76 – Up from the Depths
"Raven was simply the first nickname that came to mind, on account of her hair. Auspicious, as it turned out." –Haer'Dalis of Sigil
Candlekeep. The gardens at twilight. The fountains trickle as the children run between them. Everything – the marble fountains (like walls), the flower-bushes (like a jungle), and the gnarled fruit trees (like wrinkly claws reaching up and up and up) – everything looms above the scampering girls. It is a world built for titans.
The leafless trees are caked with snow, their jagged branches failing to clutch the stars. The flowers (purple, blue, ice-white and blood-red) are open to the still night air. They seem brittle. Between them fireflies wheel and tumble; languid little candles that illuminate the gardens. A chorus of crickets sings.
Candlekeep as it always was. As it never was.
And as always, Imoen's dark haired friend leads the chase. Even when they had been tiny Ashura had always been faster – always a bit longer and stronger of limb. Not that Imoen didn't try her darndest to keep up, legs pumping away.
Her friend laughs and skitters around a corner in the frozen summer garden. Overhead there's a fluttering noise and the stars wink out. Imoen looks up and gasps, but the shadow is already receding, and all she glimpses is the silhouette of tail feathers and the hint of a great form gliding through the dark.
Ahead. Ashura always ran ahead of her redheaded friend. Always blazed the trail, even when she was not sure where they were going. Tonight is no exception. The chill air buffets her cheeks as she races. Something seems to be drawing her, but it is only when she peels past a hedge and spots a certain bubbling fountain that she realizes what it is. She slows with sudden trepidation.
This marble fountain is identical to the others, yet there is a memory here. Years ago, back when she was even smaller, she had sat on this fountain's lip while the furious voices of grownups boomed.
There had been shouting. Stomping footsteps. Imoen had been curled up in a ball by Ashura's feet with her hands over her ears. And there had been words which had carried through the clear night air, down from the window. 'That child will be the death of you!' She had had spent that night peering into the clear water, pretending it was a scrying pool. A childhood game.
Now she does not want to look into the depths. Overhead she hears wings flap. The starlight dims again, and in the distance a faint "Cawl!" sounds.
As her friend slows, so does Imoen. Ashura has placed her hands on the edge of the fountain, but she looks pensive. Conflicted. Eventually she leans in and peaks over, then she cocks her head. Seems there's something odd down there in the water. A frog? Maybe a fish?
A wistful voice nearby steals Imoen's attention. "It cannot all be fun and games, my dear." A gentle hand pats her shoulder, she looks up at the towering man in grey robes, and then the garden slips away, receding. She does not mind, for she knows this man quite well. He will protect her.
Now they are walking together, somewhere else. Somewhen else. Through hardwood halls, worn rugs beneath their feet and the walls all lined with pictures. She remembers each of these canvas paintings clearly: the ship at sea, the verdant forest, the silver dragon taking flight. She will spend years ahead keeping them dusted.
"You're big enough now to start earning your keep," Gorion explains. "And with Mily gone and the baby demanding all of his time these days – well, Winthrop needs all the help that we can provide."
She remembers being leery of the stranger they are now approaching, with his mop of unkempt hair and his big, jowly face. When they reach him and he bends down to look at her she shrinks away, clinging to Gorion's robes. "I'm helping him?" she asks (or remembers asking), incredulous. "He looks like a frog."
The stranger immediately puffs out his cheeks and makes his eyes bulge wide, and then Imoen cannot help but laugh.
More laughter follows. Hours of it. Days maybe. Or is it months? Time goes fuzzy.
Her new father makes every chore a game, and plays along with her as he teaches. She races with his eldest daughter, sometimes slipping on the newly mopped floors. They compete to see who can dust the fastest. They stick-fight with the feather dusters and pretend their brooms are horses. Sometimes dad will stop by to supervise a jousting match and call the winner.
But as the time slips by there's a nagging feeling, and over the weeks and months it just builds and builds. A sense of unfinished business. She needs to find Ashura. But (Dernit!) there always seems to be one more chore.
Outside, beyond the leaded glass, the light is dim. From time to time some great form or another will swoop by the window. She hears wings beat. "Cawl! Cawl! Cawl!"
No more! She tosses away her feather duster and takes off down the hall. Ashura! She has to find her!
