Author's Note: A HUGE thankyou to kaispan for helping with this chapter. You're the best.
78 – A Great and Terrible Sacrifice
"Why does Death so often spare heroes? Because of all the business they give Him, of course." –Shandreth of Highmoon
Seemed the more Ashura struggled, the more the damn stuff stuck to her. Didn't stop her from trying, though. Twisting and thrashing had gotten her nowhere –just tangled up– so instead she stilled herself a moment, drew in a deep, hissing breath, and pressed her fists hard against the surface of the bridge. Wire-sharp webbing dug into her neck and back, and the net held tight.
Nearby, a soft thump and a pained cry sounded, followed by a low moan, clearly from Xan's nasal voice. "Gag this elf," Commander Dosan snarled from somehwere above.
Nose to the ground, Ashura inhaled again, tightened her fists around the hilts of her swords, and pressed.
"The Thayan too," the prick added. "And do it quick. Don't want any of them slipping the noose."
There was just a little give from the taut and tangled webbing now, enough for Ashura to lift and tilt her chin and glare up at Commander Dosan's haughty face. He seemed to be examining her; a careful, measured look.
Eyes locking with his, Ashura bared her teeth in a grimace, slackened her shoulders just a bit, and then tensed and pushed again. Some of the strands budged, giving her enough space to brace her toes and splay her legs now, but the commander just shook his head and turned away, surveying the other prisoners.
Ashura turned away too, looked down to the unyielding stone beneath her, and then she brought all of the pressure and fury that she could to bear. The ropes bit deep, chainmail rattled, and then warmth welled up inside her; a fire that crackled to life in the pit her chest and flowed out into her limbs. The strands groaned now, the one that had been digging into her left shoulder shrinking to almost nothing, fuzzy bits of filament tickling her cheek. It had frayed.
Commander Dosan's soldiers were close by, a line of boots and chainmail leggings that lingered at the edge of the web, trying to work with gags and manacles without getting tangled up themselves. Now they shuffled nervously, a few instinctively stepping back. "Uh…sir?" one of them stammered.
Snap! The string at her shoulder broke and Ashura jolted up a few finger-widths before the rest of the web caught her – stretching thin. Every strand was fraying now.
The guards shifted, as did their spears and crossbows. "Sir. I think she's…"
Snap! There was an almost musical tone when the strand broke and curled. Now she had a foot braced against the surface of the bridge. One quick breath, a snarl, and then she rose.
Snap! Rising- Snap-snap-snap! A quick succession –a cascade– and then the strands and their weight were gone and the standing motion became a leap, her swords flashing up before her.
In unison the soldiers shrank back, holding out the hafts of their spears or their crossbows like feeble shields, their eyes shining with fear. Even Commander Dosan faltered briefly, fighting a visible shiver as Ashura landed in a crouch and pushed at the whole line of them with all she could muster, the air before her suddenly thick with fear. Thick with power. Thick with Perdition's blaze.
She bounded forward and slashed wide, chopping through the mail and belly of the nearest soldier -the only one who'd been too terrified even to stumble back. The man crumpled and Ashura pushed past, her glare focused solely on Commander Dosan, who had dropped his bow and drawn his longsword.
A flash of steel from the right. One of the Fist soldiers had pushed his way through the terror, thrusting ahead with his spear, and Ashura had to skid and weave out of the way. Dodging. Dodging. And then a slash from Varscona caught the spear. The longsword slid along the spear-haft, pushing past the guardsman's reach.
The man tried to shrink back, but Ashura's shortblade caught him, piercing his chest and sending him stumbling back against the stone railing of the bridge. His spear fell away and he clutched at his wound, leaning precariously over the rail.
She swung Varscona, aiming to knock him off completely, but-
-instead there was just a dull thwack and a jolt of pain ran through her arm, everything in front of her suddenly warping and going monotone. The terrified face of the soldier seemed to stretch and curve, as if seen through imperfect glass, everything now a dull, ruby-quartz color.
