84 – Our Lady of Murder

"If you are looking for a tale of heroes, friend, you may wish to seek it elsewhere. What can I say? Sometimes, to hunt monsters, other monsters are needed." –Garrick Anthras, Terror of the Sword Coast

Ashura gave herself a cursory glance in the mirror, making sure that the padded doublet and woolen hose wouldn't bunch up. Next came the armor: chain leggings first, followed by the chainmail coat over that. A spaulder went on one shoulder, then the other, followed by the forearm guards. Then she sat down on the bed to wrestle with her shin guards, strapping them on.

After that she stood and cinched on her swordbelt, an enchanted garment in its own right, which she had taken as a prize after a silly contest with a rival adventuring party. What had that woman's name been? Kirian? What a loudmouth (until that basilisk shut her up.)

Next, Ashura stood and stepped into Nimbul's boots, bending down to lace them firmly in place.

(Nimbul. Her brother. Bhaalspawn…)

She donned her fingerless gloves next, a rush of strength surging through her veins as the enchantment activated, and then she draped her mother's old cloak into place. Viconia had once suggested that she wear the cloak outside in, so as not to invite suspicion with the skull and tears motif. But no. That just wouldn't feel right.

Lastly, Ashura combed her hair a few times, tied it back, and then put on her helmet. One more glance in the mirror, and then she marched out through the curtain, turning to the bedroom beside hers.

"Skie?"

"C-come in." The voice on the other side was soft and raw. Ashura pushed past the curtain.

Skie Silvershield sat before a mirror of her own, dressed in her sturdy leathers and applying some sort of makeup over her swollen eyelids. "I'll be ready in a…in a moment." She looked over to Ashura. "Don't suppose you can do my hair?"

"Do?"

"Help me put it up in a bun. Nothing fancy."

Stepping closer, Ashura shrugged. "Sure."

"I'll need to look presentable," Skie went on, eyes on the mirror, "for the footmen at the palace. And when we make our case to the assembly."

Not entirely true. Really, Skie just had to prove that she was who she was, and they'd let her in. And Ashura was in no mood to 'make a case' to anyone. The moment she spotted Sarevok, her blades were coming out. She didn't say anything along those lines, though.

A holstered shortsword lay across Skie's bed, the blade distinctly triangular. "That's a nice sword," Ashura remarked as she tried to figure out what to do with Skie's hair. "Viconia said it's black adamantine. Nothing sharper."

"You want it?"

"Think I have enough blades. And you're a good fencer. You need a sword."

Skie bit her lip, looking away. "Yeah. I couldn't bring myself to belt it on. Since..."

Oh. Was that the sword that killed her parents? Ashura hadn't made the connection until now. "You don't have to-"

"No. I should." Through the reflection, Skie forced a smile. "Maybe I'll put that sword through the heart of the man who ordered my parents killed. Maybe there'd be some justice in that. And it's the practical thing to do, using the best weapon I can find. Just like you'd do."

Ashura just snorted at that. I would? She thought to say something about how she knew what the girl was going through, but held her tongue. Best not to compare notes on dead fathers. Now was the time to push forward, because if you stop to think…

There. That looked like an appropriate enough bun. "You ready?" Ashura asked.

"Almost." Skie looked down at her little kit of assorted paints. "Just need to pick the right color for my lips."

Ashura was tempted to say something snide, makeup being an alien concept to her and all, but looking over at the mirror she noticed her appearance once again; armor all neatly in place. She had her helmet, and Skie had her makeup. Everyone needed a warface, and a little ritual to don it.

Once the paint was applied, they made their way out to the shared space of the suite. Viconia and Coran were waiting there, both looking put-together and ready for battle themselves: Coran in his green-edged purples, slouching against a wall and twirling one of his knifes, and Viconia in her hood and mask, along with the heavy cloak that concealed her many chakrams and reinforced leathers.

Stepping up to the drow, Ashura gave her a friendly nod. "I appreciate this, by the way," she said in a low voice. "I know you've been dragged through some nasty places recently…"

"True," Viconia replied, "but their lashes were nothing compared to the snake-whips of my people. Unlike the serpents, they left no lasting mark, and the perpetrators are now dead."

"Still. Thanks."

