Author's Note: It's surprising what twists and turns these stories can take. I was trying to mostly adhere to the plot of Baldur's Gate 1. Honest!
But I wanted the Flaming Fist to have some agency and take some action instead of just being steamrolled by Sarevok's plans. And then Moruene just sort of jumped out at me. So now, somehow, I find myself writing the Grudge Match of the Century between Sarevok's crew and a badass magic-wielding grandma.
67 – The Dragoness and the Deathbringer
"There will always be enemies who you cannot directly strike with your magic. Think about your possible surroundings in battle and plan your spells accordingly." – Laspeera Inthre, Mageduels: A Manual
Carried by a mighty roar, the full twist of his body, and the fury of Perdition itself, Sarevok's sword whistled through the air. The Blade of Chaos was broad and heavy –even for a greatsword– honed to a razor's edge and aglow with infernal script that coiled along its flat and fuller. Forged and blessed by acolytes of the Lord of Murder to be wielded by a Deathbringer and a Deathbringer alone, it was the perfect weapon in his hands, the burning glyphs leaving a trail of hellfire as the blade struck the archwizardess' shoulder.
There was an answering flash of light, the barrier around Moruene outlining her in a brief blue nimbus, and with a jolt that that ran through Sarevok's wrist and forearm the blade was simply repelled.
The archmage stumbled back a step, but through force of will she managed to keep the white mists that had been gathering at her fingertips from winking out, and with snarled out words and a lurch she sent them rolling forward. Mists became curling clouds, gathering density and form as they streaked by until they were a pair of smoky wraiths that shot past Sarevok.
He did not turn to watch, eyes on Moruene alone as he hefted his blade once again and drew a deep breath, tasting smoke and ash and the acrid smell of sizzling acid. The fabric of the woman's black, long-sleeved dress had parted ever-so-slightly between shoulder and neck; a little rip that revealed the faintest trickle of blood. She didn't seem to notice though, a look of absolute concentration on her face as her hands wove yet another spell.
She could be hurt, it seemed, despite the protective mantle that hung about her, but it had taken every ounce of skill and muscle on Sarevok's part to do it. Until the invulnerability spell wore off his best efforts would yield nothing but feeble scratches. Despite that he did not hesitate to roar again and bring his blade down, a diagonal slash from the opposite direction.
Invulnerability or no, he had to keep attacking. Stomping. Pushing. For if he slowed, then the furnace that gave his arms and armor their power would begin to flicker and go out. The Deathbringer could not fight defensively. Could not hesitate.
No matter. He had strength to spare, and would not be running out of breath anytime soon.
His lips even quirked as he struck a second time, blade rebounding off Moruene's arm and leaving another comically minimal tear. She was glaring at him with frustration and hate, for though he could not stop her chanting or truly wound her, she had not been able to scratch him either. Tendrils of smoke still climbed from the joints of Sarevok's armor; the remnants of a fire spell that she had blasted him with a moment ago, the last of a long series of useless evocations thrown his way.
He had barely felt the heat.
Sarevok's grin grew wider as he lifted his sword and brought it down again. How frustrating it must be for her. The evoker, who had probably torn armies apart with storms of magic, watching as some horned knight shrugged her spells aside with the power of his armor and his Gift. Her mantle would soon fade and her spells would be spent. His strength would not.
All around them the cellar was a smoldering ruin; crates and supplies and support beams shattered to splinters and the stone floor pitted and scorched, pools of blood-red wine spreading and bubbling in the heat where one of the great kegs had been destroyed. There were gouges and scorch-marks across every wall as well –and even the ceiling– the stones cracked and blistered from blasts of lightning, balls of fire, acidic bolts, and thunderous bursts of sound.
Alai the Cultist was now a blackened skeletal shell, face and fingers and protruding ribs all pointing at the ceiling. The armored Fist soldier was dead as well, breastplate staved in by a murder-blow from the hilt of Sarevok's sword and gorget sliced open from a mighty chop. Commander Dosan stood in relative safety nearby, surrounded by a globe that deflected magic when it came his way. His bow was drawn, and from time to time he would send an arrow flying, though for some reason they had yet to hit a target. Ha!
