Author's Note: "It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear! And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead!" –Kyle Reese from The Terminator

82 - Rabbit Run

"Even a man who has seen countless campaigns and trained all of his life to fight can be taken down by a single, unexpected blade." -Bhaal the Assassin

Snow wafted down through the pale streetlight, alighting on rooftops and cobblestones. Only a shallow dusting so far, but it was enough to start painting the city a ghostly white. Beyond the faint scuffing of Ashura's boots against the road, all was silent. She trudged ahead of the others, not completely sure where she was going, but happy to put as much distance between her and the fortress as she could.

Where to? A good question. Would be nice if she knew where Sarevok was sleeping tonight. Finding some way to reunite with Imoen would also be-

Her eyes shifted to the rooftops, catching movement through the snowfall, and at the same time Viconia hissed a warning. There was a figure floating down, above the row of houses just ahead; dressed in black armor, with a pale complexion, and long, dark, wind-whipped hair. Light as a seed on the breeze, the figure drifted down to the edge of a roof, tapped its feet against the overhang to push off, and then descended towards the street.

It was Tamoko. Ashura gripped the hilt of her longblade, but did not yet draw it as the priestess touched down. "So you can fly, huh?" Ashura asked.

"Kossuth provides most of my power," the woman replied, in her roundabout way, "but if necessary I can draw from Akadi as well. Or channel the strength of Grumbar, or even the elasticity of Istishia, though that is more difficult."

"What do you want?"

"To assist. As I attempted before. I did warn you that-"

"Yeah. Angelo practically bragged about working for Sarevok."

"Angelo Dosan is now dead," Tamoko stated plain. "Your friends disrupted his plans. And I finished him."

"She speaks the truth," Viconia whispered. "As before. And as before, I advise that you do not trust her. Her words are as carefully measured as a devil's."

"When last we met," Tamoko continued, "I told you of Cythandria and her books, which carefully guard the names of nobles that Sarevok has…compromised. Tonight she sleeps in the tower of the Iron Throne. I know you have been…hampered-"

"(An understatement)," Edwin grumbled.

"-but if we move swiftly we can still catch her. We can obtain evidence of Sarevok's plot, before it comes to fruition."

Ashura started forward. The street they were on led to the docks, after all. "We?" she asked.

"Would you turn down my assistance? You have gathered quite a motley assortment of allies so far."

"None of them worked for the people who've been trying to kill me," Ashura grumbled. Still, she didn't say anything more as Tamoko slipped in beside her. Perhaps the priestess could be useful.

After a few silent strides Ashura shot their new 'companion' another glance. Yeah. She had definitely seen this woman –with her distinctive black platemail– on one of the battlefields before. Had it been in the chaos at the Cloakwood mine? Tazok's camp? The push up to the top of the Iron Throne tower?

Tamoko's gaze was fixed ahead. "I have a brother," she stated, abruptly. "He is Hojo Kawakubo's most prized manhunter. Should I be slain, he would come to these lands, seeking my killer. And should he succeed, perhaps someone would seek vengeance against him? T'would be an unending —and unproductive— circle of death, no?"

"Does Cythandria have some brother who'll avenge her?"

Tamoko chuckled.

"Sounds like a lot of moralizing bullshit, then."

"I am not moralizing"

"Threatening, then?"

"Perhaps I am simply pointing out how you limit —and possibly doom— yourself by trying to stab all of your problems."

"The people who've been trying to murder me are just 'problems?'"

"Exactly. Problems to be solved. Perhaps with alliances, or with words, lies, truth, gold, your sex; whatever will work. That is how the leaders who last approach obstacles. You cannot hope to chop down the entire world."

"Watch me."

Again, Tamoko laughed. "Ah. Hot-blooded youth. And I suppose it is your nature, as well. You do not seem to shy away from that."

"Why should I?"

"You would perform exactly as the Lord of Murder preordained? Has it not occurred to you that he had no happy endings planned for his children?"

"You may have a point," Ashura conceded. Seemed a lot of her life, and even the recent months, had been spent being pulled along by others. And most recently…the rack; the irons; that shivering and shaking powerlessness. She scowled ahead. "Of course," she eventually gritted out "if it wasn't for my 'nature,' do you know where I'd be right now? I'd be buck naked, torn apart, with my limbs dislocated on the rack while they started working on my teeth." It was a fight to keep her voice steady as she said that, but she managed, glaring ahead. "But instead, I'm whole. Ripped the life right out of the pair of bastards who were going to work the pliers."

"If not for your nature you-"

"Yeah, but here we are. I'm not Sune's daughter. Or Ilmatar's."

"Hm. Yes. Fate, and the gods, and causality itself, draw tight nets. There are ways to slip them, however."

"Oh?"

But the priestess said no more, and they fell into a silent march from there.

"Beshaba's breath! Talona's toes! Gods, gods, gods!" The young apprentice was stammering and pulling at his hair as they all stumbled down the final flight of stairs. "That did not work! That did not go as planned!"

"Yeah, no shit," Shar-Teel muttered.

They stepped down into the grand foyer, where one of the larger halls led out to the courtyard, and as they turned in that direction Garrick placed a hand on the apprentice's shoulder, partly to comfort and partly to guide. "It's not your fault," was all he could think to tell the poor fellow.

"Duke Eltan went flying out a window!" Karsa snapped. "And Moruene…can a high priest even fix it if..? Beshaba's breath!"

