Author's Note: This chapter is looong, a lot happens, and things explode. I thought about splitting it up at a couple of places, but...eh. Let's have a long, climactic chapter instead. Here goes!

81 - To Rule the Ashes

"Some fools claim that war is good for business. To them I say: what good is trade to the dead?" -Revered Father Adhan El Imater

They stopped at a section of the city's old wall, in a back alley lined with grass. No street or window lights reached this narrow space; only the light of the hand-lantern that Shar-Teel carried. "This is where the tunnel opens up," she announced, tapping the crack between two stones. "Think the mechanism's hidden in this groove."

"And you open it by..?" Garrick prompted.

"You're not supposed to open it from the outside, idiot! It's a damned escape tunnel."

"Then why are we even here?"

"Well, I don't know how to open it, but I know it can be opened. The crazy gnome that showed me the way out of the dungeons was there because he'd broken in."

Coran laughed. "He broke into the Flaming Fist's own prison? That sounds like a tale. Was he rescuing damsels too?"

"Just bugshit crazy," Shar-Teel explained. "He insisted that he was a monster. That he had murdered thirty-three children on the streets of the city, and that he had to be locked up. Thing was: there weren't actually any dead kids. The Fist figured he was delusional." She snorted. "That, or he was pulling about the weirdest scam you can think of to get a roof over your head. So they kicked him out.

"The first time, at least. But the morning after they found the gnome right back in his cell. Kicked 'em out again, and he just reappeared. So they gave up and let 'em live there. It was the cell next to mine, and after a day or two of listening to gnomish bullshit and solving some of his stupid-ass math puzzles, he decided I was 'worthy,' unlocked my cell, and showed me the tunnel he had been using to get in and out. I just took the 'out' part and never looked back."

"What were you in for?" Garrick asked.

"You don't ever ask a woman that," Shar-Teel snarled, leveling one of her murderous glares. An awkward, silent beat or two passed, and then she abruptly laughed and smacked him on the arm. "Ha! The look on your face!" She shook head. "I was fifteen years old at the time. Just a runaway. My dad thought it best for me to cool my head in the cells for a tenday, before taking me home. Heh. Showed him." She turned to Karsa. "So? Can you open the door?"

The apprentice bit his lip. "I can lower the wards meant to keep intruders out. And the wards deeper inside the fort. But…this mechanism? No idea."

"Good thing we brought a thief."

Coran chuckled and stepped forward, pulling a couple of needle-like tools from his pocket. "Funny. Breaking into a place I've spent years trying to avoid." He knelt and probed with one of the needles.

And probed. And probed. And probed some more.

Gradually, the gallant, cheery look on the elf's face faded, the minutes dragging on. "This…there isn't really any sort of lock," he complained. "Or…much of a device to get to."

"Maybe it takes a crazy gnome to figure it out?" Shar-Teel suggested. "The one who's always preaching at the hangman's square was still awake and shouting when we passed through."

Coran scoffed. "There's never been a door in this fair city that I couldn't tease open." Another moment of useless poking went by. "Of course, it would be nice if there was some sort of…latch…or lock…or gear…or something…" He continued to search the wall.

"Useless darthiir! Do something! Anything!"

Perhaps it was the drow's words –hissed right into his ear– that brought Xan back. Or perhaps it was the absurd sight of a naked, filthy, blood-splattered Ashura –a scowl fixed on her face as she swept an armored man's feet out from under him and then followed through with a downward stab of her swords– that woke him from his fugue. Whatever the case, Xan suddenly found himself at the center of a hurricane of motion, the smell of blood, excrement, and sulfur hanging pungent in the air. They appeared to be in some sort of underground holding cell.

Wait. Sulfur? A snarl drew his eyes over to a black and red-tinged beast that had just backed one of the Flaming Fist soldiers into a corner. The creature gave a long, low growl, accompanied by a blast of smoke and a sputtering flame.

Beyond the hellhound and its prey, just past the doorway, something massive seemed to be clomping down the hall. It let out a thunderous roar, waving an ax as it passed into view: an eight foot tall…minotaur? What? The creature charged on, disappearing from sight.

Had he completely lost his mind?

With a violent shake the hellhound sent the Fist soldier flying and then sliding across the room. Weaponless, the woman fumbled up onto her knees, only to find Ashura looming above her, left-hand blade tilted back. Then the sword shot forward.

A kneeling, helpless woman. A stab to the chest. It was too much. Xan went away again.

When he returned it was to yet another shocking sight. The door to the dungeon cell was now closed, and the man and woman that Ashura had killed in rapid succession were now leaning against it, holding it shut with the strength of the undead. There were three other corpses helping to press the door closed.

The zombies were not the shocking thing, however. No, the shocking thing was the ghost standing right in front Xan. A ghost with short, red, face-framing hair, one lock of it tied into a braid. The ghost's eyes were aqua-blue, her face was round, and there was a big, friendly smile plastered across it.

"Heya!" Imoen said. She glanced around. "To all'a y'all!" Between her hands she held some sort of bag, round and blue. "I come bearing gifts, and ya poor sods sure look like you can use 'em." With that she turned the bag upside down, and its contents began to spill out. Far, far more contents than should have been able to fit: piles of clothing, armor, swords, wands, a crossbow, several quiver, at least two scroll cases, a belt lined with potion vials, a belt lined with sharpened throwing-rings, a golden warhammer, and a great many boots.

One of the swords was all-too familiar, with a moonstone in its pommel and gently curving hand-guards beneath the hilt. Imoen used her toe to point at the discarded moonblade. "Got quite a zap to ma fingers when I picked that thing up for you. So ya better put it to good use!"

Xan nodded, dimly, kneeling down to fish through the jewelry for his rings and circlet. Nearby, Ashura had already wriggled into her padded clothes and was beginning to strap on her armor as fast as she could. Viconia had tossed her rags aside and was dressing and armoring up as well. "There…there was a minotaur?" Xan found himself asking.

"Ha!" Imoen laughed. "Yup. An illusory one, at least. But it managed to scatter the guards enough for me to slip through to ya."

"How in the Abyss are you still alive?" Viconia asked, bluntly, adjusting her newly donned leathers.

"Would you believe that it was just a flesh wound?"

