Author's Note: Thanks to CMY187 for inspiring the opening quote for this chapter.
85 - Death's Favored Daughter
"Who was the hero of the tale? Hard to say, for each player in kind assumed that it was he or she." –Felestin the Bard, A Stir of Echoes
They fell through smoke and darkness, the roar of flames and the gurgle of molten rock filling Ashura's ears. The shadows boiled, and at their edges: golden fire.
There was a sense of intense heat here —wilting and dry— yet Ashura did not burn, and though the air was thick, it did not choke her. Along with the crack and gurgle of magma there were other sounds: hisses, chitterings, and keening calls. There were creatures here, glimpsed beyond the billowing clouds of black; their forms bent, twisted, and sharp as filed bone.
Through all of this she plunged, and so did he, just ahead…or…beneath her? Hard to tell direction here. He was a block of solid smoke, jagged at the edges and fissured with cracks of light. His eyes burned even brighter than the rest of him.
Smoke and flame and howling calls whipped by, and then-
-her feet were on solid ground and there was no more roar and no more smoke and no more fire. Now she stood in some sort of vast and vaulted cavern, the floor level and sandy, surrounded by a maze of low, ruined walls. The place was dark and the stone was cold, though there seemed to be a faint light coming from somewhere behind her.
Something gurgled beyond the walls. An underground river.
The figure she had chased through the inferno had touched down a few paces in front of her. He was a man now; not a molten shadow, dressed in torn finery rather than spikes, and though his face bore many scars, there were no glowing rifts. Pinpricks of fire still danced in his eyes.
Sarevok's sword swept up and out as he placed it between them in a high guard. Ashura's own blades had been at her sides, through the plunge. She raised and crossed them before her, feet shifting.
He was dressed in torn finery, she reminded herself. There were open slashes across his arms. Caught without his armor, he was vulnerable. Injured.
Ashura drew a breath and exhaled a laugh. "Ha!" Her blades swept forward.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Turning, Imoen surveyed the chaos down on the ballroom floor. Didn't seem like there were any more blank-faced monstrosities clawing at folks, at least, and the scattered clumps of people (hers included) were all looking around and taking stock.
Unless one of 'em's a doppel in disguise. How can we- oh yeah! Her eyes settled on Xan, who had ended up at the foot of the nearby stairs, a cautious hand raised and his moonblade burning.
Scooting up onto the banister, Imoen slid all the way to the ground floor, landing on the carpet at Xan's side. "Heya!" she called as she straightened up. "Are there anymore shifter's around?"
Looking a bit dizzy and bewildered, Xan managed a shake of his head. "I do not hear their distinctive voices. No." He turned back to the ballroom, and then cocked his ear, almost like he had caught some sound through the din. "Although…hm." Without further explanation, Xan started across the carpet, making his way towards the opposite stairway and the crowd gathered there.
Skie stood among them, above a heap of limp limbs and frayed clothes that had been a doppelganger a little while ago, her short sword clutched two-handed as she stared down, disbelieving. Across from her stood…Coran? Wow. Was the whole gang here? The wood elf had his twin daggers out, the hilts resting against his hips and smeared with black gunk. He shot Imoen a rascally smile as she neared.
"So are there more doppels?" asked Imoen.
Skie shook herself, looking up. "There should have just been the six," she replied, thinking the question was for her.
Xan ignored them all, making straight for a man in silver who stood out in front of the huddling nobles. A male and female guard were moving in as well, swords out and ready. Xan raised a hand and shouted a warning before they got close to Mr. Silver: "Grand Duke Belt! Ware those soldiers!"
Sharing a brief glance, the guards turned on Xan, but he had followed his shout with an incantation. Before the pair could fully spring, a shimmer washed over them and locked them in place, frozen as bugs in amber.
Grand Duke Belt pivoted to face Xan, his hands stretched out and humming with magic of its own. "This some trick?" he snapped.
"Not on my part, I assure you," Xan said, stopping at a respectful distance. He pointed to the paralyzed guards. "These are mercenaries of the Black Talon company, brought in by Sarevok Anchev to help with-" a gesture encompassed the whole bloody mess of the ballroom "-this. Though it seems that the plot has mostly unraveled."