She leaps down the flight of stairs and runs for the gardens once again. A blink, and then she's there. Right beside the fountain.
Look to me. Look to the depths. The voice is familiar, yet Ashura can't quite place it.
She leans in as far as she dares, and peers into the pool. Funny. She had approached with caution, but there's nothing much there. Ripples. Darkened tiles. Her own reflection in the crystalline light, wings of straight black hair hanging down to frame her face.
Something moves. Up above, in the reflected nightscape. A big, fat raven has alighted on a dead tree branch, its skeletal claws worrying the perch. The branch rocks under its weight but it just leans in and in, head cocking and seeming to peer at Ashura with curiosity. High above the tree countless dark forms wheel.
She turns from the fountain to face the creature, only to find that the branch is bare and the sky is bright with unbroken moonlight and stars. Her eyes turn back, slowly, to the pool, and the raven is still there. Only in the reflection. Only in the depths. It is darker down there than it is out in the garden; a great vaulted blackness that begins to open up beneath her.
A presence slips in beside her, warm and friendly. It's Imoen, trying to lean in and peer over Ashura's shoulder. "What's there?" she asks, curious and casual.
Ashura grabs her sister's arm protectively. She has already seen, and the great vault is widening before her and threatening to swallow. But her sister has not. There's still time. "Imoen," she begins. "Don't…"
"…look!"
Those words. They bring back painful memories. Imoen's breath catches and suddenly her chest is heavy as lead. "Don't look!"
But she had looked anyway. She had to.
And now she looks again, and the pool becomes an open cavern, deep as the Abyss and dark as the void. Vertical becomes horizontal, and now they are standing at the edge of the crypt. Wisps of ghostlight flare into existence, one by one, illuminated the vault. Illuminating the dead.
The place is filled with bodies and familiar faces, bloodless and strewn like wreckage, dressed in the clothes or the armor in which they died. All those empty, bloodless faces; a sea of the fallen. Her murdered friends. Her father. Gorion. Countless others too: bandits, Flaming Fist soldiers, Black Talons, Khalid and Jaheira, assassins and warpriests, Kivan and Brawen, hobgoblins and tortured prisoners and random, unfortunate strangers and-
Gods! So many! Too many! Too many battlefields! Too many disasters!
Too many! Too many!
Somewhere beyond the pale, still bodies the darkness writhes. Black wings beat and feathers fly…
…and the field of the dead changes – no longer covered in corpses. Now the floor is a sea of skulls: the barest, most totemic sign of Death. Bleached and hollow, with open black sockets and slack jawbones hanging loose, as if to scream.
The dead are screaming, Ashura thinks wildly, perhaps prompted by the cries of the ravens. The great flock is rushing towards her from the depths of the vault, a wall of feathers and darkness, blotting out more and more of the bones as they near. The dead are screaming, because they can do no more in this world after what was done to them. But she can. She can do a great many things.
The skulls lay still. The ravens are a sea of motion. Their wings beat furiously and their eyes shine, their great talons stretching.
Imoen curls up and covers her face, but Ashura feels no fear as the wave of undulating black reaches them, and then passes by. Wind whips her hair. She turns to follow – to watch the screaming flock fly out from this tomb, and then from the citadel, and then out to swallow the night sky. Their talons are long and curved and sharp, forged for reaping, and as they soar her mind soars with them.
Above the world now, she flexes her claws.
A muffled scream nearby had Ashura lurching awake, blinking back images of ravens and dark skies. It sounded like Imoen's voice! She tried to scramble to her feet, but a stab of pain in her lower back doubled her over. All the muscles there now felt like a single, twisted knot.
"Shhh!" she heard Viconia hiss. It was pitch black and Ashura's eyes were bleary, but thanks to the enchantment in her helmet she spotted the drow's hunched form: a slender silhouette in the glow of infravision. Viconia's arm was draped over Imoen's shoulder. "Be silent! Silent. You will alert something out there."
Imoen's initial cry had abated now, though she was still breathing hard, and Ashura took a moment to catch her breath as well. Any slight motion seemed to release more stabbing pain through her back, and there was an ache in her ribs a lot like the one she had felt after nearly being crushed by the sirine queen. Three was also a raw, rope-burn sensation across her entire abdomen, stinging badly when her clothes brushed her skin.