A cry of pain sounded somewhere nearby as Semaj was lifted off his feet, one of Moruene's conjured mists curled around him and floating up as chains of energy danced around them both. There was a counter-flash –one of his protective tattoos activating– and as he fell and rolled away an even brighter flash followed: a blast of sunlight from Tamoko's outstretched fingers that burned the wraith away.
At the same time Sarevok swung again, hounding the archmage and her alone, but the force was nothing close enough to interrupt her next spell. Her palms swung downward, aimed at the floor before her and sending a tremble of light down to the stones. That tremble seemed to rapidly spread out beneath Sarevok's feet, and as it did he tried to sidestep. To leap.
Too late. He seemed to drop a few inches, instantly, the motion accompanied by a gurgle and a squelch. Lifting his feet was suddenly a challenge, boots slipping deeper and deeper into the now-liquefied floor.
His thrashing sent flecks of mud flying, but he just sunk faster still. Calf-deep, then the mud was around his knees –then thighs. He felt his boots break through and slide out into open air beneath, and then the weight of his heavy armor pulled him down completely into the morass, arm and sword uselessly probing for something solid to cling at or cleave into. They found nothing.
A wet squelch and he was enveloped by semi-solid darkness. Then his weight broke through the bottom and he was plunging through open air, cursing that clever witch all the way down.
It was a very short fall, broken by a painful smack and splash into cold water. He sank like a stone, dragged down by his armor, but a furious wriggle brought him to the surface and he sat and then stood with a sputter. The foul-smelling water came up just above his knees.
A sewer tunnel. Thanks to relentless autumn rains the water was at least flowing and not as nasty as it could have been. Of course the rains had also made the channel wide, deep, and bone-chillingly cold.
Looking up, Sarevok spied the great, soft wound in the cellar floor through which he had fallen. He stepped back to avoid the great globs of mud that were dripping down to follow him into the water, a pinprick of bright light growing at the center of the liquefied stone as more and more of the stuff fell.
Argh! That clever, clever witch!
She could not blast him, so she had taken him off the battlefield another way, rock transmuted to mud beneath his feet. And what now? A trudge through the sewers and the indignity of a climb to the city streets above? The Fires would long be out by then. The Gift that had protected him from her spells. By all the-
Suddenly the ceiling shook and the sound of stone striking stone reverberated through the tunnel. More of the muddy wound fell away and there were flashes of fire through the hole; starbursts and explosions. The whole ceiling was buckling beneath whatever was raining down on it now, cracks spider-webbing out from the weak spot that the transmuted hole had created. Sarevok got a glimpse of what was doing the damage when something bright came plummeting through: a ball of molten rock that struck the canal in front of him and sent up a pillar of hissing steam.
More and more impacts followed, the ceiling bowing under the bombardment, and Sarevok found himself grinning as he saw the first piece of stone flake off and fall into the sewer. A second meteor came crashing through to strike the water below, this time piercing solid stone instead of just slicing past mud, and all around that new hole cracks expanded with a great grinding noise.
Next a massive piece of the ceiling broke off and fell, then another, and then all at once –as Sarevok raised a forearm to shield his face from the debris– the entire thing shattered and came raining down around him.
Good! Good! His grin just grew and he hefted his sword, not shrinking back as smoking stones bounced off his armor and waves buffeted him from all sides. Let's bring it all down!
The floor buckled, the walls shook, and a great rumble ran through the tower, rattling Ashura's teeth and sending her teetering. She fought to stay upright, boots doing a ludicrous dance on the carpet; trying at the same time to keep her longsword between her and her opponent's nimble little warhammer.
The man with the hammer had been thrown from side to side by the quake as well, but he chanced a swing, missing by a decent span. He let out a bitter laugh as another tremor knocked him back a step, nearly stumbling into a shower of falling books.
