Author's Note: A huge thankyou to everyone who has faved and/or reviewed this story. Wow! That's a lot of reviews! I really appreciate it.

This ended up being an unusually short side-chapter. I'll probably put the next chapter up sooner than the usual 2-3 weeks that seems to be my submitting scheduled, though.

79 – The Rescue Party

"You idiots! You can't make them all death matches! We'd run out of gladiators within a few weeks!" –Rathet Amshir, Master of the Arena at Bezantur

"Oh, what a romantic notion," the wood elf mused as he sauntered down the street, head held high and unperturbed by the grey sky above. "To rescue three fair maidens from a dungeon! Hm. Or four, if you count Xan." The afternoon was damp and bitter, with a chill in the air. The clouds wept steady, icy mist.

Garrick didn't reply, not particularly wanting to think about the maidens in the dungeon, or what they might be going through. The stories you often hear about how soldiers treat captive women…

He shook his head, looking up to find the broad façade of the Elfsong Tavern fast approaching. Quite a crowd was gathered at the yawning entrance of the stable-house; bodies pressed together –murmuring, laughing, and back-smacking.

"And this is where we'll find the uh…muscle?" Karsa, the young apprentice, asked. He walked a few steps behind the elf and the bard. "For the rescue?"

Coran looked back and gave a hearty nod. "Oh aye. Aye! Quite an impressive set of muscles too. I had heard that she was having one of her…er…contests this afternoon. Glad we haven't missed the show."

The folks gathered beneath the overhang of the stables looked to be the sort you often saw in the Elfsong: rough-and-tumble travelers (off-season caravaners and sailors if you're feeling generous, bandits and pirates if you're not), a smattering of local, shady merchants (due-paying members of Ravenscar's guild), and their protection (local thugs), along with brightly dressed women standing about here and there (prostitutes.) They all seemed to be leaning into the interior of the barn, cheering and laughing. Seemed the show was well on its way.

Garrick approached, weaving his way into the crowd. Inside, the light was dim and hazed by pipe smoke; the cloying smell of the stuff mixing with the scent of horse manure and human sweat.

A dry, wooden crack and a meaty thump sounded from somewhere up ahead, followed by a roar from the ring of spectators. Colorful slips of parchment rustled everywhere, held up in clutched fists. Betting slips, Garrick realized. He dodged and dipped his way through, getting close enough to spot the broad circle of hay bales that had been laid out in the middle of the barn. Looked to be an improvised fighting ring, overseen by Lady Alyth Elendara herself, along with several of her bouncers.

The scene reminded Garrick a bit of the Prisoner's Carnival and underground arenas of Luskan, which Silke had always enjoyed. Of course the gladiators there had had no choice. Why Shar-Teel would willingly dive into this sort of thing –even if it was just one of her duels to 'second blood'– was beyond him.

Yet there she stood. Or crouched, rather, in the center of the hay-ring, a longsword out in one hand and…an odd device attached to her other arm? It looked like some sort of cup-shaped gauntlet, with a six-inch knife-blade protruding from the end.

Garrick's jaw dropped. 'Let's just hack the hand off and replace it with a blade.' Had she…had she actually done it?

Shar-Teel was dressed in the sort of riveted leathers you tend to see on poor conscripts or village militias, her face smeared with purple woad. Her opponent, a large man with flaming red hair and a braided beard, was dressed about the same –armed with a single-bladed battleax and a wooden shield. The man had been knocked back against the bales, blood seeping from a great rend in his armor, but now he shot to his feet, laughing. He was bleeding from many shallow cuts, in fact, and there was little left of his shield. By comparison Shar-Teel looked untouched beyond some blood trickling from her nose.

She was panting hard, however. And drenched in sweat.

Laughing like a madman, the big guy with the ax lunged in at Shar-Teel. She twisted and rolled out of the way, retaliating, but the man was fast on his feet. Steel clanged and wood rattled. The ax swept over Shar-Teel's head; a narrow duck. Then a shield-bash sent her stumbling back.

Garrick was jostled from all sides, the crowd roaring in his ears. A chant had gone up. "Gre-tek! Gre-tek!" Apparently that was the axman's name. And most of the crowd was betting on him.

The ax sailed down and rebounded off of Shar-Teel's gauntlet with a painful clang. "You tire!" the big man boomed. "When I send you to the Abyss, give Wilf my regards!"

"I kicked his sorry ass once-" Shar-Teel began, but Gretek didn't give her time to taunt. His axe swung down, and Shar-Teel caught it by crossing both her blades, then a kick to her gut sent her stumbling back a few steps.