Oh. It occurred to Imoen that the guards weren't wearing any sort of symbol, Flaming Fist or otherwise, and the same went for the guy she had stopped from bopping Skie with an axe. Guards/shmards. Though they blended in pretty well.
"Yes," Edwin added, smoothing out his robes as he approached. "I counted six faceless corpses, scattered about this chamber (since I doubt anyone else bothered.) And the instigator this has fled."
"There may be other-" Xan began, but Imoen poked his arm.
"We need to find Shura!" she insisted. "She disappeared down some sort of portal, after Him! The big guy with the big sword and all! She's in danger!"
The girl —damn her!— caught his swing and turned it back. For the moment it seemed that her strength matched his own, obviously bolstered by her divine blood.
Of course, the blessings of Bhaal were always temporary. The glow in the girl's eyes would wane. Sarevok simply had to endure, much like he had during their little 'duel' in the great library, where he had fended her off with a quarterstaff until the Watchers arrived.
Of course, if he had his armor this would be over already. Frustrating. And Winski…had he been injured in his duel with the red wizard?
No. The old man stood at foot of the great temple, his arms crossed at his chest and his sharp little eyes watching the scene unfold. Sarevok's old master offered no assistance, his stance and his cold gaze reminiscent of the days they had spent training in the Sunset Mountains. It seemed the old Theurge of Bhaal regarded this as some sort of final test.
Sarevok was alone here. As always. As he had been in that cold forest. As he had been on the filthy streets of Iriaebor. As he had been the night Rieltar had decided to teach a little lesson of his own, with a garrote rope, on the woman that Sarevok had just begun to call 'mother.'
Alone; left to live or die, endure or fail, by his own will and wits and strength —and nothing else.
Steel clanged again and again, each blow sending a jolt through his arms. Endure. He slipped aside and backtracked. There was a flash of raw pain along his side, accompanied by the sound of fabric ripping. Endure!
His scramble backwards had given him room for a proper swing, and he aimed for her neck. She shifted and the blow bit into her left spaulder instead, denting steel. Knocked her to the ground to, but she rolled with the force and was on her feet, blocking and countering, when he stomped in for the next slash.
He was bleeding. She was laughing and swinging.
Endure. Endure. Endure! With a snarl he braced his sword's blade against his palm, wielding the weapon more like a staff. A stomp forward —he refused to give more ground— and they were face to face. Head-butting range. He reared back, to do just that, but her shortblade's pommel whipped in first and cracked against his chin.
Another stumble backwards and a frustrated growl, though he kept his balance, keeping The Sword of Chaos in a tight grip and interposed.
The girl bent low to leap at him, and then the world exploded in a rush of white-hot flame and billowing smoke. Sarevok found himself turning from the heat and the roar, wincing and backing away. He spared a glance around (Gods be good, the girl had just been incinerated.)
Winski was gone, and the doors of the great temple stood partly ajar. Closer by, Tamoko approached. She was dressed in her midnight-black armor, a flail dangling from one hand and the other wreathed in fire. Her gaze went past Sarevok, to the flames she had just conjured. The girl had not yet emerged. Nor had there been a scream.
"I said that I would save you," Tamoko stated, dry as ever. "Even if you refused."
Ah, yes. This old argument. The flames were sputtering out now, and the silhouette of the girl was visible beyond them, still moving. Seemed she had stumbled back against a ruined wall.
Tamoko gestured towards the temple. "Go. Now." Their eyes met.
He opened his mouth. 'When this is over…' he thought to say, but there was no time. (His sister looked remarkably unscathed. Some sort of magical protection, most likely.) And he was not sure how he would finish the words, in any case. So instead he turned, and started for the gates of the Temple of Bhaal.
His armor. How he hated to retreat again and again, but he needed that armor.
The sound of more flames welled up behind him, and now he sprinted for the doors. His armor, and then he would end this.
"What else?" Grand Duchess Liia Jannath demanded. At least that's who Imoen guessed this woman was, judging by the robes (nothing says 'royal' like red, gold, and purple spun up in elaborate patterns from fabric that was probably worth enough to feed an army) and the jewelry (pawn those gems and you'd have enough to equip that army too). The woman's face was angular and a weathered, her sandy hair tied up and bound with pearled ribbons in a shape that reminded Imoen a bit of a warhorn.
