosion of flame had been centered on the main force.
Ack! Xan! She peered past Garrick's shoulder. Flames and smoke obscured most things where the fireball had struck, and some of those flames were clinging to blackened bodies. There was a glow within the smoke though; blue-tinged and quivering like quicksilver and roughly…spherical? Some sort of protection spell, she realized a beat later, enveloping the Flaming Fist warmage and those nearby: Eltan, the priest, and several of the troops.
There were other soldiers huddling behind blackened shields, and there among them was a separate glow: the violet of Xan's arrowshield spell, eclipsed by the gasfire-blue of the elf's moonblade, which seemed to be burning brighter than usual. There didn't seem to be a smudge of soot on Xan's pristine robes either. Good.
The stairway to the next floor was right in front of them, beneath the awning, and as Ashura turned towards it she caught a glimpse of Viconia's hard eyes and swift nod. The guards caught in the drow's darkness spell could already be stumbling out. Regrouping.
No time to hesitate. Ashura sprinted for the stairway, trusting the others to follow.
A discarded potion bottle shattered on the cellar steps and then Slythe was a blur, leaping a barrel and dashing through the dimly lit chamber fast as Sarevok's eyes could follow. A good thing too: the archmage on his heels streaked into the room a few breaths later, a nimbus of clashing colors swirling around her and feet tapping with the obvious cadence of a spell of haste.
Moruene's rush brought her right across Winski's carefully laid runes near the bottom of the steps, of course, and they flashed and burst in twin explosions, one of the glyphs sending up glittering spikes of ice right where the witch was stepping, and the other expanding outward in a net of ghostly webbing. Ice and sticky protoplasm both met the same fate: where they brushed up against the archmage flares of blue-white fire instantly turned them into hissing steam and melting gunk, not even seeming to slow her.
Hells, perhaps she didn't even notice. Her focus was on Slythe alone, and she just had to catch a glimpse of the assassin as he dove for the far side of the basement in order to weave her hands before her in a whirlwind and give form to her obvious fury, unleashed in a storm of arcane bolts.
Sarevok recognized the spell well enough. Potentially devastating, but as the globes of crackling energy arched and flew, seeking Slythe out, the air at the midpoint of the basement shimmered and seemed to solidify, and each bolt burst –one after the other– in a shower of useless sparks when they struck the wall of force. Semaj's doing: he had just finished his low chant, crouching and still invisible behind a stack of kegs.
Reaching the far wall and safe behind the sudden shield, Slythe turned and actually shot Moruene a grin. He had sheathed his blade –either out of bravado or because he knew how useless it was now– and raised an empty hand, cupping it slightly as if he were placing it upon something unseen.
Moruene wasted no time with the new obstacle, a finger shooting out before her and a quick spell rolling off her tongue. A green glow gathered and then streaked from her fingertip, and when the ray struck the shimmering barrier it burned away everything it touched, a scorched spot appearing in the wall of force and then expanding until the entire thing was gone.
Mages. Sarevok smirked slightly, not yet noticed –though hardly hiding– as he stood beside a pile of rice bags. Mages are trained and conditioned to think calmly and methodically, especially the best of them. Every element has an opposite, every spell a counterspell, every problem a solution. Rocks smash swords, swords slash papers, papers envelope rocks, and a disintegration spell destroys a wall of force.
There was a glow now, right beside Slythe were his hand was hanging in the air, and as Moruene stretched her fingers to prepare a volley of magic that was no doubt powerful enough to blast Slythe into burning shreds the glow expanded and took the form of a woman standing beside the assassin, a burning piece of parchment crumbling between her fingers. There was a mirage-like shimmer that ran over the woman and her husband, then with the pronounced whoosh of a vacuum suddenly being filled they both vanished.
Two Flaming Fists had rushed in to follow Moruene into the cellar: a man in heavy plate who looked to be some sort of elite guard and Commander Angelo Dosan (Ha!), aglow with protective spells of his own. As the Fists rushed towards their leader's side the door to the basement slammed shut and Sarevok hefted The Blade of Chaos, resting it against his armored shoulder as he stretched to his full height. The others who had taken their positions throughout the basement readied themselves as well: Alai the Calishite cultist clinging to the ceiling thanks to a climbing spell and aiming one of his wands, Winksi shifting out of the form of a dusty statue in the corner, Semaj beginning to intone another spell from his hiding spot, and Tomako waited in silence, lurking somewhere under the protection of a spell of sanctuary.