"Of course, kal'abbil. After all that has been endured, I look forward to seeing this task of ours through, with the Nightsinger's blessing."

Ashura nodded. "Vengeance."

"Vengeance. This day, may you unravel the schemings of an impotent fool. And sheath your blade in his heart."

Ashura glanced around. "Where's Edwin?"

"Performing a different sort of sheathing, I think. Last we spoke, he left in a huff, muttering something about 'appreciative concubines.'"

Coran giggled, but before he could add anything to the conversation they were interrupted by a cough from Edwin himself, who had just slipped in through the outside curtain. He straightened his robes with a brush of his hands. "I assure you," the Thayan bristled, "that I am quite capable of punctuality."

"Oh?" Viconia cooed. "Your little dalliance ended quickly, then? Did you lack the…stamina for it?"

"You may test my stamina any time you please." Edwin made a gesture towards the general direction of their boarding rooms. "I am more than up for the task, I assure you."

"Ah," Coran spoke up, using his usual, dramatic tone. "The lovely tradition of pre-battle celebrations. To relieve tension." He looked to Ashura. "And we find ourselves in such a romantic setting. Do you think, dear leader, that we have time for a little-"

"No, we don't." She tapped one of her spaulders. "Do you have any idea how long it takes me to strap all of this on?" Before Coran had a chance to say anything cheeky, Ashura turned and gestured. "Come on. We've got an election to crash."

Her friends fell in line behind her, and together they made their way out of the rental space and down the halls, past the sleeping brothels and the opium dens, and on towards the exit that led out into the sewers. They had a long, complicated, and smelly walk ahead of them, if they intended to pop out onto the street as close to the palace as possible.

They entered the darkness, dank water trickling along beneath the stone walkway. One of Edwin's conjured wisps soon lit their path, and by its light Skie looked at the parchment that they had lifted off Cythandria. "Alright," she announced. "The doppelgangers. There are six of them all told, if I'm reading this right. Masquerading as one lady and five lords." She pursed her lips. "Well, technically Cerk Selebon is a merchant, and Kraesh Nederlok leads a knightly order. And the titles-"

"We just need to know what they look like," Ashura prompted.

"Ah. Okay. Cerk is short and stout. Merchants, you know. He has a sharp little beard and moustache that he always waxes. Pretty distinctive looking. And his house colors are blue and gold. He'll be wearing those prominently."

From there Skie perked up and began to talk faster, describing (in a scatterbrained manner) the house colors, crests, and distinctive features of the six imposters. The impromptu course in heraldry (and highborn gossip –apparently Lord Vergence Dethingeller tended to point his head a certain way to minimize a birthmark, and Sir Kraesh Nederlok had a chronic rash) was enough to make Ashura's head spin, but she tried to commit what she could to memory.

Pockets of mist and feeble patches of snow clung to the stones in the shadow of the great palace, though the wheels of carriages and the tromping of armored horses had done much to break the slush apart. Dawn's light was growing steady over Baldur's Gate, and its best, brightest, and wealthiest were all making their way to the city's crown.

Balduran's old fortress was no glittering jewel, like Castle Waterdeep or the Simbul's palace. Rather, it had been built with practicality in mind: a square, sturdy block of stone that stood at the highest point in the city, dwarfing all the little keeps and manor houses that had grown up at its feet over the years. Walls of grey granite surrounded the palace keep, old as the city itself, and according to legend they had never been breached. Of course, they had never been tested by a truly devastating war, either.

This morning the palace gates were open wide, and there was constant traffic through them. Sarevok's carriage had to pause for a time and wait, eventually wending through an opening and rattling on into the castle courtyard.

Not waiting on the coachman, Sarevok pushed the door open the moment they had come to a halt, his eyes fixed on the palace. A single 'manservant' trailed behind him: Winski Perorate, dressed today in sturdy blacks and shouldering The Sword of Chaos. Sarevok had likewise dressed for the occasion, in a doublet of golden brown marked by the dancing lion that his 'father' had long ago chosen for a coat of arms. A cap of the same color rested on his brow, conveniently covering his tattoos. Doubtful that anyone would recognize the ritual markings of a Deathbringer, but it was best not to invite questions.