Walls trembled, a bookcase toppled, and then the floor seemed to settle. Wasting no time, Ashura bent forward in a lunging slash, but the man spun away and danced from her perusing sword.
Another laugh from the bastard, and this one sounded genuinely cocky. He knocked Ashura's next slash aside with the bronze buckler strapped to his wrist. Ting! "Ha! The little Deathbringer fights me herself! Have I told you what an honor it is?"
He had. He'd been prattling on all through their little scuffle, from the moment he'd blindsided her with that hammer of his and sent her stumbling through the doorway into this– library? It looked like a library. Where the blow had caught her there was a stabbing pain in her side, worse each time she made a sudden move. Didn't feel like anything was broke, at least.
The man's Chondathan was a bit stilted and thick with the accent of the Shining South, and beneath the white hood of his desert cloak his skin was the chocolate tone of someone with ancestors from Turmish, or perhaps Chult. His face was craggy and weathered; looked to be perhaps in his fifities, but damn was he spry. Longwinded too. "Such an honor! To play a part in your father's Great Game. You know of it? Yes?"
Ashura just snarled and sent out a trail of frost as Varscona rang against the man's buckler once again. His hammer whistled down and sought her foot, but she danced back, and in retaliation her shorter sword stabbed at his extended wrist. The old snake managed to coil back and the blade just whistled through air.
Enlightenment would be nice, perhaps, but not worth a hammer to the face. Not a time for conversation.
And the man was talking enough for the both of them. "You do not know, do you?" he went on. "You stumble through in ignorance, yet leave a trail of blood your father might be proud of. If your brother did not eclipse you so! Ha!"
Steel rang, the cloaked man anticipating each motion of Ashura's blades. The shaft and spike of his slender hammer caught a surprise strike from her shortsword, nearly wrenching it from her hand. "It would be an honor even," he continued, not yet winded and voice full of zeal, "to die at your ignorant hands, little Deathbringer!" He ducked low beneath a wide slash of her longsword, almost making it look like a bow, and at the same time a shadow rose behind him.
"Far more of an honor, however, to end your part in the Game myself!" The shadow matched each nimble turn of the man's body, slipping past an overturned table. "To send you back to the very forge of- Hhhrk!"
Hands that burned a hellish red pushed the man's hood aside and cut him off, clenching around his throat. Shock and pain registered instantly in his eyes, and he tried to slam an elbow back against the figure behind him –several times– but she twisted like his own shadow, always out of reach.
Soon the man's knees buckled beneath him, eyes bulging and tongue lolling as the same crimson light that lit his assailant's fingers seemed to well up in the back of his throat and at the edges of his eyes. Wisps of smoke followed, the man's limbs contorted, and once that was done Viconia sent him toppling forward, honor denied.
Ashura gave the drow a grateful nod and turned towards the library's doorway. The sound of clashing steel and scuffing boots still rang from the room beyond, though the melee seemed to be moving farther and farther away.
They entered what appeared to be a lounge, a marble staircase at the far end leading to yet a higher story, and Ashura and Viconia arrived just in time to glimpse the backs the last of the Flaming Fist as they ascended the stairs, along with Garrick. The bard had his harp in hand, plucking out fast and high-pitched notes as he tried to sing over the sounds of stomping feet, shouting soldiers and clinking armor.
A peculiar thing, Ashura had always thought, to use your hands to play music when you could be shooting crossbow bolts instead. Still, her chest seemed to swell and her sore shoulders lifted a little at the sound of the fast-paced strumming; whatever magic Garrick wove into his song giving her a fresh burst of vigor. It had been a long, hard-fought climb; up over the landings, through the cavernous dining hall, and now here.
The long mahogany bar that dominated the lounge was pitted and scarred from the recent battle, and nearly every cushioned chair and polished table was overturned, many smashed to splinters. Behind the bar the casks were shattered, ale and wine trickling to the floor, and there were cracks snaking up the marble walls. Impossible to tell how much damage had been done by the building's quaking and how much by the battle.