The trap was sprung now, though Moruene hardly looked surprised or flustered. She just shifted her glare about the room as she began to chant yet another spell.
All was black save the faint, radiant shapes of three figures, each holding objects in their hands and each backing up cautiously, heads swiveling. Eyes adjusting, Ashura found that there were other little textures to the darkness; bluish shapes over the ambient black that hinted at the angular forms of statues and the arches of the marble banister. The only certainty in Viconia's conjured darkness, however, were the beacons of body heat. Infravision was nearly useless beyond detecting those.
That was all Ashura needed at the moment though. She had plunged into the cloud seeking the archers who had been lining up along the banister. She was here as a hunter.
Three paces and she was within striking distance of the closest red-orange blob: a woman maybe, judging by the tone of the archer's voice as she gasped and pivoted towards Ashura, holding out her bow and trying to club at the darkness with it. A wide slash of Varscona and that bow clattered to the floor, the archer's hands instinctively clutching at the front of her bleeding neck. From there she flopped back against the railing and then pitched over, plummeting head first.
The next guard had dropped his (again, judging by the tone of the grunts he made as he moved it seemed to be a man) bow and held his arm out in the position of a swordsman, though the sword itself was hard to make out. He moved forward cautiously as he hunted for Ashura, almost facing her but not quite. She swept in before he could pivot towards her and then the man was bending forward from a slash to his gut as they passed. Before he could recover Ashura's second blade ran him through from behind.
As she turned to face the third archer the glowing silhouette simply dropped to the floor, pawing at its chest. Turning around, Ashura saw a new red-orange form, apparently aiming a bow that she guessed had taken down the last guard. Imoen? Damn! It was impossible to tell friend from foe in here!
"Shura?" the figure hissed in a familiar voice. Apparently Imoen had had the same idea.
"Yeah, it's me." She started marching towards the figure, and hopefully towards the edge of the conjured darkness as well, but she grunted in annoyance when she almost slammed headfirst into a statue.
It took a little easing forward and some cautious steps, then all at once the blinding light of glowlamps and gleaming marble struck Ashura's eyes, along with the sight of her other friends. They had taken cover behind pillars and statues, and Ashura and Imoen rushed to do the same, blinking back stars.
A few arrows lay strewn across the floor, but the enemy archers were backing around the corner, scrambling away from a great jagged monstrosity that stalked after them along the carpet; its insectoid body formed entirely from jagged plates of black volcanic glass, with claws like great serrated scythes held high and ready to come swinging down at the terrified guards. It was an eight foot long mantis conjured from the lower planes; likely Viconia's doing.
Good. Ashura stepped back onto the carpet and started forward, waving for her companions to follow and grinning as an arrow bounced uselessly off the mantis's carapace and the last visible guard turned tail and ran. The creature rounded the bend and pounced at something, and Ashura raced to follow; to scatter the enemy before they could regroup.
Around the pillar she went and onto the next stretch of balcony, minding to keep behind the mantis. The creature's claws had slashed down, but now they were caught on the great oak shield of a man in dull grey plate armor –a half-orc judging by the glimpse of his face that Ashura could see through the gap in his helm.
The half-orc shoved with his shield, Ashura took another step forward, and then her vision filled with blazing white light as searing heat blasted her cheek, forcing her to turn away. A roar like a furnace erupted all around her, and then came the pain: every nerve on fire and screaming.
She stumbled and then fell backwards, barely registering the marble when she struck it, rolling on the floor. There was a blazing pillar of fire right in front of her now, and tongues of flame had followed her out of it, smoke searing her lungs, the glow and crackle right in her face.
Her raincloak, she realized. It was on fire! Snatching at the thing with stinging fingers, she fumbled to pull the strings loose. A brief struggle and then she managed to toss the burning cloak, slipping onto her back and elbows to crawl away from the blazing light of the pillar of fire.
Then, with a sudden and unceremonious guttering sound, the flames simply vanished, replaced by a looming shadow that came rushing for her. Platmail armor. Porcine nose. Longsword raised high, a splintered shield on his other arm, and the half-orc seemed to be covered in black ichor. The conjured mantis was nowhere in sight.
Another shadow flashed by and collided with Ashura from the side, and then they were rolling across the marble. She tensed; started to struggle, but then a breath against her ear and a familiar voice made her limbs slacken.