Up ahead, the keep was alive with bustle and chatter, clashing voices already spilling out from the open doors. A line of uniformed Fists stood guard out front, and as Sarevok approached them he caught a glimpse of a great figure looming a bit to the side, dressed in plain grey plate and looking as nonchalant as a seven-foot tall man with a massive warhammer could look. Five well-armed men and women lounged beside the big fellow, helmeted and dressed in nondescript scale.

As Sarevok passed by, he and Taurgosz Khosann shared the slightest of nods, then his attention returned on the yawning doorway ahead. Seemed that Sarevok's 'auxiliary' force was in place, just in case there was trouble today. With diminishing resources and allies, it was good to know that he still had some soldiers left, even if Khosann was not quite the massive bruiser that Tazok would have been.

The guards here would not allow mercenaries into the palace proper, but once chaos broke out, Khosann and his soldiers could sweep in easily enough. Between them, the doppelgangers, Slyth and Krystin, and Sarevok himself, the trap was sure to close on the two remaining grand dukes.

So close now, despite some last-minute pushback from the city's rulers. The hardheaded man known simply as Belt was a priest of Tempus, and had loudly rejected the notion of a 'Warduke," and Liia Jannath was a practiced player of political games. Still, Sarevok had spent the past day holding court in a private room in the Three Old Kegs, making (sometimes contradictory) promises to countless nobles, and he was fairly certain that between them and his six iron-clad votes, the election would go his way.

Not necessary, with the chaos that was planned for this morning, but it would lend him legitimacy if the fleeing survivors had witnessed young Lord Anchev being voted in as a grand duke. And then, of course: violence, more chaos, and emergency measures would follow. Power would be consolidated in the usual manner, not so different from the way the four original captains (pirate captains, by some claims) had seized Balduran's fortress in his absence centuries ago, declaring themselves the first 'Council of Four.'

The arguments beyond the palace doors were growing louder. With a deep inhalation of cold winter air, Sarevok strode forward. Quite a din up ahead; they were clearly trying to shout each other down, and it was high time he added his voice. Ah. Democracy.

The six of them had all managed to pile, cramped and bunched together, into the carriage house. They fiddled, trying to get comfortable, while the Harbormaster's coachman finished with the horses. Moruene's hapless apprentice had made some complaints about elbow-room, and Imoen had suggested that they each find a partner and sit on each other's laps, but Grand Duke Eltan shut them both up with a glare and some terse words:

"Comport yourselves like the professions that you pretend at being. Please." He turned to Xan. "You are the strongest spellcaster here?"

"I believe so," Xan replied with a nod.

"And you've a divination or two available?"

"Of course."

"This carriage is necessary, but it is also a liability. We make ourselves a very large target. I want you to keep an enchanted ear out for any sort of ambush."

"That can be done. Yes."

Eltan gave the rest of them a sweep of his eyes, eventually settling on Imoen. "You. Girl. You're the archer of this little group, right?"

"Indeed I am. Can fling a few spells too."

"Good." Eltan gestured with a sideways tilt of his head. "Go up top with the coachman. And have that bow ready, along with some protective spells, if you have them."

"Yessir." With a little wriggling Imoen rose from her seat, and then pushed through the door, climbing on top of the carriage.

"There," Etlan grunted, shooting Karsa a glare. "More room." Without pause he turned to Garrick, who suddenly felt a strong urge to swallow. "Harpist. Make yourself useful and play us something, while we ride."

Oh. Reaching down, Garrick fumbled for his harp case. "At once!" He tried to bite back the reflexive sarcasm he used whenever Ashura barked orders at him. Courtly manners. Think: 'Courtly manners.' Cradling the harp in his arm, he brushed his fingers over the strings, then stopped to ask: "What kind of song would m'lord prefer?"

Eltan waved a dismissive hand. "Something inspiring. What you usually play to ready the troops for battle."

Garrick fought a grin. He was a little out of practice there, since the folks he had spent the last half-year with seemed to prefer debilitating spells and crossbow bolts over rousing tunes. 'Be useful and shoot something!' Ashura had yelled at him more than once.

His fingers twirled as he pondered some of the more popular Heartlands marching songs. Eltan would have heard them all a million times, though.

So, instead, Garrick strummed and began to hum out something a bit more obscure, drawing a deep breath as he recalled one of his grandfather's rousing/roaring battle-songs from his opera about the savage north. Deepening his voice and taping his feet (this was the sort of tune that really called for thundering wardrums), Garrick began to sing.