"Bah!" That was Edwin, grumbling from somewhere in the darkness. "We are safe enough. The door is sufficiently barred, and my latest scout found nothing out there in the halls. It seems the worst of this place has been bested, so she can shout all she likes (irritating as it is.)"
They all seemed to be packed into this cramped little chamber, and for a moment Ashura thought of the prison cell in the barracks. But no, that's not where they were. The crypts. They had stopped to rest and recover their depleted magic in one of the side-vaults, first barricading the door. She must have passed out leaning against the wall, still injured and dressed in her armor. A real bloody uncomfortable way to sleep, it had turned out.
Adjusting carefully and trying to ignore all the countless aches and stabs, Ashura began to crawl towards her sister. Imoen was still hyperventilating and trembling in Viconia's grasp, and Xan sat right beside her, looking pensive and immobilized. Ashura shouldered her way between him and Imoen, placing a hand on her sister's shoulder and squeezing tight. "It's alright," she whispered.
Imoen whirled, eyes wild and terrified. "You!" she hissed. "You were there in the murder of crows! You flew! Flew right past me and…and…"
Not the reaction Ashura had hoped for, but a breath or so later Imoen squeezed her eyes shut and then shook her head. Her breathing grew steadier after that. "Sorry. Sorry…I…well, yer no crow. It was just…"
"A dream, abell," Viconia whispered, squeezing the girl's shoulder. "It is passed now."
Ashura didn't believe that, but she stayed quiet, glancing down at her free hand and curling her fingers. Fingers that had been talons a few moments ago. And she and Imoen had shared the dream.
"Simply a dream," Viconia repeated. She glanced around at the rest. "The time we have spent here in the darkness was adequate for Shar to restore my strength. I shall heal who I can, and then we can be on our way. Provided that the rest are able…"
The chamber was suddenly lit by a ball of bright white light, forcing Ashura to squint and turn away. "I am more than ready to be rid of this place," Edwin agreed, his cantrip floating up and beginning to orbit his head. "And my magic is more than up to the task (though after that abysmal 'rest' some morning tea would be nice…)"
Nearby, Garrick was rubbing his eyes and wincing. He had been leaning against a wall as well, and looked pretty groggy. And somehow Minsc still slept, laying on his side on the cold stone floor. His knees were tucked in, his hands were pressed together, and his bruised face seemed serene.
They had stumbled upon the big Rashemi last, as Ashura recalled, and he had hardly looked peaceful then. He had been kneeling in a hallway with his head thrown back, mighty sobs wracking his shoulders and his sword imbedded in the body of a doppelganger which –now in its true form– had seemed to be quite a bit more massive than the others they had faced. As they had cautiously approached the grieving berserker he had repeated some phrase over and over in his native tongue, not seeming to notice them at all.
'What's he sayin'?' Imoen had asked out loud, and Edwin had answered dispassionately.
'He is saying 'I am shamed.' Along with other assorted self-pitying phrases and-'
Minsc had turned and glared up at them then, eyes boring into the Thayan. 'And indeed Minsc is,' he had growled. 'No foe could withstand my blade, but Minsc was bested by trickery and his lack of vigilance. As he was once by you, foul wizard…"
Edwin had held up his hands, and for a moment Ashura had wondered if there would be some sort of violent lashing-out. But instead the Rashemi giant had just looked down at the floor. 'I am shamed.'
It was Imoen who had rushed over to comfort the big man, patting his shoulder and telling him, in every possible way that she could think of, that things were not his fault. 'It's over now. Yer witch would be proud that you avenged her.' In the end Minsc had risen, sluggishly, and followed them, his greatsword scraping the floor behind him.
Seemed a shame to wake him now, but they had to get out of here. It took a lot of shaking from both Ashura and Garrick to rouse the berserker, and they both flinched back when he finally popped up and shook himself like a startled dog. Ashura almost expected a bite too, but once Minsc was fully awake his shoulders sank.
The next challenge was getting the big man to stand, which took some coaxing from Garrick. "It'll be better once we're out of this place," the bard insisted, gripping one of Minsc's arms.
"It will?" the Rashemi asked absently.
"Sunlight. Everything looks better in sunlight."
Once some healing prayers had been spent and everyone's gear was properly in place they dismissed the protective spells on the doorway, pulled away the barricade, and Ashura shoved the door open. Her stabbing pains and burns had receded down to a dull ache now, thanks to Viconia. It was good to be up and mobile again.