"A pair of assassins were to infiltrate this gathering," Xan informed the duchess. "Along with the doppelgangers, and Sarevok's mercenaries."
Edwin snorted. "That pair of assassins is long dead. Your little group may have been hiding under a rock these past few days, but we have been quite industrious."
That hardly seemed to reassure Duchess Jannath, who gave the red wizard a brief, appraising glare before returning to Xan. "Do any of the infiltrators remain? Can you sess them out, enchanter?"
"I am uncertain," Xan admitted. "We will need to bind these Black Talons and spell them, to get the full story. And their leader-"
"HA!" Now there was a familiar sound: Shar-Teel's amplified bark/laugh echoed across the ballroom. She sauntered in through a nearby doorway, drenched in blood. "Won't have to worry about that big fellow." A few steps behind her walked Viconia, shouldering a very pale, wobbly-looking Garrick.
Well sheesh. The gang really is all here. With one gnawing exception.
Shar-Teel poked her chin up in the air. "Don't see how that clumsy hammer of his ever 'felled ten men in a single blow.'" Another laugh. "I know they say it was a smashed dam and all, but…"
"You would not have slain that vesheer without my assistance," Viconia snarled, curt and quick. "I owed that man a great debt of pain. Shame you cut that pain short."
"Bah. Had him limping well enough. And dead is dead, eh?"
"Bwael kres vet olar, I suppose."
Imoen recognized the drow proverb, often associated with males and scoffed at by the ruling class. Literally translated, it meant 'Good so long as it ends in stillness,' though scholars tended to read it more as the drow equivalent of 'All's well that ends well.' Or 'All's well that ends dead,' more like. Not an attitude shared by the matrons or wannabe matrons. To them, offing an enemy without style was considered almost as bad as not offing the enemy at all.
With a frustrated little breath, Viconia shoved Garrick along, and the poor fellow wobbled over against Shar-Teel's arm. "Will someone else shoulder this lump?! Or settle him upon a cushion? I have done what I can for his injures, yet he limps along and moans."
"Eh?" Shar-Teel grunted. "Yeah. Sure." With a surprising amount of tenderness (in that she just dragged him along, rather than shoving, hurling, or kicking) she managed to deposit Garrick on a nearby sofa.
"So," Edwin spoke up. "I suppose this matter is mostly squared away then-"
"Mostly!" Imoen shouted. "Shura's disappeared down a magic hole!"
"('Twas why I used the word mostly, idiot!)"
"We need to find her!" Imoen insisted. "Mount a rescue!" She turned to the assembled nobles. "And go after that fellow who just tried to murder you all. We've got a lot of spellpower here. Surely we can come up with the right divinations before the trail goes cold?"
The pommel of The Sword of Chaos hammered the door aside, and Sarevok slipped through, plunging into the temple's diffuse red light. It seemed brighter than usual today, and as he charged on towards the altar he noted a fiery glow wafting up between the cracks in the floor. Above the dais, the great skull-symbol burned as well, furnace-bright. Whispers echoed, faint but there, from the shadows of the reaper statues at the temple's periphery.
There could be no doubt. The Fourfold Furnace was leaking into this place, more and more.
Winski Perorate stood, straight and stern as one of Candlekeep's instructors, at the foot of the dais, and just beyond the ancient man lay Sarevok's custom-forged armor, neatly arranged. Steel tempered by the fires of Khalas itself, sanctified with demon's blood, lined with babau-bone spikes, and topped by a helm adorned with the horns, teeth, and tusks of a nycaloth. The time it had taken to assemble those pieces —the ordeals and sacrifices that had gone into each pauldron, gauntlet, and greave— was a testimony to all that he had worked for. All that he had been through.
"There is but one more step," Winski announced, voice resonating off the temple-stone. "You know it."
"Many more steps for me," Sarevok growled. Impressive as his armor was, there were artifacts and rituals that dwarfed it. Yaga-Shura, as he had recently learned, had found a way to hide his own heart and cheat the death their father had planned for them both. The giant would be quite a challenge.
"True," Winksi said. "But this is my last leap. And my way of assuring myself that I have trained a worthy heir to my master's Throne."