Passing perhaps a dozen armored corpses that were scattered across the floor, they reached the inner gate and found that the portcullis was down. Shar-Teel went to work on the crank, and Garrick rushed over to join her.

"Imoen did say that she had a plan," Xan stated, voice numb. "Before she…before she leapt…"

"So she's okay?" Garrick suggested with a smile. Imoen had said that she always kept a featherfall spell handy...

"I don't know!" Xan blurted. He sighed. "Once again."

A moment passed, and then Xan seemed to think of something, reaching into a pocket of his robes, but before he could find whatever he was searching for, footsteps drew everyone's attention. A trio of guards had entered the foyer, spears bristling as they sighted the intruders and began to inch forward.

Garrick reflexively reached for his hand-crossbow, but Xan interposed himself first and did not draw his blade. Instead, the Greycloak faced the soldiers and greeted them with swirling fingers and a quick flash of light, which left them all swaying. "We are friends of the grand duke," Xan droned at the stunned guards. "You had best go and inform the rest of your…regiment or platoon, or whatever they are called. Inform them that friends of the grand duke have arrived."

As one, the soldiers nodded. "Of course," one of them concurred, and then they turned and marched off.

Xan leaned against the wall and let out a long breath once the Fists had disappeared.

"Should'a just gone marching through the fortress doing that," Shar-Teel remarked, starting to crank the winch once more.

"That would not have worked if any of them had been a priest or a mage," Xan sighed. "Nor can I do it again. We need to flee. Quickly. Or the next bloodbath may be our own."

"What a disaster," Karsa repeated, staring off. Seemed like he was lost in his own little world.

"Yeah," Shar-Teel grunted, annoyed, "well, that's battle for you. Just be glad you still have your hide. And be mad that you didn't get paid for your trouble. It's a lesson. Should demand coin next time you get sent to risk your ass in…" She gestured vaguely at the fortress "…someplace like this."

Now that the portcullis was raised, they hastened beneath it and out into the little courtyard beyond the keep. Patches of blood colored the shallow dusting of snow and the damp dirt, along with several more corpses dressed in red and white tabards. They started for the gate out to the city, but Shar-Teel slowed, and then halted near one of the bodies, looking down. It was a man in a tattered uniform, his limbs twisted; an arm and a leg obviously broken. His neck was turned at a painful-looking angle too.

And his face was familiar. Angelo Dosan gaped up at the night sky.

Garrick's mouth fell open, he started to say something ('I'm so sorry Shar-Teel'…) but then stopped himself. Would she…would she hit him if he tried to be consoling? Shar-Teel just stood there stiffly, looking down at her father's body.

"Imoen? Imoen? Are you there?" Xan was pleading into his tiny scrying mirror.

Shaking her head, Shar-Teel turned back towards the outer gate, and without a word she started for it. The others fell in line behind her.

Slamming doors and clomping feet stirred Skie from her dreams. She shook awake and sat up, blinking in the pitch dark before fumbling for her slippers and her dressing gown, followed by a candlestick. Once that was lit, she rubbed her eyes and stumbled her way to the bedroom door, peaking out into the adjacent sitting room.

It was probably past the third hour of the morning, but all of the lamps had been lit, and servants were bustling about, most rushing off. Before Skie could think to call out, she noticed her father marching in through the far doorway, clad in his silver platemail. A man rushed along at his side, carrying Entar's plumed helmet, and an entourage of house guards and servants followed close behind.

Trailing them all were Skie's mother and Mrs. Goldsworth. It had been some time since Skie had seen Lady Brilla Silvershield appear so disheveled: clad in a silk dressing gown and a simple kerchief, rather than the tall hats that she favored. Mrs. Goldsworth was dressed in her usual sharp greys.

Grand Duke Entar Silvershield took a direct path towards his daughter, his face grim.

"Father? W-what is happening?" Skie found herself stammering.

Entar stopped a few paces from the dooway, stiff as always. When he spoke his voice was measured. "Do not be alarmed, but there has been…some sort of attack on the Flaming Fist. We fear it may be the Amnish surprise that everyone has been preparing for, and must be ready for the worst. For your safety, lock and bolt your door. A guard will be posted."

"If…if you think that's…"

"I do."

"Don't worry, dear," Mrs. Goldsworth interjected, her tone gentler than father's. "We'll make sure that your parents are in a safe place." She glanced over at her husband, who was standing beside Entar, and then reached over to place a reassuring hand on Lady Brilla's shoulder.

Lady Brilla's upper lip quivered and curled at the touch, looking down at the governess's hand as if it were a pile of bird droppings that had just landed on her shoulder. Woops. Skie cringed. Servants were never supposed to-

But then Brilla's disgust turned to something else, her mouth widening as a pale, blue-white glow began to illuminate her face, spreading out from Mrs. Goldsworth's hand. There was a brittle, crackling sound,and the cold light expanded, spreading over Brilla's shoulder and down her arm. White mist began to waft off her skin and her gown, frost trailing up her neck and then across her cheeks. Her mouth hung open now in shock, eyes wide as plates, and then her entire face frosted over, hair and kerchief going stiff. Pink skin became blue in the space of a heartbeat, ice-crystals beading.

"Mother!" Skie managed to shout.

Entar reacted at the same time, a hand gripping the hilt of his longsword as he spun towards his wife and her…attacker?!