Beyond the chamber lay a hallway of finely chiseled stone – far broader, wider, and straighter than the twisting tunnels that had wound through the lower tombs. Unused torch sconces lined the orderly walls, along with little doorways that led into other empty side-chambers. To their right the tunnel marched on into the darkness, and to their left it took a sharp-angled turn that led back to the mausoleum.
"This better be the escape route," Ashura muttered, starting down the right-hand way.
Imoen hurried to slip in beside her, and then a little ahead, her eyes sweeping the floor and the walls as they went. "If it is," Imoen said, keeping her voice low, "it should open into a series of old volcanic caves, and then eventually out to the cliffs. Least that's what I've always heard."
Ashura nodded. "Past the guardian." Some ways ahead she could see another sharp bend in the hallway.
"Guardian?" Xan asked nervously.
"Might just be a legend."
"And supposedly she's only allowed to keep intruders out," Imoen added. "So we should be fine, not being intruders and all."
"Supposedly." That was not a word Xan found reassuring.
Beyond the bend there were no more side passages, and the hallway eventually ended in a wall of unworked stone. There was a narrow, asymmetric opening running down the middle of that wall – the entrance to some sort of natural cavern.
They approached in silence, greeted by the drip of water, and when they reached the lip of the cavern they slowed further at the sound of muffled voices beyond. Imoen took the lead completely, pressing her back to the stone and peaking inside. Next she edged around, then gestured for the rest to follow. The space just inside was narrow; the voices farther in. One by one, they crept along the wall.
"Why, twas in the Year of Shieldtree, I believe…" one of the voices proclaimed, floating clear and high. There was a tinny, metallic ring to it, though Ashura could not distinguish the gender. "No. Wait," the voice went on. "Twas in the Year of the Tomb. Yes. A most auspicious name considering what would happen to me. Although, sadly, I do not think Alaundo had mine humble self in mind when he penned that particular-"
"Yeah, we know," another voice grumbled. It was low, a bit more difficult to hear, and distinctly male. "You've told us this story four times already. The scheming mages who wanted to sack the library and all of that."
"Hrmph!" the tinny voice scoffed. "Well perhaps I merely repeat myself because I wish to prod thee into sharing something of note. I ask and I ask. Just a tale or two! Or some scrap of gossip. Yet you two little apes simply squat and glower." There was a brief silence, and the metallic voice seemed to sigh.
"Hoping you'll get bored and go away," the man muttered.
"Well, thou shouldst be aware by now that such a thing is impossible. The…second part, at least. Going away. Boredom though…now there art a close acquaintance of mine! Little mortals such as thee have no idea! There used to be regular visitors, until those pesky little lizards moved in to infest the front caves. The two of thee art the first guests in…well, decades it seems! And imagine my disappointment. Guests finally pass the lizards by, only to be the biggest bores imaginable!"
"We didn't exactly 'pass them by,'" a third voice snapped, also male. "Those bloody things got Bor and Sakul. And they chased us right into….well, you. Sarevok sent us on a damned suicide mission."
Ashura's teeth clinched at that name.
"Aw. Come now!" the tinny voice rang. "Tis only suicide if thou walks forward about…oh, nine more paces or so. In such a case thou wouldst be setting foot upon the official grounds of Candlekeep, and Torth's bindings wouldst compel me to obliterate thee (no ill will meant, of course.) But it need never come to that! Instead, let us tallllk…oh! Oh! What's this?!"
Ashura flinched at that last exclamation, since the metallic voice seemed to have turned in their direction.
"Oh my, my, my!" the voice continued, giddy as a child at its birthday party. "What's this indeed? After such a horrible drought for company it seems that I am experiencing a flood! And there are…seven of thee? At least one is bound to have some news of the outside world! Come out! Don't be shy! I promise not to bite. Thou art all, after all, on Candlekeep grounds."
So much for stealth. Shrugging, Imoen slipped fully around the wall. "Hello ma'am," she called, looking up and giving a friendly wave.
"Ah, and we're off to a good start," the metallic voice proclaimed. "Some manners at last! This human behind me, well…didst thou know that in the Waterdeep region his name is a slang term for the buttocks? I can see exactly why his mother chose to call him that. A Prat indeed!"