Ashura whirled around, but the barrier surrounded her, humming faintly. She slashed again, but that just jarred her arm. Commander Dosan stood a scant four paces away, and with her eyes fixed on him Ashura let out a frustrated snarl and began to beat on the magical cocoon with the pommels of her swords.
Nearby, an ancient man with papery skin and a streaked, black and white beard ambled in beside the commander, lowering outstretched hands and claw-like fingers. Seemed he was the one who had conjured up the trap. He eyed his handiwork, then turned to the Dosan. "We should kill her here," he advised, his accent distinctly foreign. Sounded a bit like Minsc's. "She is dangerous."
Commander Dosan glared ahead a moment, giving Ashura a long, fixed look. A soldier who wore the watchful eye of Helm upon his tabard had moved in to assist the man she'd nearly thrown from the bridge, one hand holding his shoulder steady and the other buzzing with a healing prayer. The other wounded man was being bandaged.
Eventually Dosan shook his head. "She's the face on the wanted posters," he said. "We need a confession. Then a good show on the gallows." He turned to the old man. "And it is not your place to tell the Fist what it should do with its prisoners, Perorate. Much as I appreciate your assistance. You'll be compensated generously."
Perorate nodded slightly and said nothing. By then Ashura had given up on beating at the barrier.
Sluice. Sluice. Sluice.
Every stroke of the oars was a struggle, but Garrick thought he was finally getting a feel for it. At least he was going in a straight line now, and the current of the Chionthar wasn't overwhelming him anymore.
And the city really did seem to be looming closer.
He glanced over his shoulder and took in the sight of it: water lapping beneath the pillars and the quays, and above that the sheer wall of the bay curving like a great maw (a metaphor about the docks being jagged teeth came to mind, but he quashed that). The bay was capped with thick mists, the dim amber of streetlamps struggling to pierce the gloom. Beyond that sickly light hung great, dark shapes that hinted at the rest of the city.
Garrick suppressed a shiver. What was he thinking, approaching this mass of shadow, fog, and ghostly light? This was stupid. So, so stupid!
Towers watched the river. Guards patrolled the docks. And the city was probably more on edge than ever – readying for war. And here he was, a lone man in a rowboat, coasting in to dock in the dead of night. Surely they'd think him a smuggler or spy.
Earlier, when this hadn't seemed like the most idiotic plan in the world, Garrick had assumed that the invisibility potion would give him an advantage sneaking in. Of course that had worn off a long time ago. (Had he really thought he would be able to find a rowboat on the river, steal it, and then navigate his way across and into the bay in a matter of minutes?)
Of course, pondering it all now, it seemed that not being invisible was likely for the best. A tiny boat just rowing itself up to a pier? Now that would be sure to draw suspicion.
Stupid Past-Tense-Garrick. And it had all seemed like such a clever idea at the time. Since the seer had said that he would be doomed if he walked the Wyrm's Crossing again, why not just go around the bridge? Why not bypass destiny? Yet now he found himself wondering if the gods would reward or punish his hubris/audacity. Trying to get around a prophesy on sheer technicality? Could that actually work?
Hopefully the fervent prayers he had been sending Tymora through the whole boat ride would help, at least.
This time of night –and with winter setting in and the trade season long gone– the harbor was quiet and free of traffic. It was easy enough to spot an empty pier, and with a little angling the rowboat approached and drifted in. Garrick managed to catch ahold of the quay, half-standing (Whew! Careful not to rock the boat!), and gripping tight to keep things steady. There was a coil of rope nearby, and with a little stretching he caught a strand and started to tie the mooring, feeling almost like a true sailor. Almost.
Then a little cough sounded from above.
Garrick gave a start and looked up, though the sight was predictable enough: on the stone stairway that led down from the harbor-wall stood an armored man, dressed in the red and white of the Flaming Fist. He was leaning down to get a better a look at Garrick and his boat, a lantern in one hand a spear in the other. "Out for some late-night fishing?" the guardsman asked.
There wasn't even a net, barrel, or pole in the boat. A phase came to Garrick's mind – one you often hear from gruff, law-abiding, salt-of-the-earth types: 'If you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to worry about.' Utter bullshit, of course, but still he took that attitude to heart, like he would a motivation in a play, and put on his most sheepish smile.