But Mr. Goldsworth had shifted in beside Duke Silvershield, a sword suddenly appearing in his hand, and then the blade shot up, more than half of it disappearing into the gap in Entar's armor, right at the armpit.

It had all happened so fast, but now time seemed to stand still; father gasping and wobbling there with Mr. Goldsworth holding onto his plated arm and pushing the sword as deep as it would go; mother frozen in slack-jawed terror, her face, shoulders, chest, and left arm all covered in misting frost while Mrs. Goldsworth gripped her. There was a terrible crack, and then that arm shattered like glass, the forearm dropping to the carpet in a shower of red shards. A shove followed, revealing a blood-stained dagger in Mrs. Goldsworth's other hand, as Brilla toppled forward, stiff as a board. When her face struck the floor there was an ugly crunch, chunks of ice-encased flesh and blood and bone breaking apart.

The other guards had all reached for their weapons, most turning inward on the man who had just driven a blade into their duke. Swords were fumbled out, awkward in close-quarters, and one man managed to lay a hand on Mr. Goldsworth's shoulder, trying to push him off his feet.

By then Mrs. Goldsworth's hand had shot up into the air, a glowing runemark hovering just above her open palm that cast a violet light across the room. "No you don't," she taunted, a manic grin now plastered on her face, and then the rune exploded in a flash that forced Skie to squint and turn. Every guard and panicked servant who stood close to Entar and the Goldsworth's seemed to buckle, then as one they all swooned and dropped to the floor.

Mr. Goldsworth had slipped his blade free, stepping back, and without his support Entar Silvershield dropped to his knees. Blinking, Skie realized that a small crossbow had appeared in Goldsworth's hand, rising and taking aim at…

…her! There was a bolt locked in, tiny but sharp, the point black and smudged with something.

With a furious, unintelligible noise, Entar surged to his feet, his sword finally clearing its scabbard and rising. The swipe forced Mr. Goldsworth to hop backwards, and as he did he tossed the crossbow aside in favor of his blade, parrying an overhand slash from Entar. "Some fight left in you, old man?" he chuckled, slashing in retaliation.

Just behind the melee, Mrs. Goldsworth had her hands raised, fingers stretching, her eyes and her predatory grin fixed squarely on Skie. Little orbs of blue-white light began to dance between her fingertips.

"Skie!" father was shouting, his sword and Mr. Goldsworth's grinding close. Another slash, and another parry. "Skie!" he repeated, head turning to look his daughter right in the eye. "Skie! RUN!"

Obeying without thought, Skie backed up three quick steps and slammed her bedroom door in front of her. Not a breath later the door shook on its hinges, wood snapping in several spots as indentations appeared. None of…whatever it was that Mrs. Goldsworth had thrown broke completely through, however, and after a violent shake of her head Skie rushed forward, bolting and then locking the door.

Beshaba's breath! Mrs. Goldsworth was a mage! A powerful one too. A deadly one. Her mother and…the shattered ice and…and father had taken what looked like a mortal wound-

'RUN!'

There were scuffling sounds beyond the door, and in a daze Skie found herself turning away and rushing to one of her dressers. Throwing it open, she tossed a pile of clothes aside and found the secret compartment at the bottom, pulling it open and at the same time kicking off her slippers. She was running on reflex now, swift and silent and thoughtless, just like the countless times she had rushed to change outfits and sneak away for a night in the Undercellars. Her traveling clothes lay in a neat little stack, along with her boots, her sword and dagger, a couple of useful potions attached to her belt, and her enchanted cloak which protected against scrying. Fast as she could, she stripped out of her nightgown and slipped each garment on.

On the other side of the door there was a roaring sound, like a hearthfire catching.

Turning from the dresser, Skie raced over to her desk, prying open another of her hiding places. There it was, resting beneath the jewelry: Imoen's scroll. The trump card. The lock-opening spell.

Something heavy began to bash against the door, and a smell wafted in from the other side: charred wood and cooked meat.

Ignoring that, Skie turned to the window, unfurled the scroll, and began to do her best mage impression, humming out the Draconic words and following the alien patterns as precisely as she could. White light flickered, the parchment dissolved between her fingers, and then with a click the gnomish device at the window unlatched. Skie wasted no time grabbing the pane and ripping it fully open, cold winter wind blasting her face.

The sound of the door splintering made her shiver, hands shaky and feet heavy as lead. She fought the panic down, forced her gaze away from whatever was happening at the door, and just focused on following the steps she had always taken when she had snuck out:

Crawl up onto the sill, brace your feet there (the assassins were rushing into the bedroom now, spellwords on Mrs. Goldsworth's lips), and then leap and catch the branch of the old maple tree. Next you let go (and as she did that a streak of fire sizzled past her head, lighting up the night and striking a snowy branch with a hiss), and drop down to the lower branch, then the one beneath that, bracing your feet against the tree trunk. A swing, and then it's a short drop to the soft earth.

Up above, Mrs. Goldsworth was hanging out of the window, her next sing-song chant echoing down. Skie scampered up onto her feet, and as the night lit up again (lightning-blue this time) she dove forward, rolling through the powdery snow, away from the flashing light and the crackling-BOOM and the blast of ozone and sparks.

Righting herself —and not looking back— Skie raced, full speed, for the garden, dodging past every hedge, tree, and stone that she could find to put between herself and her pursuers.