"No."

"Yeah. Well." Imoen turned towards Ashura. "So. Turns out that I'm a child of Bhaal, huh?"

Xan couldn't help but gasp.

"Yeah," Ashura muttered. "My father may have…mentioned that. In a letter he left with Tethtoril. In the Keep."

"Oh? Ya maybe should'a told me then, huh?!"

"Well, I couldn't just blurt it out…"

"Why not? I just did."

Ashura was giving the floor a long inspection. "You know the prophesies…"

Stomping over to her…sister?!..Imoen opened her arms wide. A fierce hug followed, and chainmail clinked. "Prophesies/shmothasies! I promise I won't murder you if you don't murder me."

"Of course. Never."

"Good. Now finish getting equipped. Before they batter the door down."

Another gasp, as Xan realized that soldiers were indeed beating upon the door, only held back by the raised dead. And he was still dressed in rags. Slipping them off, he reached down and fumbled through his robes, trying to remember the order the garments were meant to be donned before he could belt his sword on, along with the satchel that contained his spellbook.

Imoen had drifted in beside him, a golden wand in her hand. The weapon had a spiraling, curly design to it, implying flame. "Xan?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes?"

"You going to be alright?"

"Absolutely not."

The undead had their backs pressed to the door now. One of the hinges had shattered.

"Thank you for asking, however."

"I love you, ya know."

He nodded, opened his mouth to reply, and then the rest of the hinges broke.

It was the Cloakwood mines all over again: armed and armored soldiers pouring out of every passageway, bristling with spears, shoving for elbowroom and purchase, and trying not to slip in the growing pools of blood. No time to think, just move-move-move; ducking and turning, slashing and stabbing, kicking and kneeing, using the covering darkness that Viconia kept summoning for all it was worth, along with Edwin's webs and the storms of fear and confusion that Xan kept flinging about.

The Cloakwood mines all over again. Good. Ashura had survived kicking that hornet's nest in, and she'd survive this one too.

Going low and dashing forward, she locked a sword-hilt with the haft of a Fist soldier's spear, shoving him back into one of the clouds of darkness. She followed him in, infravision flicking on and everything turning various tones of blue and red. The soldier's body language spoke of panic, and his spear flailed about blindly. Slipping in beside him, Ashura used her shorter blade to stab: up and through the unarmored armpit.

There was another soldier behind the first, also fumbling around in the darkness. He must have heard the scuffling, because he tried to shove a sword in Ashura's face, steel whistling by her cheek.

She went low, lunged quick as she could, and metal screeched as Varscona pierced between the man's banded plates. That sent him stumbling back, out of the cloud, twisting in a jittery dance that tore the sword from Ashura's fingers.

Damn!

She rushed to follow, stumbling out into the light. The man who had stolen Varscona (with his chest) had flopped over, groaning, but there were upright forms close by.

Ting! The edge of a spear skipped across Ashura's armored shoulder. The spearwoman tried to stab again, but Ashura managed to snatch the haft with her free hand and yank as hard as she could, pulling the soldier belly-first onto her shortblade. She twisted her sword, the spearwoman went limp, and as she shouldered the dead weight aside a familiar, tickling sensation came to her.

She tried to whirl away. Too late.

A crossbow clicked and something heavy struck Ashura's chest, twisting her to the side and sending bits of chainmail clinking to the floor. The bolt fell away. Torn as it was, the armor had done its job.

The man who had shot her struggled to reload, backing up towards the wall. Ashura advanced, but before the bowman could lock the bolt in or she could overtake him they were interrupted by a click and a rumbling sound. The bowman turned his head, gawping at the wall as it slid aside and a figure emerged:

Shar-Teel, of all people, sauntered out of the passage, grinned at the man, and then she plunged the tip of some sort of bladed gauntlet right into the side of his neck. The man went down clutching and choking, and the warrior-woman stepped on by. She was wearing her usual scaled armor, a sword in her left hand and warpaint smeared across her face.

A round little gnome, with bushy brown eyebrows and a stringy beard, hastened into the hall just behind Shar-Teel. He was dressed in a feathered hat and a tarnished red coat, and the pair were flanked by a smirking Coran, a bashful Garrick (he gave Ashura an awkward little wave) and some young man Ashura had never seen before. The stranger had a look of utter horror on his face, gaping at the dead and dying guards.

"Uh…" was all Ashura could think to say. She glanced down the hall, but it seemed there were no more Fists standing upright, and her companions were working on finishing them off. Imoen and Viconia were both opening throats. Xan used his moonblade to stab. At the end of the hallway, where stairs led up and out of the underground dungeons, a wall of roaring flames that Edwin had conjured up blocked the way.

"What do you know," Shar-Teel said with a laugh. "We came all this way, and it looks like you didn't even need rescuing."

"Well, I appreciate the thought!" Imoen chirped.

Shar-Teel had stopped walking forward, but the gnome continued, hands in his pockets, head high, and seemingly oblivious to the carnage around him as he inspected the walls of the underground passage. Ashura recognized him from somewhere. Oh yeah. The mad preacher, from the square.

"A suitable enough dungeon," the gnome proclaimed. "Acceptable for interring any heretic who will not accept Tiax's rightful rule. Now we shall see if the rest of this fortress is suitable to Tiax's needs. Follow, slaves!"

They all stared at the gnome's back as he briskly clomped down the hall, nearing the conjured flames that blocked the stairs. "Um…" Garrick began. "We might ought to stick together, friend. If we're going to…to rule this castle and such."

The gnome ignored him, and the wall of fire sputtered and winked out shortly before Tiax reached it, as if parting before him (or because the spell had simply run its course), allowing him to ascend the stairs.

Garrick cringed, turning back to the group. "He demanded 'rightful rulership of the castle' for helping us with the secret door. Didn't think he'd just…saunter in and assume ownership of the place, though."

"Hm. Well, perhaps he will live long enough to distract the guards," Edwin muttered. "While we take our leave." He turned to the opening. "This is a secret tunnel? An escape tunnel, perchance?"

Shar-Teel nodded, a big grin on her face, and Viconia wasted no time striding towards the opening. "Excellent then," the drow proclaimed. "I've had more than enough of this place."