A verse of so in, Eltan interrupted him with a snort. "What is this? Something Norlander's hum while they pillage and gulp down horns of mead?"

With a little cough, Garrick immediately shifted from the sweeping cords to a more staid Heartlander marching song, his voice returning to its usual tenor. Got to known your audience.

A crowd had gathered at the foot of the fortress wall, huddled in cloaks and rubbing their hands as they murmured to each other. In addition to the people, countless carriages had been parked both outside and within.

Ignoring the throngs of commoners, Skie led the way, Ashura and the others trailing close behind. A pair of armored guards were stationed at the gate, their red-on-white tabards proclaiming them Flaming Fists, and Ashura's hand instinctively drifted to the hilts of her swords as they approached. The men barely spared the party a glance, however, and they marched by without incident. Seemed there had been a lot of chaotic comings and goings this morning.

Beyond the gate lay a broad courtyard of well-trod soil and dead grass. More people milled about here, most dressed in finer clothing than the folk outside; chattering, attending to horses, or bustling about from one outbuilding to the next. Past the little field loomed the fortress proper, a great stone monolith with open gates. A full line of soldiers waited there, halberds resting against their shoulders. The pair of guards directly in front of the palace door kept their axes crossed together, and their captain stood out in front, distinguished by his plated armor. Skie drew her hood back and strode directly towards the man, and the captain's eyes widened at the sight of her.

"Lady Silvershield," he said in greeting. "Glad to see you. We've been…concerned."

"With good reason!" Skie huffed, her chin held high. "Sir Billias, is it?" He nodded. "After recent events, I've much to discuss with the remaining grand dukes, and I demand an audience."

"Of course. Of course." The halberds parted. "This morning's gathering is open to all of our landed residents, in any case."

With a curt nod, Skie began to push past him.

"I'll have to insist that your entourage wait outside, however," the captain hastened to add.

"Out of the question! My parents were assassinated before my eyes, the night before last, and there have been attempts on my life as well. I go nowhere without my bodyguards."

"We can keep you safe-"

"Truly, Sir Billias? You can? Have you looked at the state of the city? At the fortress of the Flaming Fist, or my family home, or The Seven Suns and the Merchant League?!" She shook her head. "No. There is nowhere safe. Thus, this adventuring company I have hired shall follow wherever I go."

"I must insist-"

"Are you actually going to stop my company?" Skie bristled, gesturing towards her followers. "Are you truly going to stand in the way of a Red Wizard of Thay, a drow shadowdancer, The First Arrow of Mhillamniir, and Captain Ash of Mintarn?!"

When there was no immediate answer, Skie brushed past the guardsman and marched on, and Ashura hustled to follow. In stunned silence, their little party was allowed through the gate. It was probably the Red Wizard of Thay who had intimidated the guards more than anything, though those were some impressive titles all around. Apparently I'm a pirate captain now.

Passing through the cold stone walls of the keep, they found themselves in a lavish foyer, the floor tiled in a dizzying, checkered pattern and cushioned by elaborate, circular carpets. The finish on the walls gleamed, bright and burgundy in the light of glowlamps and candelabras, paintings of seascapes and forested hills adorning the wood at regular intervals. Soft, soothing harp and piano music wafted in from a side-room, though the sound failed to drown out the shouting and bickering that echoed from the far chamber. Seemed like there was some sort of great hall up ahead, crowded with rows of people dressed in peacock-bright silks.

"…an up-jumped outsider, who has done nothing but agitate for war!" some man was shouting as they entered.

"Supplying the city's defense is no agitation!" another countered.

Skie kept pushing forward, and Ashura matched her pace. Best to move quick and sure, before too much attention was drawn. Armored soldiers at the edge of the foyer were watching them already, and mail rattled when a few stepped up.

"Need I count the sacrifices that young Lord Anchev has made in service of our city?" the first man shouted.

"And I am ready to sacrifice a great deal more," another voice –deep and resonant– boomed. "War is sacrifice, after all, and should it come to that, I would be proud to lead the charge."

Ashura's eyes narrowed on the hall just ahead. Him. That was him. Her pace quickened, overtaking and passing Skie.