Rushing past the pair of smoking husks that had been summoned demons a moment ago, Ashura chased her quarry up the steps and out onto the rooftop. A trail of blood marred the snow, ending where the conjuress stood at the gap that had been torn in the rooftop's fencing. Unsteady on her feet, Cythandria nevertheless managed to hold her arms up towards the night sky, chanting. An escape spell? An attempt to fly or float away?

No you don't!

Ashura raced forward, aiming to impale the conjuress through the back, but before she could reach her a blast of artic wind roared in from beyond the tower, buffeting them both. It knocked Cythandria clean off her feet and flat on her back, and Ashura skidded to a stop, bending and stumbling. The light that had been building on Cythandria's palms flickered out.

Rolling and pivoting, Cythandra shot a hateful glare Ashura's way, then beyond her, to Tamoko. "Damn traitor!" she snarled, blood on her lips and one hand clutching at the wound in her side. Ashura stepped forward, her longsword tilting back and ready to stab.

"Her escape-spell is spent," Tamoko stated. "She is trapped."

"Aren't we here to kill her?" Ashura asked. Cythandria was scooting back across the roof, but it seemed she had no more spells to expend.

"First we need to see if she has the papers. And find out what she knows."

"Agreed," Viconia hissed from behind them both.

By then Cythandria had backed up to the wrought iron railing, and with an effort and a defiant glare she pushed herself up onto her feet. The hand that wasn't pressing against her wound slipped down to the large satchel that hung from her hip. "Right here," she growled.

"If you throw that-" Ashura began.

"Bah!" the conjuress spat, unfastening the strap. She tossed the bag at Ashura's feet. "Take it. You have me." Her gaze lifted. "Never thought you would stab him in the back, Tamoko. Stab me, maybe. But not him."

"You did not know me."

Cythandria sneered. "Sure I did. Intimately. Don't suppose you'd spare me for…sentiment's sake?"

Tamoko just glared in silence.

Cythandria looked to Ashura. "And she didn't tell you, huh? That she was roping you into a lover's spat? That this is all just about jealousy?"

Ashura didn't reply. Like I give a fuck? As long as they got to Sarevok. Her swords sheathed, she opened the satchel. There were several books inside, one of them obviously full of spells. Another looked to be some sort of ledger. She opened it, flipping through.

"There," Tamoko stated, close to her shoulder and pointing. "That list. Those are the names of the compromised nobles. Clear evidence to present to the grand dukes. I do not see the letter, however…"

Cythandria managed a pained snort. "The quasit flew with that thing nearly an hour ago. The Silvershields are already dead. Slyth and Krystin have probably moved on to- hrk!"

Ashura had grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the railing. "The Silvershield's?!" she snarled. "Skie Silvershield?"

"Grand Duke E-Entar," Cythandria coughed. "And anyone else who's there near him. The assassins are notorious."

"Unfortunate," Tamoko remarked.

"We'll see," Ashura muttered, dragging her prisoner along and against the rails. They slid a few feet, reaching the spot where the fence was torn open. Cythandria managed to cry out and bat her fists against Ashura's armored arms a couple of times before she was shoved through the gap and off the tower's ledge.

After a brief glance down to make sure that the woman had struck the street and didn't get up, Ashura turned and raced for the door. Tamoko was soon at her side, Viconia silently trailing just behind (and probably ready to use one of those harm-touches of hers should they be betrayed. When they had a moment alone Ashura would have to thank the drow for her vigilance.) "Why didn't you tell me us that the Silvershield's were the assassin's target?" Ashura demanded as they went.

"I did not know which grand duke would be first. Sarevok intends to kill them all."

"Damn." Should have thought of Skie.

"This Skie Silvershield? She is a friend of yours?"

"Yeah."

"A shame."

"We'll see." At the very least, Skie would be avenged tonight.

The city streets were deserted; silent save the crunch of virgin snow beneath Skie's boots. She turned at random, eyes searching ahead and praying that she would stumble upon a patrol, but all was shadow and empty white –the windows dark and the doors tightly shut. No one was awake this time of morning, here on the respectable side of the upper city. At least it seemed like the hunters had been shaken. The cloak would protect her from divinations and-

As if summoned by that hopeful thought, Mrs. Goldsworth's voice sounded somewhere down the street behind her, gleeful and chanting.

Not daring to look back, Skie pitched her head forward and sprinted for the narrow gap between two buildings. She dove into the alley –hands scraping the snow and feet peddling away– as some sort of blue-white beam flashed by her head. Springing forward, she took off, full speed.

Damnit! The snow! No matter where she went it would be trivial to track her.

She kept going, slipping around one corner and then another, stone walls looming close. Stick to the alleys! Cover! Surely Mrs. Goldsworth would run out of spells eventually.

A shadow slipped into view ahead, dressed in form-fitting black and holding a short, glinting blade. The sword was not rounded like a typical gladius: instead coming to a harsh, triangular point. Skie recognized it too: the blade that had stabbed father!

Mr. Goldsworth advanced, and Skie skidded to a halt. Turning. Searching.

Thank Tymora! There was a tight little side-alley nearby, and she managed to plunge through before Mrs. Goldsworth could flank her and bring another spell to bear. Several barrels lined the narrow passage, and beyond them lay the open street. One of the houses was a bit lower than the others, with a slanted roof that overhung the alley.

A mad idea!

Skie kept sprinting, then she leapt, tapping the top of a barrel with her foot and springing from there to grasp the overhang. She scrambled for purchase, found it, and with a little monkey-swing she managed to press her knees against the lip of the roof and gain a firmer grip. With a frantic twisting motion she hauled herself up onto the shingles, and then rolled onto her back.