Shar-Teel roared and retaliated, leaning into a mighty hack, but Gretak caught her blade with his shield. The edge bit deep into the wood, seemingly stuck there, and Gretek took advantage, yanking back hard and extending his opponent's arm. His axe sliced downward, intent on giving Shar-Teel a second severed limb, but she let go of her sword and hopped out of the way.

With a laugh Gretek flung his shield-arm back, the arm slipping out of the straps and sending the battered thing –along with Shar-Teel's sword– flying behind him; out of reach. Garrick gaped at that, and over the roar of the crowd he thought he heard Shar-Teel mutter a low: "Oh shit." Then she was grunting in pain as Gretek aimed a two-handed swing at her head, barely repulsed by the bladed gauntlet.

The blow seemed to turn Shar-Teel fully around, and when the ax came chopping down again she dove like a swimmer, the blade sweeping down between her splayed legs just as she flew away. She landed in a scramble, on her elbows and knees, and raced further from her foe. A few paces, and then she reached the wall of hay, leaning hard against it.

Beshaba's breath! This was not a duel to second blood! What had Shar-Teel gotten herself into? Briefly, Garrick glanced over to Coran, but the bewildered look on the elf's face mirrored his own. What should they do?

Gretek stomped towards his kneeling opponent, his ax in both hands and raised towards the ceiling, howling in triumph all the way.

Straw rustled, Shar-Teel shifted a bit, and then with a grunt and a sudden burst of strength she whirled around and shot to her feet all at once, holding the massive bale of hay out before her, her blade-hand stuck into it like the prong of a pitchfork and her other hand gripping one of the binding-strings. The ax struck, but all it did was send up a plume of straw.

Shar-Teel tilted away, then she slammed the interposed hay-bale against the big man with all her strength, leaning into the blow. Gretek overbalanced, and they both went tumbling down in a crinkly explosion of hay.

Hay, and flailing limbs. Hay and kicking legs. Hay and flashing steel. Wads of the stuff flew everywhere, and within the space of a few breaths some of the golden-yellow straw was splattered with blood.

With a triumphant roar Shar-Teel shot to her feet, and the audience gasped. Her bladed gauntlet –and her entire arm– were drenched in blood, and more and more red was spilling out onto the dirt and soaking into the hay. Seemed she had struck someplace vital on the fallen man. Or several places.

Shar-Teel's feet were pressed down onto her opponent's arms, pinning him to floor and keeping him from raising the ax while he shook and shuddered. As the struggling grew weaker, she bent down over his face, hocked dramatically, and then spat.

Many of the gasps from the audience turned into jeers, boos, and angry shouts. Alyth was grinning though. Seemed clear who she had bet on. Quite a few of the folks that Garrick recognized from Ravenscar's guild looked pleased too, and some began to demand payment.

The protests didn't let up, however, and the loudest came from a halfling man who had leapt up on top of one of the hay bales, shouting a string of curses. As Shar-Teel bent to retrieve her sword the halfling dropped fully into the ring, drawing a dagger from his belt and approaching. "You big, sneering bitch!" he howled, pointing with his blade.

Shar-Teel spun to face him, straightening. Her sword dangled casually at her side. "That I am," she agreed. She waved her dripping gauntlet at the hin man. "You want a poke too, runt?"

Three other men had followed the halfling into the ring. One was armored, carrying a short blade, and the other two were plainly dressed, though they wore the telltale pouches and rune-lined bracelets you often see on spellcasters.

"This your plan?!" the halfling shouted over the roar of the crowd. "To pick us Maulers off one by one?"

Shar-Teel snorted. "Maulers? The fuck do I care about your little gang? That Wilf fellow of yours was the one eager to die over a bumped sword. Then carrot-top over there," she gestured towards the corpse in the hay pile, "had to pull his bullshit about honor and vengeance. But if you want to keep going, feel free to line up-"

"I've a better idea!" the hin man shouted with a poke of his dagger. "How 'bout we show you the full wrath of the Maulers right here!" The men behind him made menacing gestures as well, one reaching for his spellpouch.

Oh boy. Garrick steeled himself, drawing a deep breath.

There were shouts of protest from the audience, and the bounces on either side of Alyth reached for their swords. "I won't abide a fight here-" Alyth began, but the halfling cut her off.

"You've fights all the time! What's one more? This time on our terms."

A deep breath, and then Garrick shouldered his way past the last line of spectators and leapt into the ring. The moment he landed he found that Coran was already at his side. The elf wore his usual, wide grin, a small dagger twirling in each hand. They both strode to Shar-Teel's side.