"Nah," he replied to the watchman. "Was out for a visit. Courting a fisherman's daughter." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess I lost track of time."
The guard snickered, walking down the staircase with his lamp held high. "That so? Which fisherman?"
"Urm. Jebadoh's the name of the girl's father." It was actually the name of a man they had once bought trail rations from on the ride along the Chionthar. Garrick had no idea if the man had daughters, sons, both, or neither. But would some guard really know everyone in the region? "Lovely girl," he went on, "with big brown eyes. She kept saying 'Oh please, can we talk a little longer?' and next thing I knew…" He glanced down at his boat, then back up to the watchman. "Oh," he added, as if realizing something, then raised his hands. "You can search me, of course."
A moment passed, the watchman giving Garrick a long, appraising look. "Nah," he eventually said. "It's okay, lad. What's your name, by the by?"
"Nebbin Gye." It was just the first thing that popped into Garrick's head, probably half-remembered from some old book. (Hoo boy. Hope this guy hasn't read the same stories.)
But it seemed the guardsman hadn't. "Alright Nebbin. If I were you, I'd keep my river-crossings to daylight hours from now on. Alright?"
Garrick chuckled. "Of course. Sorry sir." The guard turned and marched away, Garrick climbed up onto the dock, and it seemed that was that. Whew. Garrick felt rather pleased with himself as he mounted the steps, pushing through the fog and onto the lamplit street.
Then he realized that he had absolutely no idea where to go.
For a long time Garrick stood on the slick flagstones, surveying the dockside road; taking in the looming shadows and the drifting fog. He adjusted his cloak, hugging it close. Damp, and damn chilly tonight.
It was funny: he had always fancied himself a free young fellow, out roaming the big wide world. Up and down the Coast he'd gone, from Mithral Hall to Nashkel, and all sorts of points between. But really, thinking on it, hadn't he been following one troupe or another the whole while?
He supposed that he could just try to find Ash. But she really had told him, plainly, to leave. He even kind of understood why (from time to time he'd still find himself rubbing that scar along his stomach).
'Where should I go then?' he had joked once. She'd shrugged, like usual. 'Back to Berdusk maybe? Go tell your story.'
Pretty tempting, actually. Almost dying several times, and then being told by a seer that you're doomed…well…they say it's good to know when to leave the card table. But the nagging thing was that the story wasn't over! There was some sort of great upheaval coming to this city, one way or another, and Garrick just had to see it for himself. You can't just walk away when the climax is right there!
Determined in that, at least, Garrick chose a random direction and started down the street. So, I'm here to witness history, right? At least from a distance. Then the next step would be finding the best vantage point.
He found it just a block or so down, when jittery pipe-and-drum music caught his ear and the tantalizing smell of frying fish struck his nose. There was a dockside tavern up ahead: some place called Jopalin's, with a sturdy stone façade and wide, inviting windows.
A tavern! That would be the perfect place to catch up on the latest gossip. Not to mention that planning his future would be easier on a full stomach.
Inside, the place was crowded and thick with pipe smoke, dock workers packed in around most of the tables. At the far end of the taproom a woman in colorful garb was playing a pipe and tabor; a fluttery little tune that had the nearby patrons rocking from side to side.
Garrick followed his nose over to the bar, where a stocky woman in an apron doled out drinks. Jopalin, presumably. The delicious smell that had drawn him in emanated from the kitchen doors beyond, and when he got the barkeep's attention Garrick immediately ordered some of the battered fish, along with an ale. He resolved to just sip his drink, of course, as he was here for information, and with that in mind he leaned against the bar and tried to keep his ears open.
As with most taverns in the region, there was a section of wall beyond the bar devoted to the posting of proclamations, advertisements, playbills, posters, and broadsheets. Garrick had to lean further in and crane his head a bit to the see the full message board, and (predictably) the name 'Sarevok Anchev' caught his eye, there in big bold letters. As usual, that name seemed to be everywhere.