Imoen giggled nervously.
"So tell me, friendly human: what news dost thou have of the wider world? Is old Khellor still king of Amn? And who won that race through Undermountain that everyone was talking about a little while ago?"
As the voice droned on Ashura slipped in behind Imoen, the others following and keeping close to the wall. Before them a much larger cavern opened, its walls carved from wavy basalt, its floor sandy and moist, and its ceiling lined with distant, dagger-sharp stalactites.
Two heavily armed men crouched against the far wall, and between them floated a great spectral thing, perhaps ten feet long and formed from smoke and ghostlight. Its shape was that of a dragon's hollowed skull, and although most of it appeared wispy and transparent the jawbones did not: they were made of solid silver light, teeth gleaming and sharp. Faint tendrils of glow-mist hung down from those jaws –implying a neck, and perhaps a greater form beneath– and pinpricks of blue-silver fire burned deep within the skull's sockets.
"Uh, no offense ma'am," Imoen said, looking up into those flames, "but there hasn't been a king in Amn for centuries."
The great specter sighed. "Then I have been deprived of company for a very long time indeed." It paused, and then suddenly its jaws rapidly opened, closed, and opened again, giddy laughter filling the cavern. "Ah, silly mortals! A jest! A jest! Of course I know that Amn is ruled by…what is it? Some sort of anonymous council now? It is mildly amusing, watching you little creatures experiment with strange new forms of governance. After some time tis always back to the same old thing, of course."
Beyond the spectral dragon the two men were glaring. One wore fine scale armor, and he had just finished stringing a great yew bow. The other was dressed in a sturdy woolen outfit, with a bandolier strung across his chest (spell components packed in there, or a rogue's grenades, by Ashura's guess.) He held an ornate throwing axe that glowed with faint rune-light, seeming to be testing the weight as he glared directly at Ashura. "You," he hissed, ignoring the dragon.
Ashura glared right back at him and bent her knees a bit, preparing to spring. "Yeah. Me."
Between them the spectral skull bobbed and rotated, looking to one party, and then to the other. "Ah. Acquaintances I see." It bobbed again, as if nodding to itself. "This was to be expected, I suppose, when so many mortals drop into my layer all of a sudden. And it looks like thou art preparing to put holes in each other, but let me warn thee that it would be most impractical to…"
The axe-man wasn't listening; he had raised his arm up, flicked his wrist back, and was about to throw. Ashura felt a tingle in her shoulder and leapt to the side, but before the axe flew Xan managed to rattle out a few stiff words. "I suggest you walk to me."
And with that all of the sharpness left the axe-man's eyes and his arm fell and dangled at his side, only loosely gripping his weapon now. With a slack face and a cloudy expression he began to sleepwalk across the cavern.
"Oh bother," the spectral dragon grumbled.
By then the man in armor had snatched up an arrow, but before he could knock and loose Viconia interrupted him with a shout. "Male! Walk to me!" Seemed she was following Xan's lead. The command echoed off the cavern walls, brooking no descent, and the arrow slipped from the bowman's fingers as he lurched forward and began to march behind his companion, eager to obey.
As soon as the man with the axe had stepped beneath the guardian's skull it reared back like a cobra, silver fire crackling to life in its transparent throat. Its jaws opened wide.
The movement and the flash of light above him shook the man from his stupor and he turned to look up, eyes widening, but inertia took him one step further, and then the coiled dragon's jaws flew down with blinding speed, widening even more. They enveloped the man's upper half and clamped down hard, showering the sand with dark blood. The silver fire flared between the specter's jaws and it reared back up again, leaving the lower half of the man behind to flop forward in a mess of kicking legs and torn, uncoiling guts.
The dragon seemed to chew, and as it did the silver flames behind its teeth roiled and churned. It then turned its head and spat out a burning, charred mass that had been the axe-man's torso, arms, and head just a couple breaths ago.
By then the armored bowman was more than halfway across the cavern, and the specter now turned to him. Reeling back and then rocking forward, it exhaled a narrow stream of the ghostly fire, which flew in an arc to strike the man, first knocking him to the side and then enveloping him. He went up in flames, arms wheeling as he let out a series of high pitched screams. A moment later a crossbow bolt from Garrick struck the man's head and dropped him in a flaming, silent heap.