There was commotion coming from behind her now, and steel clinked as the largest guard that Ashura had ever seen pushed his way into the foyer; a tower of dull grey plate. Trying her best to ignore him, she hurried even faster, head down, nostrils flaring, close to breaking into a run as she wove past dumbfounded men and women in crisp and puffy clothes.

She was not getting detained again.

Dashing beneath the archway and into the great hall, Ashura searched for the source of the booming voice. The floor here shared the same tiled pattern as the front chambers, though on a far grander scale: it was perhaps seventy strides from one end to the other, much of the room lined with a long, gold-on-ruby patterned carpet and packed with milling nobles and their attendants. The place seemed to be some sort of ballroom, more than anything, the tiled ceiling arched and lit by brass and crystal chandeliers, and at each end of the hall stood wide, gently curving staircases that wound up to balconies.

All of this barely registered, save the balcony where Ashura's eyes alighted. Up there, smug as always, stood her bastard brother himself, gripping the banister and leaning above the heads of the gathered gentry. No monk's robes or armor today: instead he was dressed in a lavish suit.

Twisting from side to side, Ashura dodged her way past startled nobles and servants, her pace as quick as she could make it without shoving someone over. Her eyes were fixed on Sarevok alone, and he seemed to have noticed her as well. He glared down.

"With the Flaming Fist in disarray," one of the men beneath the balcony continued, gesturing with his wine cup, "we will need a fighter to lead us. And, although young Lord Anchev is from…" His voice trailed off as Ashura neared him, and without lowering his arms the speaker turned, fluidly, to face her.

Unlike the people around him, there was no look of surprise on this man's face. He was dressed in green, with gold piping, and he wore a neat golden beard to match. And…Ah. Yes. There was a bucking black horse on a white field emblazoned on his chest. House Ithcanter's crest and colors, along with the beard, made it clear that this was Lord Tracius Ithcanter himself.

"Who is this intruder?" the man boomed, blocking Ashura's path.

Varscona slipped from its sheath. Hope you're really a doppelganger. In any case, he was in the way. With a stomp and a lunge, Ashura closed the distance and ran the man through.

The moment the carriage rattled to a halt there was some scuffing up top, and Imoen leapt from the roof. Xan leaned against the door and managed to shove it open a blink or so later, stumbling out and stepping to the ground. "Wait!" he shouted after the girl.

She seemed to listen, if reluctantly, swiveling on her heel to look back as they each filed out of the carriage. Harp in one hand, Garrick used his other to help brace Grand Duke Eltan, guiding him down to the grass.

"Fine!" Imoen was shouting back at them. "But hurry! All'a'y'alls!" the moment that Eltan began to hobble towards her, Imoen turned around and started forward again, albeit slower.

Garrick found himself envying those speedy boots of hers. Hmm. Wonder if there's a song that makes a body run faster? He'd have to look into that.

There seemed to be a lot commotion and confusion up ahead, and the guards lined up at the keep's gate were sharing uncertain looks. They faltered even more when they caught sight of Eltan, a wave of shock running through their ranks. That was followed by unsteady salutes.

"Let us pass!" Eltan snarled at the soldiers.

"Yeah!" Imoen concurred. "What he said. We've got a coup to stop!"

A coup that sounded to be well underway, judging by the screams, metallic clangs, and fleeing people who were beginning to emerge from the keep. Imoen tapped her foot for a moment, then lost her patience and took off once again, zipping through the palace doorway.

Xan let out a sigh and began to run after, followed by Shar-Teel, and a moment later a shove to his shoulder sent Garrick stumbling forward. "Go!" Eltan hissed from behind, still leaning against Karsa. The grand duke gestured. "Sounds like a battle in there. Don't let me slow you!"

A little numb, Garrick nodded and obeyed, whirling and running after his friends. Good idea. 'Make yourself useful, harpist.'

And he would! Legs pumping, Garrick raced along. He was gaining on Xan, at least, though Imoen was long gone.

His harp still cradled in his arms, he reached the palace threshold and slowed. What now? A song perhaps? Sooth the crowd? Try to rouse his companions?

Garrick looked about, though the only familiar face was Xan's. The Greycloak was running quick as he could through the foyer, one hand gripping his sword and the other fumbling for his spell-component pouch.