Oof! No time to lay about. She launched up onto her feet and started off along the rooftop. Up ahead loomed a slightly taller house, with a slanted roof in easy reach. She leapt across the gap.

Perhaps she would lose them this way. Could the hunters ever guess where she'd choose to climb down? And if she moved fast enough…

Her hand went to her belt, fumbling for one of her two glass vials, and the liquid sloshed around as she lifted the potion towards her lips. Stupid that she hadn't thought to drink this immediately and-

Just ahead, a shadow slithered onto the roof and shot to its feet. Mr. Goldsworth had climbed up as casually as some might walk, and now he turned to point his blade at Skie once again. The moon had begun to peak through the clouds, and with its light reflecting off the snow Skie had a much better view of the assassin than before: Goldsworth had shed his house guard uniform and armor, revealing some sort of black bodysuit. The outfit was torn in two spots, along his sword-arm and one of his legs, and where the fabric was peeled open it was clear that there were tiny strands of chain woven into the suit. Likely the tight cloth was much stronger than it appeared. A mithral underlay?

Skie took all of this in, mind racing, as her thumb popped the stopper from the potion bottle and she pressed the glass to her lips, swallowing the spicy liquid in one frantic gulp. Mr. Goldsworth was charging as the drink went down, his sword pointed out to skewer her, and then a giddy shiver ran through Skie's veins and everything –the assassin's lashing arm, his rising foot, and even the puffs of snow flying up into the air– seemed to slow.

Hurling the empty vial at Mr. Goldsworth's face, Skie used her other hand to draw her blade. Mr. Goldsworth wove by the flying bottle, but there seemed to be a stiffness to his motions that had not been there when they had sparred, especially in the way that he landed on his wounded leg. Had father managed to—?

But, even hasted as she was now, there was no time to think!

Skie swiveled and swung; a desperate parry. Goldsworth's sword whipped around hers, but she followed, adjusted, caught and slashed and stumbled back, her palm stinging.

He was a lot stronger than he had let on in their little sparring sessions. He lunged and she dodged to the side, his blade whistling past her face. She turned her fall into a somersaulting roll, distancing and then shooting up onto her feet. Her cheek was wet and warm; stinging.

Again, he started to press, and Skie scuttled back, searching the corners of her vision for a way out. Instead she spotted a disturbance in the snow close by, then another and another, all in a regular pattern. Little marks that were just appearing — Footprints!

Mr. Goldsworth was lunging, and the footprints were closing in from behind. Skie leapt aside, ducked, raised her sword as if to parry, and then she spun and swung her blade (guessing) at the invisible stalker. It struck something solid (like a damned brick wall!), and there was a yelp from the unseen foe. In the same instant a terrible pain flared across Skie's arm.

She pushed and danced, using the force of her stab to propel herself backwards, scampering towards the edge of the roof. Mr. Goldsworth followed, looming close and hefting his sword for a diagonal slash. Skie caught it, yelping at the force of the blow. Felt like her arm might break!

The assassin reared back for another swing, and behind him the air was shimmering. His wife remained unseen, but she had begun to chant, and the light of her spell was plain enough.

Another step backwards and Skie would plunge off the roof, but at the moment that seemed more appealing than being blasted by an evocation or skewered on a sword. So, with a hop, she went over the edge, hoping that she wouldn't land on anything sharp. Her feet struck something narrow halfway down (the rim of an open rain barrel) and she managed to stumble-spring off of it. The barrel tipped over and Skie landed in the snow, her back striking a wall.

Mr. Goldsworth was leaping to follow, but Skie turned and took off between the houses before he landed, knocking a second barrel over as she hopped over a pile of refuse. Bursting out of the alley, she came upon an open, snow-packed street, and started across, eyes frantically sweeping ahead. If she could just find an unlocked door to duck through, or perhaps a window: obstacles to put between her and the hunters. But the houses were all dark.

Something heavy struck Skie's shoulder and nearly sent her stumbling, accompanied by a sizzle and a terrible burning sensation. There was a flash of light, then another burst of pain, lower on her back, and then another and another. Her sword fell from numb fingers, clattering to the snowy flagstones, and she fought to keep from dropping to her knees.

It hurt so much: the burns. The stitch in her side, too. And her arm, warm and wet with her own blood. And her knees, and her feet, and…

…and she kept going, grimacing and hastening, empty hands pumping before her as she sprinted for the maw of the nearest alley up ahead; not looking back, not thinking, just running - running - running!

The tree was still smoldering where lightning had scorched a path down its trunk. Coran knelt beneath its branches, on his hands and knees in the shadow of the manor house, examining a patch where the snow had been churned. A series of footprints ran between the disturbed spot and the estate gardens, where the skeletal shapes of dormant hedges glittered, covered in ice.

"She rolled on the ground here," Coran explained, standing, "and then she fled that way." He pointed to the garden. "These are her footprints. And that pair over there were made by the assassins."

"You recognize Skie's footprints?" Ashura asked, more than a little skeptical.

Behind her, Viconia snorted. "Perhaps he knows the shape of all the female's feet. Some fetish of his…"

Coran was moving towards the garden now, and they all fell in behind him. "I was tracking things in the Wealdath not long after I learned to walk," the wood elf bragged. "I know fleeing when I see it. These prints are Skie's, and she was running for her life."