"Really now?" Coran chided. "Picking on this poor, defenseless woman here?" Shar-Teel was giving them both an incredulous look, too surprised to take immediate offence.

"And have you no sense for the sanctity of the arena?!" Garrick put in. "Ganging up, four-on-one? I'm surprised Lord Tempus hasn't struck you down already!" The armored guy looked like he might be a follower of the Foehammer. Was worth a try.

But the four angry men just glared. Eventually the halfling puffed up. "You think you can stop us from taking this bitch's head?"

That was certainly a question Garrick was asking himself. His hand hovered over his brass horn. Best to aim for one of the spell-slingers first.

"I've no idea," Coran replied. "But I'm honor bound, at all times, to defend a lady in distress." He was laying the drama on thick. Would have made Numbul proud.

Four against three. Of course, there was a way to even the odds a bit. Garrick looked to the crowd, trying to catch Karsa's eye. The young mage was out there, but he had this baffled look on his face, just watching the show unfold. Garrick tried to give him a 'Come on!' signal with his eyes and a tilt of his head, but Karsa just kept staring.

All around them the crowd was murmuring. There was laughter too. Then papers began to rustle. People were starting to make bets.

"…five to one for the Maulers, far as I'm…"

"…Pish! That crazy wench could take 'em all 'erself. People keep underestimating…"

"…mark me, that elf's got some tricks…"

"…what's that little boy going to do? Juggle stuff at 'em…"

Frustrated, Garrick bored his eyes into Karsa hard, and gestured. The lad finally seemed to catch on, giving him an open mouthed 'oh-that's-what-you-mean!' look and starting to wriggle over the wall of hay.

"If you want my head, come and get it!" Shar-Teel snarled.

"Oh we will!" The halfling crouched and tensed. "We wi-"

There was a metallic ting, and a dagger flew over the halfling's head, burying itself in the throat of one of the spellcasters. The man had apparently just pulled out and pointed a small, glass shard (spell component…)

The mage's mouth moved to the form the words of a spell, blood seeped out instead, and then all of the Hells seemed to break loose at once: Shar-Teel roared and charged, another one of Coran's throwing-knives flew, lights flashing from the fingertips of the second spell-slinger, Garrick's horn rose (seemingly of its own accord) to his lips as he belted out the sonic spell in a rush of instinct, the rafters and the roof of the stables shook, lights danced everywhere, and there were flashes of smoke, flashes of fire, spurts of blood…

A little while later their boots clomped, loud and steady, on the hardwood of the hall –Shar-Teel taking the loudest and surest steps as she strutted along behind Alyth. "Did you see how I had that halfling skewered up on my sword?" she asked the men filing in behind her. "Flailing his stubby arms around and waving like…like he was some sort of flag?! Ha!"

"I uh…I saw that," Garrick managed. "Yeah."

The proprietress of the Elfsong led them into a side room off the main hall. A long, wooden table filled most of the space, with a few cabinets and clay pots that sported striped snake-tongue plants lining the wall.

As the five of them entered Coran spoke up. "You know...just as chivalry demands leaping in to rescue a lady in distress, it is customary for the rescued party to express some gratitude."

Shar-Teel whirled on him. "You're treading dangerous ground, little man. If you're asking for a blowjob or something I promise I'll bite your dick clean off and-"

"No, no, no," Coran protested, his palms raised and his grin never faltering. "Nothing of the sort. I was just mentioning that, on occasion, people have been known to use the words 'thank' and 'you' in the same sentence. Sometimes they even string those words together."

"Hmph. Would have done fine without you."

Lady Alyth rolled her eyes at that. She had slipped to the other side of the meeting room table, using a tiny key to open one of the cabinets. Now she faced the four of them. "That's technically true," she pointed out. "My guards and Ravenscar's people would have intervened, if you dashing young men hadn't jumped in first. Can't have the winner of a guild-sanctioned street fight get lynched by sore losers."

"Oh," was all Garrick could think to say to that.

"We're grateful that you did jump in, though. And took the risk. Doubly grateful that the Maulers are all dead. You've no idea how much trouble they've been causing." She gave Shar-Teel a significant look. "And you should show some gratitude too."

"Bah!" Shar-Teel hooked a thumb in Coran's direction. "You give praise to a petty little man like that, and next thing you know he swells up, puffs out his chest, and starts strutting around like he owns you or something."

"Oh," Coran retorted, "I assure you, my dear Shar-Teel, that I would be strutting around no matter what you did."

"I'd spit on your manhood, but the shrimpy little thing doesn't deserve the attention."