"Oof!" Imoen exclaimed, and they kept on rolling across the floor. Not too different from when they were on the grass outside the stables so many years ago; their favorite place to play Red Dragon's Maze. 'There's no lava flowing now!' Imoen would shriek. 'We gotta go fast!' And then they would tumble.
They hit the edge of a statue's base (Oww!), and Imoen half-grumbled and half-squeaked: "Yer real heavy!"
Steel boots stamped by, through the space where they had rolled, and Ashura craned her head up in time to see a mail-clad form passing. Duke Eltan, she realized with a blink, and he was about to collide with the half-orc. The grand duke's boot shot upwards, throwing soot into the air from the spot where the pillar of fire had just struck, and caught the edge of the half-orc's shield, flipping it back at an angle that seemed to twist the connected arm painfully.
The half-orc hardly had time to wince from that before Eltan pushed close to him with a flash of steel, and then he was bending forward, coughing up blood between his tusks and through the gap in his helm. A side-bar from the duke's mailed arm sent the burly fellow clattering to the floor, and Eltan just marched right over, rows of Fist soldiers hustling to keep up with him and hold up their screen of shields.
Ashura shot to her feet to follow the warparty and instantly regretted the sudden motion, every pore of burnt skin screaming as she involuntarily bent forward. There was a sudden, steadying presence beside her, a gentle hum on Garrick's lips as his fingers carefully bracing her shoulder. Spikes of pain ran through her, but she winced and nodded gratefully, and soon the bard's song was soothing some of the superficial burns away. Garrick's gentle magic was nothing compared to the healing of a full priest or an alchemical potion, but it was enough to help her get moving.
And Eltan and the others had moved quite a bit ahead already. The tower's defenders were giving ground. Happy to, it even seemed, since they were backing towards a stairway that was an obvious chokepoint. Probably had all sorts of nasty surprises ready up there.
Among the archers who were pelting Eltan's little phalanx with arrows stood a woman with long blonde hair, wearing a green dress and glowing with obvious arcane protections. Her hands were carefully threading through the air, drawing runes it seemed, and a heartbeat later their purpose became clear when a circle of flames flared into being between the pressing Fists and the retreating archers.
The conjuress immediately turned and fled up the stairs as a great, hulking form leapt out of the circle she had created, springing as if from the marble floor in a burst of hellish light and coiling smoke. It landed a few paces away: an ape-like thing, squat and broad, with talon-like toes and oversized fingers that flexed as if eager to crush skulls between them. Rust-red fur framed the beast's orangutan-face and ran down its arms and legs, though most of the creature's thickly muscled form had the hue and gleam of basalt –as if it were chiseled from blackened stone– and its sharpened teeth and tusks were a contrast of ivory-white.
Tiny eyes glowed a hellfire-orange in the recess of the creature's skull, and as it let out a deafening howl the furnace-glow flickered deep within its throat as well. That howl seemed to carry through the room with a physical force, pushing at the soldiers lined up on the balcony and making them shift and stumble back, and as the sound rolled through Ashura she couldn't suppress a shiver of primal fear.
This was far more than an ape. This was a demon. A Bar-lgura.
Slamming its fists into the floor, the demon surged forward, springing towards the nearest foe: the grand duke himself. An arm that was thicker than Ashura's torso led the way, great paws spreading to grab Eltan by the shoulder; to crush bone and rip limbs from their sockets.
With speed that matched the demon's and a casual grace it did not possess, Eltan simply pivoted to the side and took a backwards step, his sword a blur in front of him. There was a spray of black blood as the blade bit into the demon's extending arm, then a clang of steel as the ape collided with the grand duke, who bent low, his armored shoulder catching the creature. The demon bucked and then flew over Eltan's head, carried by its own momentum, and with a meaty thunk it struck the marble flat on its back and skidded along a pace, one arm nearly severed and dark blood erupting from a hole that been gouged in its chest.
Eltan sheathed a dagger with his offhand as the creature settled, then turned fully towards the stairway. "Finish that thing," he ordered without a glance back, marching towards the stairs, and several of the Fist soldiers shook themselves and rushed in to do just that, jabbing at the demon with their spears as it wriggled on the floor. They barely seemed able to pierce the demon's hide, but one of Imoen's enchanted arrows finished it off, the creature's body losing cohesion and becoming a churning black mist that dissipated into nothing.
And then they were all rushing for the stairs and once again struggling to keep up with Eltan. "Tymora's tits and Beshaba's breath," Ashura mumbled as she hurried along too. Flattens a demon just like that. Glad he's on our side.