"We'd better hurry, then," Ashura said, increasing her pace. Skie's trail ended at the wall, as did the other, parallel sets. Seemed they had all climbed.

Without a pause or a word, Coran leapt for the wall, found handholds and footholds wherever he touched, and scampered up the surface like a squirrel. He was standing at the top in the space of a few breaths.

"Uh..?" Ashura asked from the ground. Tamoko was right beside her, but behind them both Edwin and Viconia were taking their time, and she couldn't imagine either of them trying to race up a wall.

Coran looked back. "Well, go around if you have to," he said. "But we need to hurry."

"Right." Ashura turned and took off for the gate.

Pushing through the gap between a tavern and an estate (both closed and silent, like everywhere else), Skie came to a row of ornamental hedges and twisted her way through. Just beyond, across the next road, stretched The Wide.

This time of night —and in the off-season— the grounds of the great market were just an empty patch of white, speckled here and there with the frames of unadorned stalls and a few tent poles. There were no patrols or passersby in sight. Still, she dared to race out into the open and cross the vacant street, taking the road that ran parallel with the market. She had been running blind, but it seemed her feet were taking her to familiar ground. And maybe to a good place where she could hide. She picked up the pace.

Perhaps a hundred strides ahead, just beyond the market stalls and tucked between two houses, lay a nondescript little hatch: the common entrance to the Undercellars. If she could just make it there, to the elaborate maze of stone corridors that she knew so well, where there was no snow to leave tracks upon, perhaps she could disappear.

Focusing on her destination, Skie raced down Silverpinch Way, fast as she could and ignoring the stab in her side and the burns on her back and the blood streaming down her arm. She was about halfway down the street when the lightness in her limbs and the frantic energy that had been fueling them just…evaporated. Puff. She almost dropped to her knees, lungs burning, nose snotty, and her ragged breaths turning to a choked cough.

No! No! No! The potion had worn off! Unsteady, she lifted one foot, then the other, beginning to trudge down the street. Just a block or less to go.

She had made it about four steps when laughter rang from the far side of The Wide, sending a chill through her veins. A pair of shadows were sauntering around the hedges. How had they followed so quickly..?

No! Only think of what's ahead! And move!

Sucking in a breath, Skie turned away from the hunters and made herself run, lungs and limbs protesting but moving nonetheless.

Too slow! Too much ground to cover! No way would she make it out of the open before Mrs. Goldsworth started blasting more holes in her and-

Just ahead, something dark and irregular marred the snowy street: a round, cast iron sewer grate, propped a bit out of its usual slot, with footprints leading away as if someone had climbed out recently. Three paces brought Skie right up to it, skidding and bending down to push at the iron wheel. It slid forward easily enough, leaving a gap that she could slip through. Down she went, plunging feet-first beneath the street and catching the rim of the grate.

It wobbled and she held on briefly, hanging like she would from a tree-limb and reaching out to grasp one of the rungs along the sewer wall. The moment she caught it she let herself drop further (Oof!), banged into the rungs, and steadied herself. She started to climb down, thought of the hunters racing across the street just above, and then just let go, chancing a drop into the darkness.

Knees bending, she landed on a stone surface. The sound of trickling water echoed everywhere, and the air was predictably foul. Turning away from the wall, Skie fought to orient herself, terrified that she may have just gotten trapped in a dark pit. But there was light enough to see by: some filtering down from the street lamps and the moon up above, but most emanating from one of the tunnels. Facing that direction, she started forward, quick as she could, scampering across the duckboards that spanned the waters.

Lights. Yeah. Red and blue, they reflected off the slimy walls. She knew their source before she rounded the bend in the tunnel and spotted the hooded lanterns, strung across the passageway on ropes, and they guided her towards a curtained doorway: one of the many paths to the Undercellars. Most visitors came and went through the most well-known (and least smelly) entrance, but there were at least a dozen ways to get in and out, if you were willing to brave the sewers or the other dark places of the city.

Quick as she could, Skie slipped around the heavy curtain, the sewer-stench instantly replaced by incense and perfume, along with the cloying scent of pipeweed. And up ahead —for the first time since she had fled the manor— there were people! A small crowd, at least, milling about by the walls and the rows of curtains, masked and chattering in low voices.

A few of the patrons gave Skie curious looks, but most ignored her as she passed by. People often came to this place to be unseen, after all, especially if they took one of the side-passages, and scuffed-up, frazzle-haired, back-alley characters stumbling by in search of a rental room were fairly common. Among other things, this was a place where fugitives went to ground.

Outsiders often called the Undercellars a Festhall, and that was mostly accurate. Of course it was less a single, organized 'hall,' and more of a rat's nest of little brothels, gaming clubs, lotus dens, drinking pits, dancing halls, baths, and rooming spaces, all run by loosely allied criminals, with the peace kept by Ravenscar's guild; a chaotic night-market that had grown, unplanned, beneath the city.

Skie had once found all of that thrilling. Her peers and elders had whispered of the scandalous goings-on in the Undercellars, so the moment she found a way to seek the place out she had, and found it to her liking. The dance halls, especially.

Now –numb, bloodied, and bleary-eyed– she stumbled down the familiar passageways, simply searching for the best place to hide. The halls here were lined with spiral-patterned pillars and curtained doorways, the fabric sometimes thick and closed for privacy, but more often translucent and drawn back, so as to invite passersby.