"You seemed to appreciate it enough the other night-"

Shar-Teel pointed her bladed arm at him. "Don't you dare bring that up here!"

Coran started to add something, stopped himself, and withdrew. "Best not to prove your point about 'puffed up little men,' I suppose," he eventually said. "And I wouldn't want to end up like that poor halfling. (I prefer to do the skewering.)"

"You're a funny man. That's why I'm going to kill you last." She glared at him, and he returned an affable smile.

Did I miss something? Did they..? Garrick shook his head. Is this some sort of…flirting?

Alyth had been digging through the cabinet, filling up a pouch with clinking coins. Now she turned and faced Shar-Teel. "Here." The pouch flew across the table and Shar-Teel caught it. "More reasons to be grateful to your white knights," the half-elf added. "The betting on that last-minute fight of yours earned a little extra."

"Good then." Shar-Teel gave Garrick a pointed look, and then made her voice go nasal. "Thank you, good sirs." It was a pretty good impression, Garrick had to admit.

"Nice job out there, Shar-Teel," Lady Alyth added as she locked up her little gold stash (as Garrick understood it, Alyth's underground 'banking' operation consisted of hundreds of these little stashes spread all over the place. Thieves might occasionally find and manage the locks on one or two, but there was no central vault to rob.) "Would prefer if you kept it to brawls and duels to first blood, though. For a moment I thought we were about to lose one of our prize attractions."

"Not my fault those pathetic little men demanded death matches," Shar-Teel retorted.

"But you were happy to oblige. At the risk of your life."

"Of course."

Shaking her head, Alyth walked around them and out of the room, leaving Shar-Teel with her 'saviors.'

"So," Shar-Teel addressed them. "The fuck are you three doing here, anyway?"

Coran laughed. "We were hoping to put that death wish of yours towards something useful."

"Yeah," Garrick added. "We need your help. Our friends: Ashura, Imoen, Xan, and Viconia. They've been captured…" He glanced around. Seemed secure enough. "By the Flaming Fist. Locked up in their dungeons. And the criers have been saying that they'll be hanged tomorrow morning."

Eyes narrow, Shar-Teel leaned back against the table. Eventually she let out one of her loud, barking laughs. "Ha!"

Not promising.

"Guess that's what you get for traveling with a drow," the warrior-woman added. "Renegade or not, who'd know the difference? Funny though: I figured I'd see the gallows before most of 'em."

"It's a bit more complicated than…"

"Like I care 'bout the long story." Shar-Teel made a dismissive gesture. Then she leaned back further, rubbing her chin. "Hm. The Flaming Fist fort itself, huh?"

"Yeah."

She flashed them a wicked smile. "Interesting. It'll cost you though."

"After all we've been through-"

"Oh spare me." Shar-Teel made a fist and moved it in front of her eye: a 'boo-hoo' gesture. Then she raised her bladed gauntlet, which was still a bit smeared with blood, and tapped it. "Already got my hand chopped once for that tough little twat of yours. Remember? And you see this?"

"Uh. Yeah. So you really…replaced your hand with a blade?"

Shar-Teel looked incredulous, and then she reeled back, laughing. "Oh? Hahaha!" Once she had recovered she started to twist the gauntlet. It unscrewed and popped off the bracer that it had been locked into, revealing the limp, curled fingers of her hand. Looked a bit like a dead squid. "Useless for gripping things. And it was my wiping hand. So that was frustrating. But of course I kept the damn thing! A powerful priest can restore an injury like this. For the right price."

She then held up the blade-attachment. "Saw this thing in a blacksmith's. Apparently it's a popular sort of weapon in the Shining Lands. They call it a…patta? Something like that. So I had the smith custom-fit it for me. Cost a bit, but nothing compared to a restoration. That's quite a big pile of gold. Might take a lot of duels." She sneered. "Or maybe just one, crazy, suicide mission into the Flaming Fist's fortress? And I know you're worth it. After all you gathered from Firewine, Ulcaster, that pirate stash, and all those bounties? You're a wealthy little fellow, huh Garrick?"

Quite a lot of gold and gems. Yeah. All lost behind the walls of Candlekeep. But Shar-Teel didn't know that.

Garrick nodded, putting on his most affable smile. "Sure. Just name your price."

"Ha! I will. We're taking the secret tunnels in, right?"

"Secret tunnels?"

"There are some," Karsa interjected. "But how do you know..?"

"They're how I got out of the place the first time," Shar-Teel replied with a shrug.

Author's Note: A warning that the next chapter contains depictions of torture.