The young stranger beside Garrick held up his hands. "Wait! We agreed to rescue Duke Eltan too!"

"Oh?" Edwin asked. "We did? We agreed to turn around and fight our way through this entire fortress?"

"Well, I didn't realize there'd be a…" The stranger's eyes swept the corpses that lined the dungeon floor. "…a battle going on." He waved a piece of parchment. "I brought this scroll, you see! Though…it might not work on this many people…"

"Pah," Viconia hissed, stepping into the tunnel.

"I just have to lower the wards," the young man insisted. "Then Moruene can step in, and we can all get whisked out of here."

Xan was staring at the escape tunnel, his eyes wide and his shoulders beginning to quake. "The…the grand duke. Yes. Duty would require that we..."

"Of course!" Imoen agreed with a fierce nod. "Finish storming the castle! Rescue the duke. Stop the bad guys! Be big damn heroes!"

But when Xan turned back to the rows of cells his trembling grew worse. "I…I think…"

"No time ta think," Imoen insisted. "We probably have'em scattered now. Haste us, Xan." She gave his shoulder a mighty squeeze. "Then we race and punch through with all we've got!" And with that she hefted her bow and started down the hallway, not giving anyone a chance to argue.

With as resolute a nod as he could manage, Xan's fingers fluttered and he cast the spell she had requested, a giddy ripple humming through everyone present. Then he drew his moonblade and fell in line behind Imoen, who had become a blur of pink and violet. Shar-Teel snorted and followed, as did Garrick after a shrug and an awkward smile shot Ashura's way, along with the stranger, who still held out his scroll.

Viconia and Edwin, however, just stood there in the open passageway. "Absolute foolishness," the red wizard muttered.

"Foolishness is getting separated" Ashura growled. "Where we're all easy pickings. Come on!" But the drow and the red wizard still stood there, glaring forward, while Coran hung at Ashura's side, looking back and waiting. "Or you can run off into the city as a pair of fugitives, with nothing to show for all this." With that she whirled, out of patience, and started for the stairs, though she glimpsed Viconia giving a nod and moving forward as she went.

Imoen and the rest were already gone, thanks to the haste spell. "You owe me a great deal," Edwin muttered. Fortunately, it seemed everyone had fallen in line.

Unfortunately, by the time they mounted the stairs and climbed onto the ground level, the others were nowhere to be seen, and a line of Flaming Fist spearmen had just started to hustle through a doorway adjacent to theirs. With a clink the first soldier who spotted them pivoted and leveled his spear, his companions following in tight formation.

"Foolish, foolish, foolish," Edwin kept muttering, just behind her, his fingers beginning the gestures of a spell.

Don't get separated. Easy pickings. Ugh. Good advice, but too late now.

For a long, drawn-out moment Sarevok held his blade high, suspended above the altar and the helpless man bound upon it. Part of the ritual. A pause before the chop.

The Sword of Chaos nearly brushed against the great arch of the inner dais, level with the granite skull that served as a keystone. The sacrifice, who lay on his back, arms locked against the altar's sides, had been begging for his life for a long time. Now all he could let out was a hoarse choke.

A pause. A breath. A chance for the sacrifice to see the blade coming. And then it fell.

Wallen's severed head struck the tiles with a clunk and a messy spray, a hiss rising up as streams of blood sizzled along the edge of the Sword of Chaos, dissolving. Stolen vitality surged through Sarevok's veins, golden fire dancing before his eyes. He stepped back, glancing down at the bloodstained altar and the colorful mosaics that decorated it and the dais, depicting devils as they feasted upon the tormented souls of mortals; watched over by the hulking, horned figure of the Ravager.

Near the foot of the altar lay the headless corpses of another man and a woman, their blood pooling to mingle with Wallen's in the grooves. No devils or gods feasted tonight, however, and no lights flared up in the sockets of the stone skulls that lined the temple, as they would have in the days of Bhaal. Tonight it was only Sarevok who drank.

Drank, and tied up loose ends. These three: Wallen, Dhanial, and Gregor, had been deserters from the Iron Throne, conspiring to run off together with everything they could carry.

"You are finished?" Tamoko asked, her voice even. She reclined against the foot of the great dais, her scrying mirror held out in her hands. Winski and Semaj waited beyond, the old man sitting cross-legged and the younger one thumbing through his spellbook: a mage's way of fidgeting.

"I suppose so." Sarevok propped his sword against his shoulder and strode down the steps.

"Angelo wishes to speak with you,' Tamoko stated plainly, handing over the mirror.

The Flaming Fist commander's visage hung there in the smoky glass, put-together as always, but there was tension there. "It's the prisoners," he whispered, quick as he could.

Sarevok's jaw clenched. "They've escaped?" It had been a mistake to-

But Angelo shook his head. "Think they're still right here, actually. Saw the moonblade, a moment ago, before we had to withdraw to the upper feast hall. Somehow the elf got reacquainted with the damn sword. I think some sort of reinforcements snuck in, and they're all fighting their way through the fortress. There's fires everywhere, and I've lost gods know how many men…"

"They are fighting through?

"Seems that-"

"Seeking to rescue Eltan, then. Interesting." Anger turned to cold contemplation. "It must be the Dragoness."

"Haven't spotted her, or any really powerful spells. More like a small army of spellcasters."

"Perhaps the apprentices. Still, this could be an opportunity." Yes. So many pieces —loose ends— in a single place at once. In the chaos of a battle.

Angelo huffed. "You would see it that way."

"Of course. Try to ensure that your guests do lift the wards on Eltan's suite. And try to stay alive, of course."

Angelo opened his mouth to reply, but Sarevok muttered an elven word, and the mirror rippled, its magic fading.

He glanced up. "Winski. We will need a portal prepared shortly." It was one of the reasons, beyond the obvious, that this hidden temple beneath the city made for an excellent base of operations. Thanks to the work of the cult that had once thrived here, the space between the material world and Gehenna had been worn thin. Rifts could be conjured, allowing quick and secret movement. Perfect for assassin-cultists, and perfect for Sarevok's current aims as well.