"There," the specter stated with a bit of a pout. "Invaders repelled, and all of that. I am a good little guardian, aren't I?" It sighed.
"Thanks," Ashura said as she started towards the bodies and the far side of the cavern. "We should get going."
"What?!" The spectral skull practically rattled. "No! No!"
Ashura stopped to look up at the thing warily. "We are free to pass through here, right?"
"Thou art free, yes," the guardian admitted, its tone wistful. "An enviable position. My bindings will not allow me to kill thee for the simple crime of being an obnoxious, ungrateful bore (much as I would like to…)"
"Maybe we ought to stay a little bit…" Imoen ventured. "She's been helpful and all."
Garrick was staring up at the specter too, and when he turned he gave Ashura a forlorn look. Of course he'd want to exchange stories with an ancient dragon. Under different circumstances she certainly wouldn't mind listening either. Hmm. She glanced towards the far tunnel. Sarevok already had a huge head start.
"The lizards up ahead will kill you all in any case," the dragon stated offhandedly. "So thou might as well stay and talk a while, before rushing headlong towards thy deaths."
"What kind of lizards are we talking 'bout here?" Imoen asked. "Lizardfolk? Firenewts? Drakes?"
The specter scoffed. "No kin to dragons. Simply…lizards." It bobbed in the air – perhaps its version of a shrug. "Smallish. Though perhaps little creatures such as thee wouldst find them large. And quite deadly. Few mortals manage past…"
"Ha!" Minsc barked. "But we are the few. A den of monsters bar the way?"
"Quite thoroughly. So wouldst it not be for the best-"
"A challenge!" Minsc roared. "No foe has yet withstood Minsc's blade!" Turning sharply from the specter, he unshouldered his sword. "The tyranny of these so-called lizards shall soon end." And with that he began to lumber forward.
"Uh, Minsc," Imoen interjected. "We ought to-"
"For they have not yet met the fury of a brother of the Ice Dragon Lodge!" Each step grew swifter. More assured. "We accept this challenge, dragon lady!"
"Twas no challenge you-" the specter began as Minsc picked up speed, passed Ashura, and raced for the far tunnel. "Art thou daft?"
Edwin, Viconia, and Xan all answered at about the same time: "(Very much so)" – "Yes" – "Indeed he is."
Ashura couldn't help but chuckle. Seemed the decision to push on was being made for them. And maybe the madman really would squish the 'lizards' up ahead.
Quick and desperate, Imoen looked up and asked the dragon a question. "So how exactly will these lizards kill us? You seem so sure."
"By petrifying thee with their gaze, of course," the guardian stated offhandedly. "Tis a bit like the manner in which a spider catches…"
All the humor left Ashura. No longer listening, she cringed and briefly shut her eyes. Shit! Basilisks! Turning for the far tunnel, she took off. "Minsc! STOP!" Should have bloody known.
But now the Rashemi warrior had taken off at a full charge. He disappeared around a bend in a tunnel, and Ashura chased after, hoping the rest would follow. Maybe she could tackle him or something before it was too late.
They passed into a broader chamber that dropped off sharply to the left, and from somewhere far, far below the gurgle and lapping of water echoed up. The cavern smelled strongly of brine. "Stop! Minsc! Stop!" Ashura kept shouting and running, glimpsing the madman's back once or twice as he dashed along the curving path.
Someone was breathing hard and sprinting along just behind her now, and as Ashura spared a glance back she saw that it was Garrick. He had his paralytic wand out and pointed ahead. Good idea.
The passageway above the water twisted and snaked, and within a few strides Minsc came into view again. He had halted where the pathway forked, one branch going on and the other crossing the gulf in a natural stone arch that led into more caves. Minsc had his head tilted back, as if he were a hound sniffing at the air.
"Minsc!" Ashura called again, voice reverberating, but he just turned back towards her with a big, toothy grin.
The berserker used his greatsword to point across the span of stone. "They are there!" he shouted gleefully. "I hear them! Great and terrible beasts! And they shall feel my wrath!" Hefting his sword high, he charged across.
With a desperate shout Garrick flung his wand forward and used the command-word, a shimmer of enchantment rolling out and across the gulf. There was a brittle, crackling sound as the wand fell to dust, its magic spent, and the wave of energy built and surged, enveloping Minsc in a blanket of roiling air-
-which he shrugged off and surged through with a mighty roar, boots kicking up clods of sand.