'Now that Eltan has fallen, who will defend us? Lord Anchev…'
'Young Lord Anchev Seeks Vengeance…'
'Sarevok Anchev steps up with crucial supplies for…'
And on and on, along with several illustrations: bald head, bullish neck, goatee and all. The largest image hung right next to a wanted poster that-
Oh my! Garrick's eyes widened, and he fought the urge to squeak. The likeness was rather shoddy (they had gotten her scowl all wrong), but the name 'Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep' hung unmistakable beneath the charcoal drawing. 'Wanted for the murders of Rieltar Anchev and Brunos Costak.' There were some words about accomplices too, but nothing too detailed beyond: 'May be in the company of a female drow.'
Well then. At least Tamoko had warned them, and really, this was to be expected after Candlekeep, wasn't it? Hopefully the others had slipped in quietly and gone to ground.
A hand gripped Garrick's shoulder, and now instead of a squeak he bit back a scream, tensing, jerking, and awkwardly fumbling for his rapier all at once. Images of bounty hunters danced in his head as he swiveled towards the stranger and scrambled to think of the best spell to shout first (his sword would be useless in this elbow-to-elbow crowd).
The young man who had gripped him was someone Garrick had never seen before, with hay-blonde hair and a round, boyish face that hovered rather close. The lad was dressed in a silken, powder-blue shirt, under a darker vest and nondescript a gray cloak. His teeth were pearly and perfect, and he showed them off with a bright smile.
"You're an easy man to find," the stranger said, finally letting go of Garrick and leaning back against the bar. He pinched some of the fabric of his cloak and held it up. "Should try wearing one of these. A Cloak of Nondetection. Comes in awful handy." Glancing over at the posters on the wall, the stranger pursed his lips and then added: "Suppose your friends should have worn some, too. I've been following you all, you see, and-"
"B-back off!" Garrick managed to stammer, shifting his hand to the little brass horn at his belt. The blasting spell! That would be best here, even if the crowd might not agree. "I'm warning you. I'll…"
The lad with the straw-hair looked briefly confused, glanced down at the horn, and then his hands shot up, empty and open. "Oh! No. No, no, no. You've got the wrong idea. I'm here to help. Or to…well, I'd been hoping…urm…"
"Who are you?" Garrick interrupted, still tense as a spring.
"Ah. Yeah. I'm Karsa. Moruene's apprentice." The stranger offered his hand, but Garrick just stared at it. "Sorry." Carsa's hand fell back to his side. "I'm new to this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Might need some pointers."
"Well, first off, you might not want to say 'cloak-and-dagger' in a crowded tavern."
"Oh. True! True!" Karsa glanced at his feet. "In any case, I was hoping to meet with you folks when you got into town. Think we might have a mutual friend who needs rescuing. But, of course, now it looks like there's a lot more rescuing to be done!" A nervous laugh. "Guess that's what adventuring is all about though. You'll know what to do."
Garrick cocked his head. "Urm. What?"
"Oh? You don't know?" Karsa gave the posters another significant look. "They dragged your friends to the fortress of the Flaming Fist about an hour ago. You're um…the only free one now."
Opening his mouth at that, Garrick found he had nothing to say, shut it, and then opened it again. Probably should have expected this. Of course the last thing he had expected tonight was to meet –and then be offered 'help' from– someone even more clueless than he was.
A shove sent Ashura crashing to the floor, her face turning and scraping the stones as chains rattled and clashed. They had spared few options when they had restrained her: wrists manacled, ankles fettered, with both restraints linked by a chain that kept her thoroughly hobbled. In contrast, her companions had merely been bound by the wrists, allowing them to walk through the city while she was pushed and dragged. 'Shame we don't have a muzzle too,' one of the soldiers had joked.
'Why?' her companion had asked. 'She doesn't talk.'
'Mark my words: she'll bite if you let her.'
True. She would have. They hadn't given her the chance though, never missing an opportunity to trip and bash with their spears. By the time her cheek hit the flagstones it was already swollen and sore.
Scraping chafed hands and knees against the floor, Ashura managed to lift her chin and look up. Had to at least give her captors a hateful glare. She recognized this room: a wide stone chamber with many doors and a stairway spiraling up in one corner. This was the place they had first met Commander Dosan. The room where the false Scar had been uncovered and slain.