With another elven word Sarevok reactivated the mirror, and after a brief wait a feminine face swam into view, framed by long blond hair. The woman started to say something, but Sarevok cut her off, his voice all business. "Cythandria. Send your messenger to Krystin immediately. The time is now. Then I want you to contact our highborn friends."

"Not even a-" she began, but he interrupted.

"Now is the time to act. Swift and decisive." Again, he deactivated the mirror. They had only been planning to wait a day or two longer, in any case. Long enough for the remaining Black Talon forces to arrive, and for the public hanging to be done with.

Somehow, Sarevok had figured it would not be that simple. Not where his family was involved. His little sister had set things in motion, and now it all came to seeing where they fell.

As it turned out, Moruene's apprentice had a pretty good idea about how to break into Grand Duke Eltan's chambers and rescue the old fellow. The scroll that the lad had been waving around contained a spell that cast a cloak of invisibility over everyone, the idea being to sneak the rescue party through the keep, into the central tower, and then all the way up to Eltan's suite.

It was a plan that probably would have worked, if the prisoners hadn't just turned the fortress into a battleground full of Flaming Fists on high alert. As is, they made it through one open foyer, up some stairs, and then into a hallway before one of the Fist warpriests (the Watchful Eye of Helm indeed!) had spotted them and everything had exploded in the usual manner.

There had been lots of literal explosions (of the incendiary sort), in fact, since Imoen had let loose with her pilfered wand before the soldiers had managed a volley, followed by a sizzling blast of electricity from the wand Garrick now wielded.

Now the halls and chambers of the fortress were blurring by right quick as they all charged through, speeded along by Xan's spell, as the party reacted faster than most of the soldiers could and cut a path with fire and lightning. Shar-Teel raced just behind the flames, chopping into injured guards and their smoking armor. "Seems all I get is your leavings," she complained, turning towards the next short span of stairs.

At the rear of their little procession, Moruene's apprentice stumbled on, gaping at the char-marks and the blood. "Do you have to…you weren't supposed to kill them…especially not all…" he stammered.

"We supposed to read them poetry instead?" Shar-Teel asked with a backwards look and a blood-splattered grin. Then she raced up the steps.

Just short of the final flight, she stopped and dropped, crossbow bolts whizzing just above her head. Bracing low, with her fist and patta gauntlet pressed against a stone step, Shar-Teel muttered: "Bloody lots of 'em." She glanced back at her companions, who were now bunching up behind her on the stairs. "A dozen at least, dug in behind tables. It's some sort of mess hall."

"Just bowmen?" Xan asked.

"All I saw."

Xan drew in one of his resigned breaths. "Follow me then." Before anyone could voice a protest or ask a question the elf straightened and marched up the steps. Imoen hastened to crawl-climb behind him, still keeping low.

The crossbowmen had, of course, reloaded, and a full volley of six or so bolts flew in the moment Xan stepped up, all aimed at him. A pillar of violet energy erupted up around him and flung every bolt aside, and Xan kept walking forward. The spell shielded him, and his companions just behind.

"All those tables are flammable," Shar-Teel suggested, rising a little and making sure to keep behind the narrow shield.

True. True. Imoen dashed fully up the stairs and slipped out from behind her elf/cover, leveling her wand and sending a tear-shaped bolt of flame ahead of them all. It struck one of the tables that an unfortunate pair of crossbowmen were squatting behind, bursting on impact and expanding in a roaring ball of flames. A streak of electricity from Garrick zipped and sizzled its way through the other wing of the chamber, dropping several more Fists, their limbs trembling and the joints in their armor smoking.

Fire spread from table to table, plumes of smoke beginning to rise and the room taking on a hellish glow, but in the middle of the conflagration a familiar figure stood, not bothering with cover and completely untouched. There was some sort of bluish, flickering globe surrounding Commander Dosan —obviously a protective spell– and he held a longbow in one hand.

We'll see about that. Imoen reached for one of her dispelling arrows and danced to the side. Shar-Teel was already out and ahead of the rest of them, stalking (odd that she wasn't dashing) over charred bits of rug.

Extending one hand out to the side, Commander Dosan gestured, and the growing flames dimmed and then winked out. At the same time, however, he did something completely unexpected: he held his longbow out, dropped it, and turned his head back towards the eight or so remaining soldiers, who had been backing away from the fire and reloading their crossbows. "Stand down!" he ordered. "Stand down, and back away. For the love of Helm, stand down!"

"S-sir?" one of asked.

The commander turned to face the group of invaders as they cautiously threaded their way out and fully into the dining hall, weapons and wands ready (even Moruene's apprentice seemed to have his hands out in an arcane gesture.) "We've lost more than enough men today," Anglo bellowed, standing stiff. "I've no wish to rule over ashes. We…surrender."

Wow. Imoen kept her arrow knocked, though not fully drawn, and to her surprise Shar-Teel didn't race forward and open the surrendering man's throat. Instead, the warrior-woman just walked forward, blades lowering.

"Sir…" the soldier stammered again.

"Withdraw! Take the wounded back down to the lower keep. I will go with these…intruders, to insure that they get what they came for. And then, hopefully, no more of my men need die." He looked to Xan. "If that is agreeable?"

"I'd like that," Imoen breathed. "Was you folks who tried to kill us in the first place!" Of course she'd definitely keep her arrows ready. This was the guy who had ordered her death, after all.

The Fist soldiers beat an orderly retreat, dragging their injured with them and soon disappearing through the nearest door. As they left, Commander Dosan raised his hands, his protective spell fading. He gestured towards the ceiling. "I trust you are here for what's up there? The grand duke?"

"We're here to rescue him," Moruene's apprentice agreed. "From you, you damn traitor."

The commander just nodded, pivoting slightly towards Shar-Teel. "Though I'm shocked to see you here, of all places, Rashelt."

She snorted, taking a step closer and sheathing her sword. They were all edging closer to Commander Dosan now. "Maybe I just wanted to pay dear daddy a visit?" she hissed.

Uh. What?!

"Maybe ask why that underworld bounty on me is still floating around?" Shar-Teel went on. "Thought you'd given up on my marriage prospects after that incident at Roaringshore. But this summer I got captured by your big dumb ogre friend himself, and he made some interesting threats about domestication. About charm spells. You wanna just try 'em here? Get it over with?"