Soft whispers and dim, diffuse light peaked through some of the doors, while others were bright and rich with the cheer and laughter of gamblers. The rumple-rustle of cushions and the smell of black lotus wafted heavy from other chambers, and through one of the larger doors a faint splashing echoed, clouds of scented steam curling up along the lintels. And, of course, there were many doorways where women lounged and posed and beckoned, dressed in next-to-nothing.

Skie passed by each chamber (Dead ends! The hunters would search them), through the laughter and the incense, approaching the end of the corridor. The thrum and thump of fast-beating drums and stomping feet greeted her, echoing from behind a pair of thick curtains, and as she drew closer her ears caught the chime of bells and the shrill whistle of flutes. She quickened her pace.

Up ahead was the corner of The Undercellars she remembered best, and likely the most crowded. A pair of masks hung above the doorway, a bit like those depicting comedy and tragedy, but both were leering and marked with glittering bits of moonstone (actually just glass beads, if you examined them closely.) There was a guard stationed at the curtain, but he just gave Skie a skeptical look as she shouldered by, passing through and stepping onto the dim, open floor of the dancing hall.

Here, covered lanterns cast everything in gauzy shades of blue, edged with reds and yellows. Relentless drumbeats and tapping feet resounded off rounded walls of stone, accompanied by manic flutes and a single, sawing fiddle, driving the dancers on and on in tight circles. They spiraled around little islands of piled cushions, where other patrons lounged and drank.

The crowd was a thick, close press; skirts shimmying, costume-bells clinking, and their arms rising to sway when the key notes were struck. Outfits varied wildly: from plain to tasteful to elaborate to near-nonexistent, but every single patron and dancer wore a mask; polished, glittering, and embedded with beads.

Everyone, that is, save Skie. As she edged her way around the throng she caught a lot of odd looks; far more than she had in the halls. Head down, and a hand clutching at her wounded arm, she did her best to slip past the packs of dancers. The chamber was wide and round, curtains of various colors hanging from the wall at intervals. These —as Skie recalled— covered little side-nooks. Picking one at random, she dipped and wriggled inside.

It was common for couples to slip off to these places, but thankfully this little cubby was empty. There were drawers, a mirror, and a few barrels within: a little supply and dressing room for the dancers. It was also a place away from the crowd, to finally stop and take a breath. As she did that, Skie reached down and fumbled at the remaining potion attached to her belt.

Popping the cork, she raised the jar and forced the sticky-sweet liquid down, wincing at the taste, and then sighing with relief when the pain from her burns dissipated. The healing effect relieved the raw soreness at her arm as well. There was still a lot of blood there, though, and she wasn't sure if the wound had fully closed. Gods, she was such a mess; at least the dancing den was poorly lit.

A thought.

Skie turned to the drawer she had been leaning against, and opened it up. As she suspected, there were accessories (bells, bracelets, anklets, hair-ties, masks) and bits of translucent costumery inside, worn by the professional dancers who were always sprinkled throughout the crowd. A strip or two of the colorful gauss would work to bind her wound. She reached for some, and her hand brushed by one of the many masks.

The hunters pushed the curtain aside and stalked their way into the dance hall, side by side and eyes sweeping ahead. The man had his sword sheathed, for now, his hand resting on the hilt. The woman had put her dagger away as well, but that was far from her favored weapon. Her hands hung ready at her sides (and near the pouch where she doubtless kept her spell components), fingers flexing.

They ignored the odd looks that some of the dancers gave them, and began their search, the woman slightly in the lead (there was a faint glow about her, difficult to see in the dimness of the hall, but there: arcane protections.) They wound their way through the press, approaching the nearest curtain-covered doorway, and when they reached it the woman took the fabric between her fingers, silent and delicate…

…and then yanked it aside, the man shouldering by right as she did, gripping his sword-hilt. A swift search, while the woman kept her back to her partner and watched the dance, and then the man slipped out of the cubby, and they moved on. They followed the wall, found the next hiding spot, and repeated the search; the woman yanking the curtain and the man plunging in. This time there was a shriek of surprise and fear from the other side of the veil.

A breath or two later and the man backed out, turning to his partner with a grin and a shake of his head. The woman let the curtain fall back into place, much to the relief of the tousled, half-naked couple that they had disturbed. Without pause, and still wearing mild, tight grins, the hunters continued their search.

They neared a third backroom, but the woman stopped, tapping her partner's shoulder and looking elsewhere. There was a pile of cushions nearby, resting against the wall, and mixed in with the bright reds and purples of the silken pillows was a hint of dull but distinctive gray: the hem of Skie Silvershield's enchanted cloak, almost buried. Almost hidden.

Side-by-side, slow and easy, the hunters approached the hiding spot, fanning out slightly and weaving their way past the jostling arms and swaying bodies of the dancers. Once they were just a couple of strides away the man slipped his sword from its sheath, oblivious to the gasps and murmurs that rippled through the crowd nearby, many halting and a few backing away.

The dance around the hunters didn't halt completely, however. Some of the crowd remained oblivious, and one dancer —barefoot and clad in billowing strips of gossamer and a mask that was studded with false moonstones— even shimmied closer to the assassin.

Moments ago, a little voice had been nattering on and on to Skie. 'He'll sense you coming!' it kept screaming. 'Just like he did before! They'll see you! They'll notice! This is crazy! This is crazy!' But, as she had swayed and danced the last few steps towards Mr. Goldsworth, Skie had managed to silence that voice. To shut it out. To focus her gaze on the back of the man who had stabbed her father, thinking of nothing and simply moving.