Rows upon rows of tables had been used as cover by the Iron Throne archers, and the bodies of many of them lay sprawled out on the tiles in spreading pools of blood, mixed here and there with the white tabards of Flaming Fists. The young Fist warmage lay among them, flat on his face with a smoking hole in his back and clearly dead, though some of the prone bodies let out pained moans and shifted a bit as Ashura and Viconia passed.
Thankfully there was no sign of Imoen or Xan. There were two healing draughts left in the pouch at Ashura's belt (a tap with her knuckles reassured her that they were still there) that could be put to use if she stumbled upon an injured companion, at least.
As they neared the foot of the stairs another shockwave ran through the floor and the pair braced themselves, crouching a bit. The tremor didn't seem quite as strong as the first –an aftershock perhaps– but flecks of plaster fell around them and the cracks in the walls and ceiling spread. What in the Hells was happening? Had an earthquake just struck by coincidence, in the middle of the battle?
Of course there was a far more likely explanation. The Flaming Fist's most powerful mage was down there somewhere, and apparently fighting. Hopefully she wouldn't bring the whole damn tower down around them all.
He would not flinch. He would not cower.
Even as tons of broken stone rained down upon the sewer canal all around him, the only attempt at cation Sarevok made was to step forward a few paces, positioning himself under the open gap that Moruene's transmutation spell had formed in the ceiling. Jagged shards of rock struck his helm– bouncing off the toothy maw of its underside, but he kept his face upturned. He watched, and he gripped The Blade of Chaos steady.
Thunder all around him. Massive hunks of rock that sent up great waves and filled the air with mist and muck. Along with that came other debris: shattered boxes, dented barrels, a corpse, and then a human form that was flapping her arms and kicking her legs franticly as she fell. Sarevok instantly recognized the black plate armor, lips tightening as he heard Tamoko let out a pained sound when she struck the water.
At least pain and motion meant that she was alive. To his left another massive hunk of ceiling plummeted, drawing his attention, along with a figure in a black dress that whipped through the air about her before both she and the debris disappeared in a shower of white foam and dark water.
There you are. He faced the churning muck and rain where the stone and the archmage and landed. If he was fortunate she would be crushed beneath the flooring, but Sarevok knew from experience that he would never exactly be what people thought of as lucky. Blood and strife always followed, wherever he went and whatever he did.
There was a limb flailing beneath the fallen stone, and then surprisingly the entire slab titled and slid into the water as Moruene shrugged out from under it and pushed herself up, clashing auras of light flaring about her. No doubt one of those was some strength-enhancing spell, along with the physical protections that she still wore.
At least she fell close by. Sarevok could sense a presence a pace or so behind him as well. Semaj had fallen into the water, thrashing and cursing. Above them two other figures floated over the canal. Winski and Angelo had both had the sense to use levitation spells, and at the moment they hovered on opposite sides of the tunnel, almost looking like opponents sizing each other up for a mageduel. Hopefully that farce would end soon.
Moruene was soaked to the skin, but otherwise seemed entirely intact: her dress undamaged beyond the handful of rips that had required tremendous effort on Sarevok's part. There were no burns from the countless spells that had been thrown her way, and no bruises from being briefly pinned under a bloody slab of stone. Even her bun was mostly in place; a few soggy locks of hair loose and plastered to her face. Layers upon layers of protection had been stripped away or faded, but they kept reappearing thanks to redundant spells and contingencies. She had to be on her lasts legs now though. She had to be!
Water sloshing and parting, Sarevok waded forward as swiftly as he could, Blade of Chaos held high and the fire still surging through his veins. He was perhaps five paces from his foe when her next spell struck, taking the form of stark white mist and glistening crystals that flew from her fingertips. The blast of artic wind forked before Sarevok as he pushed on, sparing him from frostburn, but with a mighty crackle the water he was wading through froze; a sudden presence clamping around his legs.