From a side-chamber, a familiar, richly accented voice caught Garrick's attention, bellowing out what sounded like a string of drow expletives. A blink later, Viconia came tumbling through the doorway, flat on her back. She was wreathed in dancing shadows (some sort of protective spell that she often favored), with her golden hammer out and limp in her hand. The weapon clinked against the tiles as she scurried backwards, trying to sit up, her eyes fixed on the figure that had knocked her over as he surged into the room.

Wowa! Quite a figure too: the man must have been at least seven feet tall, even without the sturdy plate armor and half-helm that he was wearing. The big guy carried a warhammer of his own, though it was way larger than Viconia's. Hells, the hammer was probably taller than the drow was!

Garrick had opened his mouth, ready to shout out some spell to distract the giant, but before he could think something up the big guy actually halted and looked over at him, letting out a huff of surprise. "You!" he barked. "Little bard!"

Why do they always say 'little?' I'm six feet tall! (Barely. But still!)

With the giant momentarily distracted, Viconia wasted no time slithering away, disappearing behind the legs of several fleeing people.

The armored man ignored her, stepping forward and bracing his hammer. "Ha!" he exclaimed, while Garrick struggled to figure out where he knew the fellow from. "You fall right into my lap, just like that?!"

Garrick shook his head in bewilderment. Surely someone that tall-

And then it all clicked into place: the height, the hammer, and that square jaw. Tenhammer! Oh shit!

By then that legendary hammer was swinging in, a blur of steel, and with a discordant clang it struck, shattering both harp and bone.

Gasps and high-pitched screams exploded all around Ashura, as Lord Ithcanter shivered and shriveled before her, black ichor trickling from the wound in his chest and his face flowing like putty. Ashura raised her sword arm, trying to display the faceless thing to the crowd. "Doppelganger!" she shouted over the growing panic. "This man was a doppelganger! And there are others!"

From behind her she caught a flash of powder blue, and she whirled towards the motion, interposing with her offhand blade. The blue outfit belonged to a woman, her face stony despite the chaos. Her hands stretched as he lunged, grasping and clawing for Ashura's face.

Ashura went low, and the claws whistled above her head as she shoved in and stabbed. Her offhand sword sunk deep into the lady's belly, eliciting an inhuman sigh rather than a scream, and that sigh grew in pitch as Ashura shot to her feet and drew the blade further up. Then, with a twist, she ripped her sword free, spraying the carpet with black blood as Lady Corwin's (had to be her) doppelganger flopped backwards.

Whirling, Ashura pushed away and charged for the stairs. Chaos was erupting all around her now; a whirlwind of colored fabrics, and along with the scuffing shoes and worried shouts, steel was clinking. Guards were moving in.

Sarevok still loomed over the entire scene, his hands gripping the banister and his face impassive. Closer by, a man stood at the foot of the stairs, blocking the way. His eyes were wide, and as Ashura charged towards him he reached down to fumble for the sword at his belt. He was dressed in burgundy, and had a waxed moustache. Lord Portyr, maybe?

Before the man could draw his sword, Varscona flashed down and chopped cleanly through his wrist, and Ashura's next step drove her offhand blade through the man's torso. Red blood splattered the stairs, and the man let out a very human shrike of pain. Woops.

Ah well. A shove dropped the dying noble to the side, and Ashura raced up the first few steps.

A guardsman was thundering down to meet her, however, his halberd pointing forward, attempting to ward her back. Glaring, she lunged up and up, swaying aside and past a clumsy attempt at a stab. She used Varscona's flat to push the ax-haft away, raising her offhand sword as she moved. It swung down and Ashura hopped up, the tip of the blade piercing chain and lodging deep between ribs.

For an instant the guard and she were pressed bodily together, he sputtered out a "Gurk!" and then she ripped her sword free and shoved him over the banister and out of the way. Damned delays!

Nothing left in her path now, though. Her boots pounded the stairs. There! At the top of the flight stood-

Damnit! Sarevok was grinning, his arms raised high, and somehow the bastard had gotten ahold of a sword. Ahold of the sword, with its curved pommel, broad steel blade, and a gem affixed in the crossguard that had burned with infernal light, that night that Gorion had died. The gem slept for the moment, a plain amber that glinted in the lamplight just before the greatsword came slicing down.