Angelo Dosan gave his daughter…

(Hrm. Yeah. Imoen could see the resemblance now: same sharp little nose, something in the face, and the same color hair, 'cept his was greying. And she vaguely recalled someone referring to Ess-Tee as 'Dosan.' Had it been one of the Flaming Fists?)

…a long, even look. "A mistake, I realize now. I had not seen what you had…become, after all these years. With those scars, and that bulk, and the missing hand. Seems I have no daughter left to bring home."

"The hand was because…" Shar-Teel began in a huff, then stopped, chuckling instead. "Well good. Good then! Being too ugly to marry off works for me." She reached out. "Your sword."

"Of course." The commander surrendered his sword belt to her, turning around and keeping his hands raised. "The stair to the high tower is over there. I'll lead you. Unless you plan on slitting my throat?"

Ignoring the comment, Xan and Imoen gave him a thorough search, snatching up weapons and spell components, along with a hand-sized scrying mirror similar to Xan's. Among the arrows in Angelo's quiver were four that had been enchanted to explode, like the one he had used at the Wyrm's Crossing.

Yoink! As Imoen placed the arrows into her quiver she made special note of how the fletching felt. The arrows also had distinctive, rune-marked beads between the arrowhead and the shaft. Hopefully there'd be no accidental detonations.

Once that was done, Xan leveled his sword at Angelo's back. "Lead us then," he stated. "Slowly."

"Of course."

Tense and silent, they filed through an adjacent hall that opened onto a spiral stair. This place was familiar, winding up and up and passing several stories of the octagonal fortress's central tower. As they climbed Xan shifted in beside Imeon, holding his free hand out.

I may come to regret handing you such a powerful and dangerous toy, his voice sounded in her mind, since you have already collected so many. But…here. He opened his hand, dropping a smooth, bluestone ring into her palm. Courtesy of Commander Dosan.

Oh! What's it do?

Twist it around your finger, and an expended charge will make you invisible. Use it sparingly. I did not examine it thoroughly enough to tell how many charges are left.

We'll do that later. She slipped the ring onto her finger. And thanks!

Another story up, and Imoen became aware of a strange, dull pressure in the air. She glanced around, and there seemed to be something slightly off about the color of her companion's clothes and the stone walls; washed-out and faded. At the same time the glow-flames on Xan's sword winked out. "Wha-?"

"It's a zone of antimagic," Karsa said, mater-of-factly. "One of the tower's main defenses. Which someone activated to keep us out."

Angelo nodded and kept walking. They climbed on.

Ugh. Antimagic. Walking further and further into something like that was more than a little uncomfortable, knowing that every enchanted bauble that Imoen was carrying (new ring and arrows and wand included) were now just useless weight. It also meant that Angelo wouldn't be able to pull any magic tricks though. Still, Imoen kept her hand at her dagger and her eyes on his neck.

They emerged in Eltan's office, the walls lined with glowlamps and the windows dark. Would have been a pretty good view of the city from here, if this were daytime. As they approached the door leading to the inner chambers it burst open and a man in a tabard marked with the eye of Helm stepped forward. Before the priest could speak, Angelo turned to the side and gestured. "That's a doppelganger, by the way."

Immediately the priest let out a hiss and his face began to ripple, his hands rising up like claws. He managed to advance about one-and-a-half steps before Shar-Teel had reached him with her sword and run him through, lifting him off the floor. Soon he resolved into a faceless —and then lifeless— thing, and with a grunt Shar-Teel flung him down against the doorframe.

They walked on, and found Grand Duke Eltan about where they had left him: cocooned beneath thick blankets in his broad, covered bed; the curtains all tied up. He had thinned a great deal in the past few weeks, eyes sunken and skin yellowing, and there was a rank smell in the air. He seemed to lack the strength to speak, though he did manage to level a sharp glare at Angelo as everyone filed into the room.

The flat of Xan's moonblade struck the back of Angelo's head a few steps in, eliciting a startled shout (and a raised eyebrow from Imoen.) "Keep your distance from the duke," Xan warned.

"Of course," Angelo muttered. "Bind me if you wish." He took a few steps backwards towards the wall.

Moruene's apprentice had not gone over to the fellow he was so intent on rescuing. Instead he had immediately started searching the inner corner of the room, where a support pillar stood. Looked like the pillar was at the center of the tower, and marked with glyphs that glowed a dull purple. The apprentice reached out and pulled a loose, rune-marked stone out of its groove. Once it was free, all of the other markings sputtered out, and the heaviness in the air abated, the antimagic field lifting.

"There," the apprentice beamed. "Tower's open."

Before any of them could form a response there was a rush of air and a woman rippled into existence beside the bed; clad in black, with gray hair done up in an elaborate bun. Moruene stood rigid as she entered, then wobbled slightly, a knee buckling. She clutched her side and gripped the bedpost, waiting for the spell to pass.

A moment to straighten and recover, and then Moruene slipped a bottle of black glass from her belt and bent forward, unstopping the cork. "Eltan! Drink," she ordered. Looked like a bit of a struggle, but soon she had him swallowing a little at a time.

Coughing and wincing after the final drink, the grand duke sat up, and after a few moments of struggled breaths he croaked out a: "Thank you."

"Borda and I cooked that up. It should clear the poison completely, curse or no."

Well what do ya know? We rescued the Grand Duke after all! Imoen found herself beaming. Course…it might be a little awkward when he finds out what's become of his castle. She fingered her new ring. Disappearing when uncomfortable questions came up would probably be a good idea-

There was a muffled, crackling sound from the next room, and their heads turned towards the door, and although it was closed tight Imoen felt a dry, smoky heat brush against her cheek. Winds from…from a place she remembered? Where?

Moruene shot to her feet, wincing and turning from her sickly husband to face the far door. And an instant later that door flew open with a mighty crack and Imoen's jaw fell.

Time seemed to slow as a figure that was too broad and tall for the doorway ducked and shouldered its way through, carved from black steel, bristling with jagged edges, and carrying a massive sword. Great, curved horns sprouted from his helm, above sharpened tusks and a visor lined the decorative teeth. And behind those teeth –and the kohl that smeared his lids– the man's eyes burned with golden fire.