At the same time Semaj gasped in pain nearby, not so well protected, but Sarevok's eyes were fixed on the archmage. Determined to make every step a struggle, eh? A crackle, then a mighty crack, and the serrated edges of his greaves cut through the ice. It took another kick for both legs to come fully free, his teeth bared as he marched on his foe, half-grimace and half-grin.
As Sarevok took the last few steps Angelo floated down behind Moruene. His longbow was drawn back, the faint white glow of the enchantment on his arrow illuminating his stony face. Then the bowstring thumped and that arrow flew, brighter and brighter as it streaked across the water.
When it struck Moruene in the back the arrow burst into a thousand white stars, the broadhead deflected by her protective wards. But instead of exploding outward, each point of hot white light pressed in, clinging to the archmage's barrier, the glow just growing and growing. A second blinding flash followed, and when it cleared the shimmering aura that had hung about Moruene was gone.
The spell that had been building at the woman's fingertips faltered slightly as she looked over her shoulder in shock, and with impeccable timing Winski launched a flurry of arcane bolts in her direction at the same instant. Each buzzing streak of energy struck Moruene cleanly, staggering her and sending up a trail of smoke, and for once Sarevok thought a spell would finally die on her lips.
But no: she shouted out the final words and flung a bolt of light over Sarevok. No matter. Filthy ice was flying through the air now, the last few steps of his path shattered before him. The Blade of Chaos swept back and the fires in his belly grew.
Here she was, shrinking back and seeming to be half his height as he leapt forward: a leader of the Flaming Fist, the most powerful mage in the city, stripped of her glamour and wounded and at last vulnerable. A lightning-quick stroke of Sarevok's sword caught Moruene in the side and sent her flying back.
It was a blow that should have cut her cleanly in half. But it did not.
Blast! Even without her spells there were probably protective enchantments woven into that dress. Still, the slash cut deep. Sarevok had felt ribs caving before Moruene was knocked back, and the channel had been showered with her blood.
Moruene stumbled and slipped, falling into the water. She slid backwards from there, trying to delay the inevitable, and Sarevok pursued, reeling his sword back for a stab.
Lips trembling and foamy blood forming at the edge of the old woman's mouth, she let out a gurgling cough, and then to Sarevok's surprise it was followed by trembling, draconic words and a wave of her hand. Energy flashed there, on her fingertips, and then a man-sized wave of sewer water rose up to buffet him.
He stood his ground, shrugged it off and pushed on, his greatsword sweeping forward as he lunged and stabbed. Her aimed to pierce her chest and skewered her the way he had skewered another annoying mage months ago, but Moruene somehow managed to wriggle up onto her feet, and the blade cut into her stomach instead.
The nimbus of energy still hung about her fingers, and with a gasp of pain and rage she flung her hands forward, an invisible force pushing against Sarevok. The blast of telekinesis launched Moruene off of the sword before she could be fully impaled, and she flew into the water, landing with another splash.
Another delay. Enough! Swinging his sword back, Sarevok growled and readied a final swing, aiming for the mage's neck as she sputtered and gurgled out ragged words and pink blood. "Siltir varak –keev."
There was a ripple across the surface of Moruene's face and body, and then The Blade of Chaos passed through empty air as water splashed in to fill the sudden void where she had been.
This had to be the top story of the tower, at least judging by the lack of visible stairs leading further up. Also, the ceiling was lower here, making the wide, marble chamber seem almost cozy compared to the grand floors they had passed through in their climb. Once again polished tiles lined the floors beneath elegant pillars and walls of sturdy stone, and in this room everything was overlooked by an imposing marble statue, roughly nine feet tall and depicting a woman in elegant robes with stunted devil's horns upon her head.
As Ashura and Viconia crested the stairs they caught sight of Duke Eltan, his remaining soldiers lined up to protect him as he knelt in pain, his sword now a crutch and the priest of Helm trying once again to tend to him. Ashura cringed, pace slowing, and Garrick gave her a puzzled look as she stepped past him, his upbeat song suddenly missing a note.