"Indeed." Sarevok stomped his way towards the altar. Would there be battle now? Spells?
No. Winksi simply stood there, calm and collected, even as Sarevok closed the distance and rammed the point of his sword through his old mentor's chest. The old man tensed and clawed the air for a moment, coughing out an ugly sound as The Sword of Chaos lifted him and drank his blood. The cuts and bruises that the girl had given Sarevok closed and smoothed, Winski's eyes rolled back, and then Sarevok cast him aside.
A Deathbringer has no family, after all. He began to don his armor.
For an instant all was a silent, brown void; a feeling of weightlessness coming over Imoen that was both disorienting and a little comforting (felt a bit like floating in a pool.) Then her feet touched down on solid flooring and the blankness snapped into focus; the brown-nothing resolving into roughewn walls, lamps, barrels, and startled people. There were girlish shrieks of alarm all around (despite the folks mostly being men), along with chairs overturning and the scuffing of feet. At the same time Imoen felt the hands that she had been holding slip free, and one of 'em (Shar-Teel's good one) reached for a sword.
The people they had inadvertently bamphed in on were all dressed in frayed and patchy clothes, and the air here in this big open hall had an oddly familiar tang to it. Tabaco smoke, body odor, and the clove incense that Black Lily liked to burn in a never-ending battle away those smells. Oh yeah. Imoen knew this place.
"Hold up ya fathead lob-lodders!" a familiar voice shouted. "Tis Pinky 'et landed in'er midst, and she deserves a breath'a hearin' out a'fore we prickle her an' her crew wit' crossbow bolts."
Whirling, Imoen faced the familiar rogue with open hands. "Hey there Narlen. Sorry ta drop in unannounced. And without saying the password first. Is it still Ffard?"
Narlen Darkwalk huffed. "Yer really stretchin' the definition o' honorary member here, ya know. Magic-appearin' like that, and at this hour o' the mornin' with a full regiment o'…" He found himself tongue-tied as he got a closer look at the woman in the center of the group, who was dressed in maybe a thousand pearls worth of resplendent robes, plus jewelry. "O'…holy fookin' hook-bloomers! Is…is that..?"
A couple of scruffy folk had emerged from side-doors, shouldering small crossbows. The door-guards of the Thieves' House. And, of course, Imoen's people had long ago drawn their weapons and spell-components.
"She is who she appears to be," a voice announced, dry and calm, coming from an alcove. Alatos Thuibuld had his arms crossed over his chest, and looked a bit more disheveled than usual, in that a few hairs were out of place, rather than none, and there were a few wrinkles in his fine black outfit, implying that it had been hastily thrown on. "Though what the duchess is doing here is a pertinent question. I thought we had an understanding, your worship."
Grand Duchess Liia Jannath made a dismissive gesture. She had hardly glanced at Alatos, and was instead studying the hall and its floorboards. "We have no relation at all." She then shot the guildmaster a pointed look. "Whomever you are. I know you not, and did not intend to arrive here." Eyes again fixed on the floor, she nodded to herself. "Hm. Yes. Wherever that portal led is beneath this place. The wards prevented us from reaching the precise location."
"Under here?" Imoen mused. "Oh! The smuggler's tunnels!"
One of the nearby crossbowmen cringed. "You're not supposed to say stuff like that out loud…and in front of…"
Another dismissive wave from the grand duchess cut her off. "Yes, the underground estuary of the Chionthar. With the old ruins. I'm well aware. How do we reach it from here?"
The folks with crossbows deferred to Alatos, and after a moment he inclined his head. Didn't look too pleased, though. "That stairway, over there. Our cellars are a…rather extensive maze, which eventually lead to the cave and the underground river. If you follow the right signs." He tilted his head towards Imoen. "That girl with you knows what to look for."
Liia nodded, starting for the stairs, but she halted halfway there. "I will," she said, "of course, ignore all that I see in these cellars. Although, as a gesture of good will, perhaps…"
"Yes, yes." Alatos waved a hand. "Denkod. Voleta. Narlen. Escort them." He shot them a look. "Cautiously, now. I don't want to lose any of my people"
Those three shared startled glances, then Narlen shrugged and reached for a bow. Once it was slung over his shoulder he started for the stairs. "Lead the way," Liia insisted. "And your city thanks you-" she glanced at all three thieves "-for your patriotism."