Bloody Hells. Ashura turned sharply at the fork and raced on, still following. She passed into a cavern, began down the tunnel, and then skidded to a stop. Despite Minsc's undulating roar she could hear skittering up ahead – the familiar sound of a creature with far, far too many legs, its claws all clicking against the floor at once. The same sound she had heard in the stone garden, and then at that warehouse by the docks.
Minsc had already disappeared into the next chamber, his battle cry rising even higher than before. Gleeful and zealous, his shout damn near shook the walls, and sounded like nothing a human throat could produce. More a force of nature. Perhaps he'd just shrug off the gaze of the basilisks as easily as he had plowed through all sorts of paralyzing spells. It seemed as if nothing could stop this lunatic, after all. Nothing could withstand the wrath of Minsc and-
But then the warcry simply stopped, ghostly echoes hanging in the air a moment longer. Then they faded.
Ashura backed up a few steps, then a few more, slipping behind an outcropping of rock. "Damnit!" The others had followed her cue and were getting behind what cover they could as well. Tilting her head, she tried to listen; tried to tell if the scratching and slithering noises from the next chamber were getting closer. "Gods do I hate basilisks."
Edwin approached them, keeping close to a wall and walking at a more leisurely pace than the rest had taken. His sleeves were pressed together, and there was a smirk on his face. And of course he just had to tilt his head back then, letting out a long, deep, uproarious laugh. "What a perfect fate for that imbecile!" Another fit of laughter. "Our eternal Hero! Now immortalized in stone."
"Edwin!" Ashura hissed from behind her rock.
"No doubt his intelligence is now improved."
"Edwin!"
"I wonder if he managed to strike an appropriately heroic pose."
"Edwin! You're a conjurer right?"
"Well, yes. I-"
"So bloody conjure up something to deal with those things! Before they crawl around the corner and start petrifying us!"
Instantly Edwin's face went serious, and he gave her an annoyed look. "That's quite a demanding tone that you are taking…"
"Can you or not?"
"Hmph!" Drawing himself up, Edwin launched into a rapid incantation, hands tracing through the air in a string-plucking motion. All the while he glared indignantly at Ashura.
Within moments the floor lit up in a steady circle of runefire, and inside that circle the ground shimmered, sand and dirt becoming a wavering membrane. Through that membrane two clunky arms burst into view, seemingly melded together from rough bits of stone. Oversized hands gripped the edge of the summoning circle and hauled the rest of the creature's body up and out, one slow, jerky motion at a time. It climbed and straightened with a series of cracks and grating noises: a short, squat, and solid thing, with quartz-crystal eyes and piles of rocks for legs. Then, wordlessly, the rock-creature began to lumber down the tunnel that Minsc had taken.
"There," Edwin announced, brushing his hands together. "They cannot petrify a stone elemental, now can they?" He seemed quite pleased with himself.
"You better not let that thing smash Minsc!" Imoen warned, glaring over at the conjurer.
Edwin actually looked insulted, and without his usual sarcasm he said: "The thought never crossed my mind." He muttered something else under his breath, but Ashura couldn't quite catch it over the hisses, grating sounds, and meaty smacks that began to echo from the next chamber.
They listened and waited, hands on their weapons and trying to judge if the elemental was winning or being torn to pieces. Gradually the noise subsided, and then there was complete silence. No slithering or claw-taps. Ashura waited another moment, then cautiously led them forward.
The tunnel opened into a broad cavern, the floor littered with cracked and jagged bits of stone. Some of them vaguely resembled human limbs, hands, and one or two even looked like pieces of someone's face. Along with the debris lay the pulverized remains of two crocodile-like creatures, their many legs curled up over their bellies, and in the middle of the room Edwin's rock elemental stood sentinel, splattered in blood and missing an arm.
There were human-like statues as well. Close together stood a man in sturdy wool and a halfling in chainmail, their skin now stone and both of them recoiling and trying to hide behind raised arms.
And of course there was Minsc, his mouth frozen wide in a silent warcry, his legs bent as if he was bounding forward, and his sword raised high. It did make for a rather dramatic pose, actually. Atop the petrified man's bald head a tiny rodent seemed to be holding on and riding, its mouth agape just like its human – as if it were roaring.