(The fire of Perdition! She could feel the heat and the searing, volcanic power.)

It was him! The man from that night! The horned knight! The one who shrugged Gorion's spells off like they were nothing, and then ran him through! The Bhaalspawn! Him! Him! Him!

Moruene lit up like a phoenix, a warp of protective magic shimmering all around her and white-hot magefire flaring to life in her palms. Everyone was backing away from her and the armored man, Garrick and Xan both stumbling into the doorway and tangling up. Good idea! Retreat! Imoen scampered back to join them. Seemed like the tower might be about to explode.

As she backed-scampered, hastened by her boots, Imoen passed Moruene's appearance, who was staring forward dumbly. She thought to grab and tug him, then noticed that, instead of gawping at the glowing wizardess or the advancing, armored demon, the boy was examining his own empty hand. The one that had been holding the runestone.

His head then turned, and Imoen followed the apprentice's gaze just in time to catch sight of Angelo Dosan, standing at the corner-pillar and shoving the runestone back into place. A dull pressure fell over the bedchamber, light and color diffusing, and Moruene's arcane fire sputtered out all at once.

The hellfire glow in Sarevok's eyes winked out as well, but that didn't matter: he was rushing across the room now with his blade raised to strike, and magic or no, that was a big, sharp hunk of steel. The swing came with blinding speed, Moruene's hands flew up defensively, and then, with a shower of blood, both of those hands went spinning through the air, severed at the wrist. Her head followed.

Momentum carried Sarevok's armored bulk along, and he pivoted, shouldering Moruene's body aside and raising his greatsword above the bed. It chopped down in an explosion of silk, splinters, and feathers, but Eltan had scrambled forward and leapt by then. The duke landed in an awkward stumble, wobbled to his feet, and then managed to duck beneath a horizontal slash.

There was movement at the doorway that Sarevok had burst through. A Kara-Turan woman in black armor had pushed through and entered the bedroom, and there was an olive-skinned man in red and obviously enchanted clothing behind her.

Imoen violently shook her head (Shake the cobwebs out, damnit!) and raised her bow, drawing an arrow back. At first she leveled it at Sarevok's back. Looked like it would just bounce off armor, though. She swerved on Angelo, but he had ducked down behind a table, so she swerved some more and let loose. The arrow streaked past the Kara-Turan woman and caught the Calishite mage in the neck, sending him clutching and falling back into the adjacent room. He had probably been counting on magical protections to save him.

Ha! Two can use this antimagic stuff, ya soghead! Her hand flew up to pluck another arrow and she loosed, but it ricocheted off the Kara-Turan woman's armored back as she dove into the far room after the fallen mage. Looked like she was trying to tend to the wound.

The others were taking action now, spurred on. Garrick launched a crossbow bolt square at Sarevok's back, leaving a faint dent but otherwise going ignored. The big, horned guy kept after Eltan, his sword a blur.

Weak and sickly as he looked, Eltan still managed to dodge and back away, knocking a dresser over and into one of Sarevok's downward chops. Bits of wood and finery flew, and for a moment the big warrior had to grunt and kick to free his sword.

Sarevok continued to ignore them as another of Garrick's bolts tinged harmlessly off his armor, along with one of Imoen's arrows, but he couldn't ignore it when Shar-Teel launched herself at his back, sword raised to deliver a fearsome chop. Sensing the attack coming, Sarevok whirled and swept out with his larger sword, and Ess-Tee had to drop into a low duck.

"Ha!" Shar-Teel barked back as she sprung up to stab. The tip of her blade skidded off Sarevok's breastplate. "Big guy, huh?! Dressed all scary!" More slashes followed, tinging off his armor and his deflecting blade; searching for an opening. "Bet you love posing in that armor! Compensating for the fact that you can't fight for shit?! Huh?!" Not the least bit intimidated; Shar-Teel sounded eager.

Did she even know who this guy was?! Probably not. 'Big, strutting man with a sword? Attack!'

Shar-Teel was a blur of rolling shoulders and springy knees and whistling steel, but the big man kept up, repelling every strike with an underhanded guard and matching every twist and turn. His greatsword swept up, windmilling and forcing Shar-Teel's off and to the left. Then, without pause, that big-ass sword dropped in a chop.

Ding! Shar-Teel'd managed to fumble her gauntlet up and catch the blow, a block that kept her head from being caved in, but barely. The edge of the blade still smacked her forehead and she fell backwards, flopping across Moruene's corpse and cursing all the while. There was a deep dent in her gauntlet.

At near the same instant that the blow struck the pressure in the room lifted and color returned. Sarevok's eyes flared with fire once again as he hefted his greatsword for another try at chopping Shar-Teel in half.

Imoen had an arrow knocked, trying to aim for the big guy's face, but as she drew back a figure blurred by and between her and her target, dressed in red.

"Stop!" Angelo shouted, slipping in front of Sarevok as the sword came slicing down. "Don't!" His crossed forearms caught the sword-blow and some sort of protective spell flared around him, turning the red and white of his uniform and the pink of his skin all to a slate gray. The layer of stone kept his arms from being severed —instead he stumbled back and grunted, little flakes of rock flying, some of them edged with red.

Growling in frustration, Sarevok reached out to grasp Angelo's shoulder. "Out of my way!"

"She's my daughter!"

Both Shar-Teel and Eltan were crab-crawling backwards, trying to get as far away from Sarevok as they could and heading towards opposite corners of the room. It left Sarevok and Angelo right together, by the far wall and the fallen dresser. And the antimagic field was gone.

Imoen let her arrow drop to the floor, fingers flying to grasp a different one. Fast as she could (and before she had time to think about what a bad idea this might be ) she knocked, aimed, drew, and hoped that the blast from the detonating arrow wouldn't hurt anyone she didn't want hurt.

Twang. She covered her face and turned away from the blinding explosion that followed.

A bash from both sword hilts and a leap propelled Ashura past the pair of shield-locked soldiers, eyes on the target ahead. Her nose was full of smoke, rising up from the burns at her chest and shoulder; burns from arcane bolts the warmage had blasted her with a few breaths ago.

That bitch was not going to toss a second spell.

The warmage was backtracking fast as she could while still weaving her hands round and round. Some sort of weeping green light formed between her fingers —another bolt: this one made of acid instead of energy.