The heat stung, but that was all. When Ashura's eyes opened and she stumbled back, she found that nothing was charred. Nothing was burnt. Damn. Had Gehenna made her immune to-
Oh. Edwin's ring. Between its enchantments and the spell-protections of her cloak, the fire had barely touched her. She really did owe that arrogant, preening pig, it seemed. Well, if she made it out of this alive, then she'd repay. Deals with devils and all. Maybe even that tumble he was always hinting at.
Through the smoke, Tamoko had her hands raised. She was wasting no time on a fresh invocation. Likely she had given up on calling down fire, too.
Ashura charged, her longsword arcing in, but before the blade struck flesh there was a rumble and a transformation rippled over Tamoko. The woman's face had been vulnerable, but now Varscona ricocheted off, chipping away a piece of craggy stone. The layer of rock covered the priestess entirely: armor and all.
The next blow skidded off Tamoko's forearm, then Ashura rolled back to avoid the whistling flail. From there their duel began in earnest.
The enchanted boots were sometimes a blessing, and sometimes an annoyance. Definitely an annoyance now, having to constantly stop and wait for the others to catch up. Coran jogged along with the usual smirk on his face, and Grand Duchess Jannath and her procession of thieves ran along just fine, but Xan, Shar-Teel, and Viconia lagged behind, always breathless. Now all three had stopped (for the umteenth friggin' time!) leaning against the walls and trying to recover.
And Edwin…well…like always, Edwin just refused to run. Imoen supposed that he'd catch up eventually (or maybe he had gotten bored and buggered off to Surthay? Eh. No bit loss.)
Soon as the others seemed to be breathing normal-like, Imoen swung around and pattered on down the hall, eyes sweep-sweeping over the knots and whorls in the wood as she searched for the red and green marks of the smuggler's trail. Let's see. That one's pointing us left, right? Yup!
She hasted 'round the bend, then skidded to a stop with a little squeak, face-to-skull with a slack-jawed, upright, and disturbingly animated skeleton. The thing's head was adorned by a surprisingly polished, winged helmet, and tiny pins of light burned deep in its eye-sockets. Despite its lack of vocal cords it managed to make a dusty, hissing noise as it raised a lethal-looking sword.
As time ground to a halt and Imoen's mind raced, she found herself wondering if the undead thing spent all of its infinite time carefully polishing that sword and helmet. Also, it seemed that she should have turned right instead of left.
Skittering backwards, Imoen rounded the fork and nearly bumped into Shar-Teel. "Little delay here," she admitted, pointing at the undead warrior as it surged around the bend with an overhand swing.
Shar-Teel just snorted in reply, shifting past Imoen as her sword shot up to parry. She didn't even look annoyed. Probably pleased to have something to smash.
Alright. For real. What in the name of Sune's sweet, exceptionally round, and perfectly dimpled ass were they doing down here in this dank cavern? Rahvin had lost his damn mind. That was the only explanation.
For the third time since they had come down here, Haseo shared a frustrated look with Wudei. The old witch nodded in silent agreement, arms crossed and a scowl fixed on her face. They were supposed to be hunting down whoever had toppled the western branch of the Iron Throne, and more and more this just felt like guard duty. All the waiting was compounded by how little the boss-man deigned to tell them.
Not too unusual for Rahvin, of course. He'd always been the type to expect his underlings to never question orders, and he worked hard to live up to the image of Sembian men being gruff and aloof. The price one paid, Haseo had once supposed, for Shaldrissa living up to the tales of lusty and promiscuous Sembian women.
Still, the boss would usually keep them all busy by giving orders, in situations like this. Barking out battle-plans. Maybe sending Haseo and Wudai off to scout. All of this silent, unexplained lurking about just didn't sit right.
As if he sensed the internal grumbling, Rahvin glanced back at his followers. "She will be here shortly," he snapped. "Have patience."
She? Would be helpful if the boss at least explained who 'she' was. Haseo opened his mouth to issue that very complaint, but the echo of distant voices forced him to reconsider. Biting down, he peered into the darkness. He couldn't see them yet, whoever they were. The strangers sounded chatty, though.