Flaming Fists in their uniform chainmail lined the walls, spears in hand and crossbows slung at their backs. Ashura's companions had been arrayed beside her and forced to kneel. Edwin, Viconia, and Xan had all been gagged, their weapons and enchanted jewelry removed, but Imoen's mouth was free. Seemed they hadn't realized that she was a mage.
Before them stood Commander Dosan, out in front of his soldiers at the center of the room, and a big, burly man towered beside him. The stranger was so tall that he probably had a few inches on Minsc, and he was dressed in spare work clothes, with a longsword sheathed at his hip. His head was covered by a black hood, which, along with the outfit, made him look exactly like an executioner out of a story book.
Perhaps he was only there to intimidate. Both men were certainly glaring as hard as they could, silent for the moment.
"By right we get a trial first, don't we?" Imoen asked, piercing that silence and speaking up fast. "As citizens here and…well heck! We've even done a number of services for the Gate! We were following Duke Elthan's orders when-"
"I am the judge here!" Commander Dosan barked, cutting her off. "As the senior most officer present." He swiveled, eyes sweeping over his soldiers. "Correct?"
"Correct, sir!" they shouted, not quite in unison.
He turned back to Imoen. "And I have seen quite enough evidence to find you guilty of the murders of Rieltar Anchev and Brunos Costak. As I recall, it was a redheaded girl who was seen personally strangling Brunos." His eyes shifted to Ashura. "Never mind the matter of resisting arrest."
Imoen just shook her head. "This is all a mistake! It's Sarevok Anchev that done killed them! Think about it! He's the one with every reason to cut out the folks above him and now-"
"Young lord Anchev is not the one traveling with a drow, a red wizard of Thay, and an agent of Evereska," Angelo interrupted again. "Quite the band of assassins that you've built."
"Xan's here to save the region. What with Evereska being part of it and all! Look, we've been investigating this whole mess. For a long, long time. And we can untangle it all for you if you'll just listen to our story." Imoen gave the commander a hopeful smile. "I think we're on the same team here."
The commander pondered her a moment. Eventually he spoke again, his voice lower than before. "And I think you still don't understand. You haven't gotten it through your thick little head just who is in command here." He gestured towards the hooded man. "We need to set an example. Kill her."
At that the executioner stepped forward and reached for his sword. "Gladly."
Chains rattled, and Ashura was on her feet before anything else registered. More clinking and a sharp sting in her knees followed as the guards yanked her back and forced her down. The butt of a spear struck her ribs.
The rest happened in an instant: the masked man drew his sword, it glinted in the torchlight, and then it plunged into Imoen's chest. Imoen's eyes bulged wide in shock, her jaw went slack, then her lower lip trembled and she let out a feeble moan. The executioner yanked his blade free, drawing several inches of red, dripping steel, and then Imoen dropped, limp as a doll, her forehead cracking against the floor. Streams of blood began to run through the clefts in the stonework, and gradually it became a flood, pooling out beneath her.
"A shame that bard isn't here," the executioner said as he sheathed his blade. There was something oddly familiar about his voice. "I was looking forward to making an example of him."
'A prison floor, and your lifeblood spilled upon it. An example to the others.' Garrick. It was meant to be Garrick. But instead...instead…
Ashura slackened. Her chains were impossibly heavy, and she barely registered the crushing grip of her guards. Her throat constricted, dry as a desert, and behind her a pained cry escaped Xan's gag: a moan that tapered out into a whimper.
The guards around them shifted a bit, their mail and leathers clinking and creaking.
"That should show you all exactly how little you are worth to us," Commander Dosan stated. "Beyond your confessions, I expect silence."
Ashura certainly had nothing to say. As sure as the furnace-fire had risen up in her guts, on the bridge, it was all guttered out now. All burnt through, leaving just a tightness and a chill. And that pool of blood. Spreading. Spreading.