Varscona cut the air between them, the edge of the blade hacking into the mage's forearm and spraying frost. The force of the blow knocked the hand that guided the acid-bolt acide, and then the spell flew, hissing past Ashura's ear. A little smoke rose up where a drop or two had splashed her shoulder, but nothing more: a miss, and then Ashura's offhand blade was up between the mage's ribs and the woman gave out something between a hack and a croak.

Momentum carried them a few more steps, then a bash of Ashura's elbow knocked the mage off the sword and onto the dirt of the courtyard. She spun around to face the other soldiers. One of them had already toppled, punctured by two of Coran's arrows. The other stood, stiff and straight with one arm held high and his sword dangling loose, while red light pulsed from his gaping mouth and Viconia's glowing hands gripped his throat. Blood trickled from the edge of the man's lips, the drow let go, and he dropped like a sack.

No movement close by, so Ashura took a moment to catch her breath and glance around. The melee had carried them all the way into the small courtyard just outside the fortress's keep. The massive oaken doors that led out into the city where open, and there didn't appear to be anyone up on the walls. Perhaps whoever had been guarding the outside gate had rushed into the foyer during the fight.

"Well then," Edwin began, brushing his hands together, but before he could finish whatever suggestion he had in mind he was interrupted by a massive crack-BOOM from somewhere above the courtyard. All eyes turned to the brief flash of fire and smoke expanding from the topmost tower of the keep. An eruption of debris followed, and fell, bits of jagged stone arching and bouncing off the slope of the many-tiered rooves, some quite large and-

Oh fuck!

Ashura dove to the ground and grabbed a shield off one of the fallen soldiers, covering her face. There were crunches all around as bits of masonry rained down, along with a few little jolts and tings when pebble-sized bits struck her shield.

When it sounded like it was over Ashura shot to her feet and found hers swords, facing the fortress. When her eyes alighted on the gate she scowled. The enemies that they had pushed past had had the good sense to drop the portcullis, barring the way back in. "Damnit!"

"Appears that we were destined to leave this place, regardless of heroic intentions," Edwin observed.

If they had just stuck closer together…

"That's not…a lock that I can pick," Coran apologized. "Though, perhaps I could climb the wall and…"

Ashura shook her head. "We'd better leave." She pointed. "Before someone closes that outer gate and we get bottled in." Too open, out here in the courtyard. If the Fist regrouped…

"One thing first," Edwin said, surprising her by stepping towards the portcullis and lingering a moment to run through the gestures of one last spell. A moment of chanting, and then a faint red light flickered and grew on the other side of the barred gate, followed by smoke. Something hunched and bulky seemed to rise from the fire, hefting what looked to be a jagged, glaive-like weapon, and with a snarl it lumbered forward and disappeared into the keep.

"A parting gift," Edwin explained, turning and starting towards the gate and the city beyond. "To the fools who dared detain, strip, and flog a son of House Odesseiron." Somewhere beyond the portcullis, somebody screamed.

As they entered the darkened streets Ashura matched Edwin's pace. "That thing you summoned?" she asked. "It's not going to be a threat to..?"

Edwin shook his head. "The devil is commanded to attack anyone wearing a red and white tabard. (Hmph! That she would not assume that I had thought of every eventuality…)"

A few more steps down the street, and then another explosion echoed through the night. Ashura cringed, glancing over her shoulder to watch another cloud of rubble go up at the top and central tower of the keep. Well, hopefully Imoen was the one causing the explosions.

A deep-throated snarl and the grind of steel. The explosion seemed to have had no effect on Sarevok at all: he was a mountain of furious, jagged armor, rushing out of the smoke. Imoen ducked and rolled as his sword sliced down.

So massive, yet he was also so damn quick: he spun around and sliced at her again as she leapt backwards. Reflex snapped her eyes shut, the sharp steel flashing before her. There was a white-hot string across her cheek. She'd been cut!

Well, her brains were still working, so they hadn't been caved in. Hop-hop-hop backwards! She did that 'till her back struck the wall, one eye open and the other covered by something hot and wet.

Her knees bent, ready for springing to the side, expecting a charge, but instead the big guy…just stood there a few paces away? Holding his sword out and staring down at it? There was a hiss and sizzle from the blade.

A light-show went up against the big armored guy's back: shimmers of whatever enchantment Xan could fling, along with burst of sparks as arcane bolts shattered against him. But Sarevok seemed oblivious. "You?" he rumbled, focused on Imoen alone.

"Yeah," she snapped back. "I remember you too, Kovey."

He shook his head. "You were..? All along you were there in the Keep and…" Words trailed off and turned to a chuckle, which grew into deep, booming laughter. "Ha ha ha! Of course!" And then he hefted his blade. "Of course! It was you!" And then he charged.

At least she'd had a chance to catch her breath. Imoen dodged aside.

Scurry! Dip! Dive and flee! She ducked under a wide slash of the big-ass blade. At least she'd distract him while the grand duke got awa-

But ugh. Eltan had stumbled back, trying to avoid the whirlwind of steel, and wound up in the wrong spot. Poor fellow had his back to the big open hole in the wall where a window used to be (before the exploding arrow) his nightshirt billowing in the breeze. It was the opposite side of the room from the path to the stairs where the others were huddling and tossing their bug-bite spells.

A crazy idea came to her.

Xan! Imoen thought/projected, hard as she could. Hopefully the linky-spell was still working. Antimagic effects suppress magic, but don't break off spell-effects. At least that's what she'd read. She hopped over a little stepstool and kicked it into the air between her and Sarevok. An odd little shield, but it did take the brunt of his swordblow, shattering to splinters.

Y-yes? Xan managed back. Nothing is working! I even tried my necromantic-

Nevermind that! Get everyone down the stairs! Spell-'em if you have to! Retreat! Now! Now! Now!

Um…

She threw a dressing mirror in Sarevok's face. Do it! She twisted her ring as she sent the order, feeling the familiar shimmer of the invisibility spell, and then she dove towards Sarevok, rolling by beneath a blind slash. As she righted herself she heard the Kara-Turan-looking woman already chanting something that Imoen assumed would dispel the invisibility, but that wouldn't matter in a second.