Rahvin had already drawn an arrow from his quiver, and Haseo's eyes widened when he realized it was one of the special ones. There was a little glass bulb imbedded behind the broadhead: a serious piece of explosive alchemy.
Now, Haseo just had to speak up. "Uh…" he whispered. "Do we even know who those people are up there?"
Rahven knocked the arrow. The others were giving him puzzled looks as well. Gorf scratched his head. Carstag raised an eyebrow.
"I mean," Haseo spoke quick as he could, "this is obviously a smuggler's cave. Those folks might just be-"
Twang. And off the arrow sailed, glowing faintly as it arced across the cavern. A moment passed, and then the space ahead of them lit up with a tremendous BOOM.
Well, it was on now.
Haseo knocked an arrow of his own and inched towards the closest ruined wall. He gave the boss-man an expectant look. Orders? A charge? But Rahven hadn't even knocked a second arrow, and instead he was giving his bow this weird, dumbfounded look, like it had just appeared in his hands. Beshaba's breath. He really had lost his damn mind, hadn't he? Not good. Not good. Had there been signs? Haseo thought back…
"So…chief?" Carstag prompted, obviously feeling the same way.
"Why are we here?" was Rahven's bewildering response.
Definitely, definitely insane. "Not really the time to get philosophical, boss," Haseo replied. Insane or…OH! The other thing. The boss had been under some spell. Not good! Maybe worse than insane!
And yeah, Rahven was starting to look less confused. He turned, and opened his mouth to address his followers.
Then an object came fluttering in from the far side of the cavern, arcing through the air and glowing faintly. An odd, yet familiar shape for an arrow, what with the glass bulb housed behind the arrowhead. Not good!
Haseo spun away and wrapped his cloak around himself right as the arrow touched down at Carstag's feet. There was a surprisingly understated pop, and he had just enough time to curl up a bit and think: What are the chances they'd also be armed with some of those?! before the concussive blast knocked him off his feet.
With bone-jarring force, Ashura struck the wall, then the dirt. Everything was spinning and flashing. Her hands opened and closed, both empty now. She had lost her offhand blade a while ago, to a blast of conjured wind, and now Varscona was gone. Her fingers fumbled through the sand, seeking a weapon. They found a piece of masonry. Good.
Tamoko was a dark blur, stepping in. No more stone covering, at least, though her blows carried the force a damn mountain. The priestess' armor was battered, and there was a bloody gash across her cheek, but she remained irritatingly intact. "A shame that it has come to this," Tamoko said. "Knowing that you were raised in a monastery, I had hoped you were the gentle sort. That you might be persuaded to simply walk away."
The bitch was reaching out now, as she closed in. Probably preparing some sort of harm touch. "But, alas," she continued, "you proved to be a determined killer."
Ashura nodded at that, propped against the wall. "Yeah. I am," she muttered through bleeding lips. Her sides ached. Bruised ribs, most likely. Eh. Pain was no stranger, and she had endured worse. She had been lower than this. She clenched the piece of stone, tensing.
Opening her mouth to intone her spell, Tamoko stretched her fingers out. In another part of the cavern, a sound like thunder echoed off the walls, accompanied by a distant flash. Despite the explosion, Tamoko did not pause or hesitate.
Ashura didn't either.
A snarl of pain and fury propelled her up from the wall, and she grasped the priestess' wrist. Fingers locking, she focused and she drew, strength and vigor surging through her veins. Tamoko came tumbling down, and at the same time Ashura's other hand flew up to smash the piece of stone into her enemy's face. Stunned, drained, and off-balance, the priestess pitched to the side and Ashura followed, pouncing. She raised the rock and brought it down. Then she did that again. And again.
Ashura didn't stop until Tamoko's face was a red ruin and the twitching had died down. Tossing the gore-stained stone aside, she wobbled to her feet and worked to catch her breath. An ugly and inelegant way to end a duel, but that was usually how it went. Maybe Garrick would write a prettier version of it all someday.
The ruby in Varscona's crossguard drew her eye, and she bent down to fish the sword from the sand. There. Much better than wielding a rock. Next, she turned towards the one intact building in the ruins, the skull motif above the great double doors making it clear what this place was for.