Up ahead arrows were whistling back and forth between the line of Fist soldiers and the remaining guards they had chased up here, the Fists locked in an impromptu shield-wall as their archers periodically fired through briefly parting gaps.
The Throne soldiers seemed to have taken shelter in a hallway up ahead, protected by the narrow stone walls. Their leader –the archer in heavy plate– still stood, though few of his followers remained. Ashura caught a glimpse of the conjuress in the green dress, one man in Calishite garb, and perhaps one or two of the archers in heavy leathers.
Another volley of arrows from the Fists, then the man in the white desert cloak shot out of cover and raised an ornate golden scepter high. There was a flash of golden light at the end of the wand, and in response roaring flames flashed from the ceiling and descended in a spiraling pillar, right in the middle of the Fist's steady line.
Howls of pain erupted and the line fell apart, soldiers stumbling away, one batting frantically at flames that were spreading along her tabard and another fully on fire, rolling across the tiles.
It was a brief –if terrible– blast, the pillar quickly loosing fuel and going out with a whiff and a lot of smoke, but by then the man in the desert cloak had retreated and conjured a wall of thick white fog that sealed the mouth of the hallway. The priest of Helm was ignoring that, and the injured soldier who was rolling on the floor as his companions attempted to pat him out as well. His attention was on Eltan alone.
"The grand duke is poisoned!" he shouted. "Can anyone render aid?"
Viconia seemed to be focused on the fogbank, and she had already begun chanting, so with a shrug Ashura stepped forward and scooted in beside Duke Eltan, placing a hand upon his armored shoulder and closing her eyes. What a crock of shit. Me. A healer. But the power that had once saved Xan's life welled up easily enough, and for a moment her senses seemed to slither down Eltan's shoulder, through skin, muscle, and then veins, seeking out the corruption and tugging at it.
She came back to herself when the grand duke exhaled, breathing out a faintly glowing fog: the poison and the magic all wrapped together and now drawn out. Dissipating.
The duke quickly recovered, gave Ashura a curt nod, and pushed himself to his feet. By then Viconia had finished her invocation, her hands pushing forward as she launched a steak of white energy that leapt across the chamber and struck the fogbank. There was a flash, and then the mists rolled away and dissipated instantly, revealing…
…that the archer in platemail, the last remaining guard and the wand-wielding Calishite were already on the floor.
Xan stood above the dead Iron Throne leader, panting hard and gripping his moonblade with both hands, and Imoen was shooting to her feet, holding a dripping dagger above the man in the desert cloak, who was twitching as his lifeblood spread out in a great pool that leaked from his opened throat. The conjeress in green had backed into a nearby wall, and with another step she slipped into a yawning quicksilver portal that instantly swallowed her and shut with a flash.
And that seemed to be that. The purple pair (Hm. Maybe I should start calling them Team Violet? Imoen would love that) must have slipped invisibly past the last of the resistance and flanked them, and the body of the last guard looked to be tangled up with the plate-wearing archer, as if he had tackled him. Charms, confusion, and backstabbing.
"Nice job," Ashura remarked as she walked towards her friends and the Flaming Fists tended to their wounded.
"Yup!" Imoen agreed, a big, pleased grin on her round (and slightly blood-splattered) face.
A furious, animal howl accompanied the sweep of Sarevok's sword as it cut across the surface of the frothing water. Then, once it had reached its zenith, it slashed down once again. "By all the Hells!"
"Doubtful that she will survive," Winski offered. "An old woman. With an opened belly and a collapsed lung. She'll bleed out. Or choke to death on the leaking fluids. Or simply die from shock."
Sarevok leveled the old Rashemi mage with a glare and fought the urge to strike out at him with his sword. Patronizing! The old man is always patronizing me. It was possible that what he said would happen, of course. But someone as wealthy, powerful and resourceful as Moruene…
At the moment Sarevok could almost believe the rumors that the bitch was a dragon in disguise.
She would survive. Probably bathing in the best healing draughts Flaming Fist money could buy right now. At the most, and with luck, they had taken her (as Sarevok's father would say) off the game board. But she would be back. A fly in the ointment.