Ashura turned and shifted to the side, and the blade whistled by. It halted, however, as easily as a dragonfly might stop to hover, and then came streaking in for a sideways slash. Ashura's offhand blade managed a block, and she side-stepped up the stairs, pushing. Her gladius would give her the advantage, if she could keep close.

Clink. That great, terrible blade flicked away (damn he was fast!) and then it was arching in from another angle. Ashura's parry jarred her arm. The next one too. Sarevok was as fast and strong as she remembered, but she caught each blow and took each step, climbing.

He still wore that conceited grin of his. She showed him her teeth too, snarling.

"Sister!" Sarevok shouted. "Perhaps it's best that-" He grunted as Varscona flashed in and their blades locked. "-it has come to this."

Clang! Screech! Clang! He backed a step, and then another, trying to find more space for a good swing. She didn't let him, rushing in and pushing. If she had to kick him to death –if she had to rip out his throat with her teeth– she would.

The table's edge jabbed into Garrick's ribs and he felt his spine scrape against the wall. Oof! The getting-slammed-into-the-wall thing barely registered, though, compared to the screaming pain he felt from his shoulder down. His left arm lay, splayed out and twisted, across the table's surface.

On the other side of the table Taurgosz Khosann loomed, holding onto the opposite edge. His hammer's haft rested against his shoulder. "Wanted to make your suffering last, you grinning little traitor," the big man snarled. "You had a nice, safe living lined up, entertaining my men. But instead you set our camp aflame." He shook his head. "Guess I'll have to be satisfied with squishing-"

Garrick wasn't waiting for the hammer to come down. His unbroken arm had been searching through his belt, and with hitched breathes he managed to bring it up, point the little electric-blue wand forward, and hiss out the command word. "Quet!"

Blue-white light flared up in answer, and the pointblank blast of lightning overwhelmed Garrick's vision; his eyes shutting tight. It took a moment for the reverberating BOOM to die back and be replaced by the screams of fleeing folk nearby, along with the rattle of Khosann's mail as he took several steps back.

Wriggling, Garrick managed to slide out from behind the table, forcing his eyes open. Damn! The giant still stood, smoke rising from every joint of his armor. He wore a scowl on his face, head shaking from side to side. "Not the first time I've taken one of those, boy!" Again the hammer rose, and he took a menacing step forward.

Garrick's breaths were coming out ragged, every little twitch making his useless arm rock at his side, sending twinges of agony up from there. His eyes were blurry, his knees unsteady, and the fingers of his good hand were covered in dust. Seemed that had been the wand's last charge.

With a pained snort Khosann lunged and his hammer came flying down.

Somehow Garrick's legs didn't turn to jelly, and instead they propelled him to the side. The hammer's head smashed through wood, splinters flying as Garrick lurched and lumbered any-which-way he could find to escape. He stumbled, fell, rolled, and hit his head against a wall, sitting and looking up as Khosann ripped his hammer free and raised it again.

A streak of steel and flesh shifted just behind the big warrior, and rather than bringing his hammer down to crush Garrick's face the man dropped to his knees, wincing and grunting in pain. Shar-Teel loomed behind him, grinning like a maniac, her longsword streaked with blood where she had cut into the back of Khosann's knee. She tapped the tip of her pata blade against his helmet.

"Left yourself open there, big guy," she taunted. Her eyes met Garrick's. "And don't you ever say that I owe you anything, bard."

Garrick nodded, scooting back. Shar-Teel's attention returned to the big, hobbled man. "Tenhammer himself. I remember you from that raid at Fourfields, strutting around, being a big, bossy boy for all your little underlings. But you fall like all the rest-"

With a metallic clang and a burst of motion, Khosann slammed the butt of his massive warhammer into Shar-Teel's stomach and threw her back, bodily. She struck the nearby wall with a grunt, hopping instantly to her feet as Khosann rose and turned to face her. "When you have a chance," he gritted out, "you should strike, not prattle on." He chuckled. "Just like a woman, though. Always talking, when action is called for."

That was obviously meant as bait, but –ugh– judging by the look on her face it seemed like Shar-Teel had fallen for it. "Oh, you're going to pay for that one, big boy," she snarled. Hunched over, weapons out, she looked ready to spring.