"Alright, you son of a bitch!" she shouted. "Your girlfriend's dead! You've got no one left to hide behind!"
"And no need," that deep, resounding voice boomed from the other side. And then –horned, armored, and bristling with spikes– Sarevok emerged.
Ashura's eyes widened, briefly, at the sight of that armor. Oh shit. Her brother's eyes were burning, the massive sword held high, and it looked like he had gained his second wind.
"Are you ready then, sister?" Sarevok taunted.
She turned to a side stance. Just the one sword left, and despite what she had ripped out of Tamoko she was still a little battered. Regardless, she forced a bloody sneer onto her face. With deliberate strides, they began to close the distance, readying their blades.
Oh please stop bleeding! Please! Please! Please!
One palm pressed to Xan's bloodstained side, Imoen huffed and held onto his shoulder, her legs straining as she dragged him along. They were out in the open here, and arrows might come flying in at any moment. Possibly exploding arrows! She had none of her own left to retaliate with, but hopefully whoever was out there didn't know that, and they'd stay hunkered down long enough…
'Course, hope and five coppers will get you an ale, as they say. Huff and tug. Huff and tug.
Xan was not particularly heavy (much as Imoen had tried to get him to eat better), but she was not particularly strong either, and his kicking and shuddering sure weren't helping. His shoes dug uneven furrows in the sand as they went, finally wobbling behind one of the low walls of the ruins. With one more huff, Imoen propped the elf up against the masonry. Oof!
Just in time too. An arrow whistled in, tonking off the stone. Thankfully, there was no explosion.
No time to rest, tho! Soon as she had some breath in her, Imoen searched through her enchanted bag and fished out a potion, popping the cork and pressing it to Xan's lips. "Come on you! Chug it down!"
He managed that, after a few fits and starts, and his breathing evened out. Once he could talk, the first thing Xan said was: "Embarrassing, how often you seem to…rescue me."
"You just make a great damsel in distress, I 'spose."
"One day, I shall find a way to repay you."
"You can recite your sentimental vows some other time," Edwin hissed from behind a separate wall. "For now, do something useful!"
Xan seemed to agree, since instead of a curt reply he began to chant. Soon his eyes filled with soft white light; the clear sign of a divination at work.
While he did that, Imoen leaned a bit out of cover, trying to get a look for herself. A blazing flash cut through the dark, hurling towards her, and she shot back behind the wall, wrapping her cloak tight and turtling up. No explosion followed; the burning arrow just struck the earth and sputtered.
"Please do not attempt to peak out again," Xan sighed. "There are two archers, watching this spot. A mage as well. And a Malarite priestess, who is very eager to throw a cloud of stinging insects at the first person she gets a clear view of."
Shar-Teel muttered something, muffled in her own hidy-spot.
"They have an ogre as well," Xan warned.
Closer by, Viconia crouched. She caught Imoen's eye and gestured towards the maze of ruined houses that they found themselves hunkered down in, making a series of drow hand signs. 'This cover. We sneak through and flank them?'
"Good idea. You do that, Vicky, and take Narlen with ya." Narlen Darkwalk was the only fellow from the guild in sight. The others, along with the duchess, Coran, and Skie, had (hopefully) ducked for cover on the other side of the open roadway that cut through the ruins. Judging by the crackle of spellfire over there, at least, it seemed like those folks were putting up a fight.
Maybe Grand Duchess Liia would manage to blow up the whole lot of the bad guys, but Imoen wasn't going to just wait around for that. "Get behind 'em," she continued to instruct Viconia, "lay low, and get ready to throw a cloud of darkness on their heads when there's some commotion."
With a nod Viconia set out, low and silent. A hop over the shattered wall, and she was gone, followed by Narlen.
Next, Imoen turned to Shar-Teel's wall. "You stay here, Ess-Tee…" she began, eliciting a grumble "…to intercept their big guys when they get brave enough to come charging in." She waved her hand in Xan and Edwin's direction. "Protect these pansy, dress-wearing men, would ya?" Next, she turned to the hint of red robes she could see behind another wall. "And Eddy…"
"Do not call me that."