The other two statues had to be the men that Sarevok's lackey had talked about losing. Ashura marched up to the petrified human that looked to be a mage, gripped his shoulders with both hands, and then shoved him over as hard as she could. When the statue struck the ground there was a great crack, and the arm and head both broke off.
"Hey!" Imoen protested. "We don't uh…we don't know if…"
Viconia had walked over to the petrified halfling by then, and she followed Ashura's lead. There was no shattering when the smaller form hit the sandy floor, but a few blows from her hammer smashed it well enough.
Once that was done, all eyes went to Minsc. "You can't restore him?" Ashura asked the drow, who reluctantly shook her head. When a moment passed without the others saying anything, she turned to the far side of the cavern and started forward again. It seemed that daylight was trickling in from somewhere beyond the next opening, along with the sound of crashing waves. Promising.
Imoen held back a moment longer than the others, looking up at Minsc's frozen form. "I'll come back for you when I can, big guy," she promised before hurrying after the rest.
Beyond the basilisk's cave the path opened up into another large vault which was dominated by an open pit. From below the sound of lapping water echoed up, and a comfortably wide cliff skirted the gulf, eventually thinning and stretching into another natural bridge. On the other side of that span daylight glowed through a wide crack in the far wall, and Ashura hurried towards it.
By all the gods, it would be good to be out of the dark!
Briny air and open blue skies greeted her as she shouldered her way out of the cave and pushed past some low, gnarled branches that were hanging there. The ground was a patchy amber, with faded green here and there; dead autumn grass and sand covering a level surface that abruptly dropped off about fifteen or twenty paces ahead. This seemed to be one of the cliffs just beneath the citadel, shaded by the rocks and the castle walls, and sheltered at the moment from the harsh sea winds. Near the spot where Ashura stepped out from the cavern and the brush sat a couple of low, lean-to tents and a pile of bags, the little camp sheltered between some boulders.
Beyond all of that, at the cliff's edge, stood a man. His back was turned, there was quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, a sturdy longbow rested against a rock by his feet, and he wore a light chainmail shirt. Judging by his body language it looked like he was pissing over the edge of the cliff.
Ashura didn't hesitate to march directly for the sentinel, and as she did he noticed her and turned his head back slightly. Oddly enough his shout was friendly. "Prat! You came back! I was worried that…" His voice trailed off as he got a slightly better look and then he spun around. "You're not Prat…" Then his eyes bulged with recognition and he recoiled slightly. "It's you!" One of his hands struggled to tuck his member into his pants while the other fumbled for the dagger at his hip.
The world blurred by as Ashura's strides turned into a sprint and she rushed towards the man, both hands stretching forward, then her palms struck his chest and she shoved before he managed to even grip his dagger. Slipping backwards and well-overbalanced, the man barely had time to flap his arms before he pitched over the edge of the cliff and dropped like a stone, too shocked to even scream at first.
She didn't lean forward to watch him plummet, instead turning and starting back towards her companions. The brief, shocked cry that came echoing up and then abruptly stopped told her all she needed to know anyway. That, and the fact that even down here below the walls and some of the higher points it was still well over a hundred foot drop down to the rocks and the surf.
Xan stared at her, aghast. "We should have interrogated him first," he huffed. Beside him Viconia nodded emphatically, eyes narrow.
"Doubt he had anything useful to say." Ashura strode past them. "Come on."
Author's Note: Apologies for tonal whiplash. I thought about making the dream its own chapter, but it would have been a bit too short so...eh.
I owe an enormous amount of inspiration to kaispan for portions of this chapter. I never would have known about Miirym, Ed Greenwood's canonical ghost-dragon guardian of Candlekeep, if it wasn't for kaispan's wonderful fanfic Truth or Tale. Also, the scene with Miirym actually dealing with the invading mercenary party like a proper guardian was directly inspired by similar events in Truth or Tale. I hope it didn't come off as too much a rip-off, though of course if you're going to have a magical guardian in the crypts of Candlekeep it instantly begs the question: 'Why isn't she keeping people from coming in through that escape route?'
And the fate of Minsc and Boo was partly inspired by the recent Baldur's Gate comics, where everyone's favorite characters come back after being petrified for a hundred years or so. Maybe that's what will end up happening to them here, if Imoen doesn't manage to restore them first.