Tenhammer hardly seemed like he had room to lecture anyone about monologuing, but Garrick wasn't about to point that out or complain. Instead, he kept scooting along the wall, struggling to stay conscious and trying to put what distance he could between himself and the duel that was about to break out.

Seemed his life was in Shar-Teel's hands now, if he couldn't get away. Not very encouraging.

The clash of arms and the crackle of spellfire greeted Imoen as she burst into the ballroom and took in the scene. There were scorch marks on the carpet, along with a couple of gray-skinned, floppy corpses. Doppelgangers.

Edwin stood, stiff and straight, at the center of the dance floor, a bubble of arcane protection around him as he directed a streak of flashing bolts towards an old man up on the balcony. Some sort of spell-duel, seemed like. The old man glowed with protections of his own, and behind him there seemed to be a lot of commotion, swords flashing and sweeping around.

Nearer by, folk in bright clothes cowered against the walls or ran for the exits. Most had gathered in a protective cluster by the foot of the other stairway, all watching (in horror) as a burly man in silver and gold silks struggled with a slithery doppel that had hopped up onto his back. The creature's elongated fingers were trying to get a grip on the fellow's neck (did they know how to do anything but strangle?), but the man had grasped both of the doppel's wrists and was pushing back, turning round and round as he did.

Skie Silvershield (of all people!) was approaching the man from behind, stalking ahead and holding up a pointy sword, her eyes fixed on the dopple. Looked like she was trying to judge the right moment to stab the slithery 'shifter without nicking the poor fellow underneath. A guardsman-looking-guy was closing in too, an ax up in his hand. Though it looked like he was about it-

"Skie!" Imoen shouted out in warning. The girl's big doe eyes swung over to look at her in shock, then she noticed the guy who was swinging an ax at her face. With a grace that fit in well, here on the ballroom floor, Skie swiveled and shifted out of the path of the blade.

By then Imoen had knocked an arrow, on reflex, and she didn't hesitate to heft, draw, and loose. The enchanted broadhead took the man in the back and pierced his scale armor like it was butter. Imoen redrew as quick as she could, and her second arrow dropped the man at Skie's feet.

For a stunned moment Skie just peered over at Imoen, then she shook herself, did a quick little thank-you-nod, and swung back to the man with the 'shifter attached to his back. Skie raised her sword, racing in to stab, and Imoen turned towards the other side of the ballroom. Where was-?

"There!" Xan panted beside her, pointing with his moonblade. Seemed he'd caught up. And, sure enough, Ashura had just pivoted into view, up on top of the opposite balcony. Varscona hammered a few times against a second, larger sword, and as Imoen rushed for the stairway she got a clearer look at the fight up there.

Ashura was bent slightly, slipping from side to side in an attempt to circle Sarevok (Imoen instantly recognized the man, even if he had changed his look a bit since his days as a monk, and even if he was dressed in dapper browns instead of spikey armor. Something about his poise and his build was unmistakable.)

The bastard followed Ashura as she swiveled, his giant fuck-off sword up in a high guard. In a flash the blade swept down, sending Ashura skipping aside and biting a deep groove into the top step. Ashura tried to shift in and get close, but the man was damn quick: he had that blade of his pointed low and interposed in an instant, repelling her blows, though he did take a step or so back. There were a couple of slashes in his puffy coat too, and the cloth was stained with blood.

Not so much without yer armor, huh? Imoen's bow went over her shoulder and her dagger slipped from its sheath as she ran for the steps, her eyes fixed on him. Revenge time, dirt bag! You can't stand up to the combined might of the Sisters of Candlekeep! Nosir!

Sarevok was even backtracking now, his swings defensive and a scowl growing on his face. Ha!

Imoen raced up the steps. She was close to the top when the air started crackling, fiery light dancing just behind Sarevok and Ashura. That was followed by a whoosh and a rip in the air, golden forge-fire welling up and sending curls of smoke out from the edges of the rift. Sarevok took a couple steps of retreat, Ashura battering his sword all the way, and then the portal swallowed him up. The light intensified, the rift fell in on itself, groaning, and then with a puff of smoke and a blast of heat it all winked out.

When the smoke cleared, Sarevok, the old mage, and Ashura were all gone. Shura had leapt in after him!

Slowing, and then stopping, Imoen stared at the empty carpet where her sister had just been.