Numb and heavy, she just let herself be dragged, her head turning back as she was frog-marched out of the room. For as long as she could she craned her neck, eyes on her sister's still form. She did not struggle when the guards marched them all down to the lower levels of the fortress, nor when they shoved them into a darkened chamber, nor when they stripped her of everything save her chains, nor when they separated her from her companions and dragged her, naked, hobbled, and stumbling, into a brightly lit chamber.
The walls here were painted a stark white, lit by bright glowlamps, and a great wooden table dominated the room, marred and nicked and stained. A chair of rivet-studded oak sat at one end of that table, bolted into the floor, and it was onto that cold, hard seat that the guards flung her. One she had settled they went about adjusted her chains, securing them to the chair. The configuration left enough room for her to move her arms, but not so much slack that she could rise.
She slunk back, and for several minutes the guards just stood there and Ashura watched the blank walls. There was no way to find a comfortable positon in the chair, and that was clearly by design: the hard iron studs poked against your back, your ass, and your legs no matter how you tried to shift.
Eventually Angelo Dosan and his tall companion swung into view, looming at the other side of the table. With a wave the commander dismissed the guards, and as they marched out he turned to his prisoner.
"We've motions to go through," he stated, mater-of-fact. "Formalities. Confessions to be signed, attesting to your numerous crimes, before we bring you to the gallows. I want plenty of details on how the Iltarch of Amn put you up to your little scheme." He glanced over at the hooded man. "My associate will tell you exactly what to write down."
"There's something we need to wring out of her first," the big grunted.
Again that voice. And those muscles and- oh. Ashura recognized him now, hood or no, and with that realization a great many things clicked into place.
'Sarevok has agents among the Flaming Fist, and at the highest level.' Imoen would have never been able to convince Dosan of their innocence. He already knew, and simply didn't care.
"The location of the boy," the big man went on. "I want him here. He owes me a great debt of pain."
Commander Dosan's eyes had mostly been fixed on Ashura's chest, but now they lifted, and he gave her a knowing grin. "I'm sure you're familiar with my associate here." He gestured, and the big man slipped off his hood. Beneath was sandy grey hair and a wide, weathered face.
As Ashura recalled, Taurgosz Khosann had always had a sort of jovial, easy-going look to him. That was all gone now. His sharp little eyes were ready to bore holes into her forehead.
"Tenhammer here requested the honor of turning the screws on your personally," Commander Dosan explained. "In exchange for his men bolstering the Iron Throne's ranks. Seems he holds a bit of a grudge after what you've done." Turning to Khousann, the commander took on a businesslike tone. "Leave enough of her intact to march to the gallows and hang. But make sure that she cannot lift a blade. I don't want her to be a threat."
Taurgosz Khosann nodded. "That was always more Tazok's area of expertise. But I watched well enough." Again he leveled a glare on Ashura.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she supposed that this was all meant as some sort of terror-tactic; an attempt to break her with fear, here in the interrogation chamber, before the instruments even came out. Yet, looking up into Khosann's ice-chip eyes, Ashura simply felt…nothing. Just heavy and tired. Imoen was gone. Everyone was gone. All the rage and resistance had been spent and spilled out, now pooling on the stone floor somewhere upstairs.
Let's just get this over with.
Shadows.
Shadows were dragging her; gnarled silhouettes made visible by the mist-blue light of this ghostly world. One had her ankles. One had her wrists. The floor of the forest passed just beneath her bowed back, and occasionally a twig or rock would bump her and she'd shift, wincing. Above her hung a thick canopy, broken only once or twice by cracks of starlight. Wind beat the branches – a constant, nervous rustle.
Imoen remembered this forest. She had fought grasping branches and treacherous roots that Mirtul night, earlier this year. The night of the firebursts. The night of ogres seen for the first time. The night she had glimpsed that big, horned, demon-of-a-man. The night Gorion had died.
From time to time, the shadows glanced back at her and their faces swam. Their eyes were made of swamp-light; their only clear feature. Mostly they just looked ahead: out towards whatever fate they were dragging her to. Each motion jerked and jostled her, sending spikes of white-hot pain through her chest.
Where were they taking her anyway? Down to the dark? The dirt nap?