Sarevok continued to glare, while behind him Tamoko carefully melted the ice that had encased Semaj's lower half with a combination of gentle flames and healing prayers. "Winski!" he demanded. "Why was she not barred from teleportation?"
As always the old Rashemi's voice was patient and calm, even in the face of his master's rage. "She was. We placed wards." His eyes lifted towards the collapsed ceiling above them. "Up there. We never anticipated fighting in this sewer pipe."
Sarevok let out a low growl, but he had no retort. The old man was right, after all. They had done all they could, and not quite managed to decapitate the Fist. Best to work in the here and now.
He turned. Hm. That direction would be east. And he knew these tunnels well, at least. "We'd best get moving. I can lead us to passage to the undercity." Their secret lair was down there. With supplies for the next step of their journey.
"What about me?" Angelo asked.
"Back to the Fist," Sarevok said as he waited impatiently for Tamoko to get Semaj moving.
"If they realize-"
"Put an arrow in Eltan's eye if he catches on. And then run," Sarevok ordered, nonchalant. "Not ideal, but we'll improvise."
"That's not-" Angelo started to protest, but Sarevok silenced him with a murderous glare.
"You can teleport. Quit whining."
With a shove from the butt of a spear the prisoner stumbled down the final steps of the tower, gibbering apologies all the way. "Please!" he begged as he hurried across the scorched tiles of the lobby. "This is all Rieltar's doing. I swear! I just balance the books. I'm a simple businessman. I know nothing about that snake's scheming!"
Stonefaced, Grand Duke Eltan shrugged the slightest of shrugs. "We'll find out everything you know soon enough." Five more prisoners followed the first, hands bound behind their backs as well, though they kept their eyes cast down and their mouths shut. All of them looked to be simple servants, caught up in the raid.
Their leader, by contrast, had never stopped talking. The man was named Thaldorn Tenhevich, and seemed to be some sort of noble familiar to the grand duke. And, if Thaldorn was to be believed, Rieltar Anchev was nowhere near the tower, having left a few days previous for Candlekeep of all places. Neutral ground for some sort of business meeting.
Ashura shook her head, still puzzling over that. The man who had been plotting her death from the beginning was now heading for her old home. A coincidence? In the past there had been powerful people who had entered the citadel purely for the purpose of truce accords with their enemies, so it was not unheard of. Something to ponder, at least.
Not even capturing Rieltar. This whole venture sure seemed like the biggest Nar victory, even if Ashura's little company had not lost any of their own. Of the Flaming Fist regulars that had marched into the tower only five remained, plus the grand duke and his attentive priest.
"And I'll cooperate!" Thaldorn was saying, in response to Eltan's threats. "I swear! I swear!'
Completely ignoring the man now, Grand Duke Eltan glared at the doorway that led out of the tower. There was a disheveled figure squatting there. Commander Dosan, it seemed, white and red uniform covered in dust and muck.
"Angelo!" Eltan barked out. "Where is Mor…where…" He suddenly looked dizzy, swaying and pinching his eyes shut as his hand covered his face.
"Sir?" the priest beside him inquired in an anxious tone.
"The…the damn…" Eltan muttered, voice trailing off as his knees caved and he again fell in a heap upon the floor.
Author's Note: A geeky aside: the spiffy spells from Baldur's Gate 2 that mages and liches use to make themselves invulnerable seem to have been phased out in D&D 3.5 (although mages are *still* pretty overpowered there.) But I really like the idea of squishy mages compensating by having a short-lived 'make me invulnerable unless someone dispels it' button (I always found the mage battles in BG2 to be really fun and challenging), so I gave Moruene a spell like that here (that she abuses the heck out of. Like a true mage!) I figure in the 3.5 edition a spell like Improved Mantle would give you massive damage reduction against physical attacks, so that's how I described it.
And a huge Thank You to everyone who has faved, followed, and/or reviewed this story! I really appreciate the encouragement.