The streamers of gauze that had been hanging off of Skie's right arm fell away, revealing the dagger they had been covering, and then the blade flashed forward in an arc and sunk, hilt-deep, into the back of the assassin's neck.

A gurgling hack came from Mr. Goldsworth as his mouth fell open, his swordarm rising for a blind, backwards stab. With a yelp Skie shifted, eyes wide as the tip of the assassin's sword whistled by her cheek. Her movements and his thrashing ripped her dagger free of Mr. Goldsworth's throat, a torrent of hot blood flowing across Skie's hand.

Mrs. Goldsworth had whirled to face them, the satisfied grin she had worn replaced by wide-eyed terror. "Slyth!" she shouted,

Skie wriggled and held on, trying to keep the man (who had now reached up and pressed a hand against his bleeding neck) between them like a shield (Gods! Gods! Gods! She had no idea what to do now! Hadn't really thought she'd make it this far…), and Mrs Goldsworth followed, her eyes sharpening on Skie and her fingers curling. Her fingernails were long and sharp.

The sword had slumped down beside Mr. Goldsworth now, his motions growing less coordinated. Then he made a sound a bit between a grunt and a choke and Skie caught a heavy elbow to the gut. She doubled over and let go of the assassin, stumbling back, but managed to straighten enough to shove Mr. Goldsworth (or Slyth or whatever his name was) at his wife, swiveling on her heel.

All around them panic had broken out, shrill screams rising and the music and dance sputtering to a halt. Skie found herself jostled and shoved as she tried to weave around the packed bodies and away from the Goldsworths. People were pushing and stumbling over each other now, surging for the exit and away from the blood. Arms flailed, legs kicked, and Skie twisted every-which-way she could to keep going forward, slipping around the people, under them, and even frog-hopping over someone who had stumbled and fallen. She focused on the rustling curtain and the doorway up ahead, weaving and climbing.

"Mage!" someone was shouting behind her.

"That's an evocation!"

And then the screams rose in pitch, accompanied by a great rush of wind. The temperature in the hall instantly went from cloying-hot to arctic, frost stinging Skie's bare shoulders as she ducked and dove and shoved and ran - ran - ran!

She did not look back! Did not think about why some of the screams were being cut short, or how the crackling sound that accompanied the blast of cold was sweeping towards her. The curtain was right there! A shove and she was through, bare feet patting down the stone hallway, running for her life once more.

There was a bend in the hall up ahead, and Skie raced for it, but she was far from there when she heard Mrs. Goldsworth's voice ring out behind her, chanting those nonsense words of hers. Will she NEVER run out of spells?!

Skie turned and dove for the nearest curtain, slipping through and rolling across the carpet. A breath later something bright streaked by and shook the fabric, accompanied by a resonant crack.

Crouching, with her back pressed against a bedpost, Skie glanced around. Seemed she had ended up in an unoccupied bedroom. With only one doorway. A dead end! And why, in the name of all the gods, were there no fucking doors anywhere in this place?!

She searched for something to barricade the doorway with, but everything looked to be too heavy or to light, and the closest thing she found to a weapon, groping around, was a silver pitcher. With that in one hand and her dagger (at least she still had that) in the other, she knelt and watched the curtain, shifting a bit and waiting to spring.

Shifting and shivering, that is. Suddenly the plan to ditch her sturdy traveling clothes for a mask and some strips of gauss seemed very silly. Gods. I'm going to die dressed as a brothel dancer. Her mother would have her raised from the dead just to kill her herself if she...if she...

Well, at least she'd managed to take one of the assassins down.

Those thoughts and worries raced through her mind as the curtain remained shut, sounds echoing from beyond: steel rattling and voices chanting and shouting. There were crackles too, and hisses, and then something that sounded like a rush of flame. Hm? The guards were fighting back? But could they possible stand up to Mrs. Goldsworth?

Skie shook her head. Maybe the guards would at least bloody her. Provide an opening. Take down a magical protection and absorb her last lightning bolt. Yeah. Skie tightened her grip and glared ahead, tilting the pitcher back and readying a throw.

The fighting died away. There were a few footsteps outside, then silence. Nothing happened. Time dragged by. Skie let out a careful, silent breath, realizing that she had been holding it a very long time.

Then the curtain shook and flew open with a violent yank, and Skie jumped, yelped, and hurled the pitcher. There was a flash and a clang as it was batted aside and bounced off the nearby wall, and the person who had deflected it stepped forward, a sword in each hand.

Ashura Adrian was dressed in her usual chainmail, and wore her usual, stony expression. She was also splattered in blood. As usual. She cocked her head, curious, eyes narrow.

Oh! The mask! Skie peeled it up and over her brow. "H-hi," she stammered.

Ashura straightened, and her glare became a relieved smile. "Skie!" she shouted. "You're alive!"

Author's Note: I just realized: Skie is the richest person in town, does parkour, and just watched her parents tragically die in front of her. Is she...is she going to become Batman now? I kind of want to write a post BG1 fic now where she's gone full-Batman.

And I kind of feel like I should apologize to CMY187 for some of the events of this chapter. Much as I like the idea of Slyth and Krystin being reoccurring, epic villains, it seems it was their destiny here to get outmaneuvered by a certain debutante.