No. A familiar voice reverberated in her head. A branch high above her rustled, and then the raven fluttered down, perching on the craggy shoulder of the leading shadow. The shadow ignored its passenger, and the bird cocked its head and gave Imoen a curious look. Its eyes were black, rounded mirrors. Imoen could see her own distorted features there.
You are meant for greater things. What are you doing, sulking down here with the shadows?
Su-sulking? she muttered back at the bird. She felt so heavy; just a lump to be dragged. Breathing out words was too much of a struggle; she could only think at the pesky creature. I got stabbed in the dang chest!
Stabbed in the right breast, the voice of the raven corrected. The fool missed your heart. He was never much of a swordsman. And you were never meant to be slain by the casual thrust of a mortal blade, though you will succumb if you allow it.
They had carried her out into the field now. She remembered this place, with all the rings of stone. Cairns, she figured. The shadows hauled her over to an especially large slab and dropped her there, with a jolt of agony that filled her head, and for a long time there was nothing but pain.
Perhaps she had passed out, since there was the sensation of coming to sometime later. She was blinking back tears, panting hard.
The raven was gone now, and the wind whipped through the branches all around the clearing. The forest was shaking, as if giants lingered on the edges of the field, ready to come stomping out. Imoen remembered the ogres, and Gorion blasting them with fire. And that big, horned man, sauntering past the flames as if they were nothing.
Then, as if on cue, the swaying tree trunks parted and He entered the clearing for real, his greatsword resting on his shoulder and his eyes burning with Hell's own fire. Imoen craned her neck to get a better look, and winced at that. Hurts! Hurts! Hurts!
The horned man stomped forward, closer than he had ever been to Imoen in the waking world. He seemed to be speaking, though the voice that came out was not that of Koveras. Of Sarevok Anchev. Instead it was the voice of the Raven.
I brought you here for a purpose, child. To this place. The armored figure stopped short of the slab, and though its face was cast in shadow, Imoen sensed a smile. Did you know that once, my priests were required to kill a mortal every tenday? Any thinking being would do. A culling of the herd. Some of the priests would aim for higher numbers, seeking to please me. But you have far surpassed even them. How many do you think you have slain? And how often? The creature laughed.
(It's Bhaal isn't it? This is Bhaal!)
Certainly more than once a week, the creature added.
I…I've fought to survive, Imoen countered. Sure. What's your point, ya stupid bird?
There was another rumble of laughter, and then the armored shadow began to walk towards her once again. Survival is as good a motivation as any. It all serves me. And you, my child, have served me well. It is why I have brought you to this place. For a great and terrible sacrifice.
No. No! Yer not sacrificing me! As her mind screamed the words, the ghostly glow that lit the forest brightened. The world went blue-white, and, shifting on the slab (the sacrificial altar…), Imoen realized that the glow was coming from her.
More laughter sounded, the great horned monster looming right above her now, and Imoen raised her hands against it, palms open. A defensive action, but then on instinct she brought her hands over and down. Her palms touched her damp and bloody chest –the source of her pain– and a numbing cold seeped into her skin and into her heart. It shivered through her veins.
The pain abated, as did the glow, and the world starting to grow dark all around her. Imoen felt as if she were sinking, and as she faded, the voice of Raven echoed down. Oh, my child. My favored daughter. Did you really think that I would sacrifice you? No. You shall be my instrument.
And then the voice faded completely, and Imoen sank into a dreamless sleep.
Author's Note: I don't like bringing in original characters (especially since Baldur's Gate has a massive cast of one dimensional characters as is, and they can be repurposed for just about anything) but I suppose Carsa here fills the role that Harper agents like Delthyr would normally play.
The idea that Death tends to help heroes survive (through improbable events) so that they can send him more souls in the long-run comes from Fritz Leiber's Ffard and the Grey Mouser stories.
And what happened with Imoen was partly inspired by events in kaispan's fic Truth or Tale (hope that's not spoiling anything), and partly by the fact that every time I've played through Baldur's Gate and gotten to the point where I say something snarky to Angelo and he orders one of the party members executed it ends up being Imoen.