Quick as her enchanted boots would carry her, Imoen ran straight at Grand Duke Eltan, flaring into visibility as she plowed into the emaciated fellow and, pressing an arm against his back, took them both plunging through the big hole in the wall and over the edge. As she dove she chanted:

"Aravak kres kretok!" The plunge ended abruptly a few feet in, and now they were both light as feathers, drifting out into the dark and icy winter's night. Hugging the duke, Imoen pivoted mid-air, stringing an arrow best as she could in the awkward position. Mr. Big, Armored Glow-Eyes had followed, and now he was standing on the ledge just out of reach, pointing with his sword.

Impotently. Ha-ha! Take this!

The bowstring thumped, the arrow arced and sailed towards Sarevok's feet, and Imoen kept her and Eltan turning as the night lit up and the arrow of detonation landed just inside the tower. Ka-BOOM!

Bits of dust and stone struck her back, along with a rush of hot, gritty air that propelled them farther out.

Eltan was stammering; trying to speak. "Wha…what?" it seemed like he was asking (hard to tell over the ringing.)

"I just rescued you," Imoen explained. Sorry about your dead wife, though. And your castle. And all your soldiers that me and my friends just killed. Those parts were best not mentioned, at the moment (or ever, if she could help it.)

Gradually, they floated towards the ground.

Head ringing and sore in a thousand places, Angelo Dosan managed to prop himself up on his elbows and then wobble into a seated position. What had once been a bedchamber was now unrecognizable; a smoking, pitted ruin. At least his spell-protections had kept him from being torn apart by the blast.

He started to get to his feet, but before he could a steel fist shot down and suddenly he was choking and kicking, lifted by the neck. "You FOOL!" Sarevok snarled.

"Sh-she's my…" Angelo tried to rasp, grasping at the arm that held him aloft. His palm grew warm, cut by one of the spikes.

"Sentimental fool! If we are to rule we cannot let anything stand in our way!"

"You need him," spoke a calm, weathered voice. Winski was a blur in Angelo's clouded vision. "The plan fails without control of the Flaming Fist."

"Hmph!" Sarevok grunted. "Such as they are."

"They are still an army," Tamoko stated. "You need them. And their leader."

One more sharp squeeze, and then Angelo went flying. He struck a wall and bounced to the floor, back and palms stinging. Without another word Sarevok walked towards the far door, where the portal still waited. He glanced down at Semaj, but Tomoko gave him a shake of her head, and then they walked on. A moment later the portal crackled, and the dull hum that had been hanging in the air faded.

Straightening, Angelo rubbed his aching throat. He found that he was sitting by the gaping ruin that had once been the tower's east wall. Far below, the lights of the city glimmered. The wind up here was cold.

The plan. The Fist. 'Such as they are.' How many had they lost this night?

Shaking his head, Angelo rose and took a step forward. Sarevok had resisted the urge to throw him out of the tower. Of course, he may have been able to speak the words of the teleportation spell before striking the ground. And the spell was still ready. He could think of a few destinations he would rather be than up here, tonight.

The idea of war –and his own, unfettered command– had been quite appealing when Sarevok had first proposed it. War means opportunities. Openings. Leaves vacuums to be filled, often by the minor houses who are left standing. Even minor, indebted houses, once on the brink of disappearing.

Or so he had thought. But this…was this just a taste of what Sarevok had in store for the Flaming Fist? For the City? 'Deathbringer' had just sounded like an impressive title, but it seemed the man intended to live up to it.

Well. Far too late to turn back now.

Steel rattled, and Angelo started and turned his head. Tamoko had not left with the others. She stood nearby, still glowing with whatever blessings she had placed on herself during the battle. "Hm?" Angelo cringed at the raspy sound of his voice. "Did you want something?"

She nodded, meekly. "Yes. If I may trouble you?" Those Kozakuran women. So demure.

"Sure. What do you want?"

She took a single step closer, opened her mouth as if to speak, and then, with blinding speed, she lunged, and before Angelo could so much as twitch in reaction the girl had one hand against the back of his head and the other clamped to his chin. With spell-enhanced strength she wrenched, something gave, a hideous crack sounding in Angelo's ears. Blinding pain followed.

A shove, and then he was flying through the open air.

As the wind roared past his ears Angelo struggled to speak the words of a spell, but that proved difficult with a broken neck. The ground rushed up to meet him.

Once the stiff, armored woman had shoved the useless man over the edge and watched him fall, she stretched her hands out and began to hum to herself. Wisps of blue-white light curled at her fingertips, and then she leapt from the tower's ledge, not plummeting but drifting out into the darkness. She almost seemed to walk upon the winds as she descended, vanishing from sight.

Well, no matter. And no loss.

The woman had served her purpose, clearing the last vermin from Tiax's tower, and then, conveniently, she had showing herself out. Head back and chin high, Tiax strode out from behind the shattered wardrobe which had been providing him with shade, hands pressed into his resplendent jacket as he surveyed his newly acquired home.

Hm. The high tower had looked so much grander from the ground. Looking up at the imposing fortress that he knew would one day be his, Tiax had often dreamed of the soft beds, warm baths, and sumptuous meals he would enjoy in these grand chambers.

He had not, however, expected the ceiling to be riddled with holes and starting to cave in, nor for an entire wall to be missing, nor for the floor to be near collapse in places. There was also the matter of the dead man sprawled out in the side-room and the woman spread out in several pieces by the bed. The servants would quite the time getting all those stains out.

"Well," Tiax proclaimed to no one in particular, "'tis an opportunity to remodel the seat of Tiax's power, and more to Tiax's liking! The walls and ceiling need more gold and basalt, for instance." He gestured towards the less-damaged wall. "And there shall sit Tiax's next throne!" Yes! A grand throne of gilded mahogany.

Though, for now, he would be forced to settle for the broken slab of masonry conveniently laid out before him. Sitting down upon it, Tiax pulled out his pipe.

At least the missing wall provided a lovely view of his kingdom: by rights all the rolling rooftops and sharpened towers that stretched out beneath his sight were his! Shame it was so cold up here, though. Tiax clutched his coat closer, struggling to guard against the bitter winter wind.