"Eddy. I'm gonna' go create a lot of commotion up ahead. When you hear it, throw whatever explody spells you can that way. Don't worry 'bout hitting me. You couldn't incinerate me even if you tried." Hopefully the taunt would get him going.
Lastly, Imoen turned to Xan, wriggling over to face him, nose to nose. "You stay alive." She kissed his forehead. "And spare a girl an invisibility, would ya?" Without giving him time to reply, she began to intone a spell of her own.
Xan followed her line of thought, placing a hand on her shoulder and chanting, and the euphoric ripple of her haste spell was followed a breath later by his refractive wave of invisibility. She disengaged, and then, quick and unseen, she shot to her feet, leapt over the wall, and took off.
The ruins raced by. An arrow drifted in, overhead, but she wasn't its target. It was floating awfully slow, anyways.
Up ahead in the open lay a soot-stained body, dressed in plate armor. One of its legs was twisted and the other had been completely severed, apparently by Imoen's exploding arrow earlier. Looked like a single arrow to the eye had finished the guy off. Maybe Coran's work.
The rest of the enemy force were still upright: huddling in doorways or looking out over windowsills in the dead-city ruins. Two of them were indeed holding bows, and as Imoen closed she knocked an arrow and took aim at the nearest one: a swarthy fellow with a jaunty mustache and light armor.
Twang. She flared visible and her arrow took the man by surprise, close-quarters and through the ribs. He spun and fell behind the window that he'd been perched on.
By then Imoen was intoning her next spell. She buzzed and blurred, pastel colors spreading out and solidifying into five extra Imoens. They knocked their bows in unison and ran along the road.
An arrow whistled out from a doorway, zipping through one of the fake Imoens and winking her out. Real-Imoen retaliated with an arrow of her own, and it punched through the archer's armor, sending him back in a stagger. Not a deep or vital wound, but it gave the man pause.
The air was roaring behind her. Eddy and his firepower. Imeon pitched forward and zipped past the cover that the enemy-folks had taken, a blast of heat shaking her cloak. One of the fake Imoens was a bit of a straggler, and the flames enveloped her. Three left- ack!
A flock of buzzing, arcane bolts shot out from the fire-storm, chasing after her. She ducked and zipped and dodged. Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! Sparks flew, and illusory decoys wavered and fell apart behind her.
In the same instant an ear-splitting crash sounded close by. One of the old walls burst apart, and out stormed an eight-foot tall tower of muscle and rage, lightly armored and hefting an oversized sword. The ogre skidded across the cavern floor, just a few paces ahead, glaring down at her. The real her. Yikes!
Imoen threw herself aside and sand exploded where she had just been. Turning his head, the ogre snarled and followed, tusks and teeth all fully bared as he roared.
Then the world winked out.
Absolute darkness, for the briefest little moment. The ogre's bellow dipped down and became a confused little "Hurk?" At the same time, Imoen's infravision flared to life. There was the ogre again, a silhouette mapped out in gradations of heat.
Leaning forward, Imoen ran straight for the thing, abandoning her bow and drawing her dagger. A hastened leap, and her boots touched down on one of the ogre's wrists. She scramble-ran up the slant of his great, meaty arm, then leapt onto his shoulder, bent her knees low, and planted her dagger, wrist-deep, into his eye.
In shock, the ogre wobbled a bit, and for a blink Imoen balanced there on his shoulder like it was a swaying branch. Not too different from climbing the old maple tree back in Candlekeep, really. If you ignored the stench. And the low, keening sound of animal pain. And all the gushy stuff on her hand.
She gave her dagger a twist and ripped it free. The ogre pitched back briefly (no way to tell which way he'd fall in the end) and then Imoen chanced a leap. A seven foot drop, then her boots touched down and she tucked and rolled, bursting out of Viconia's conjured cloud of darkness and racing a few steps forward just in case-
A crash behind her and a blast of wind and sand signaled that –yes– the ogre had indeed fallen backwards, flattened and limb. The sounds of battle rang behind her too, though she couldn't see anything through the wall of darkness and the growing cloud of dust.
The next step would be to start hunting through the dark and taking out the rest of 'em. She almost turned to do that, but movement ahead drew Imoen's eyes first. There were flashes of steel. Two figures circling, one much smaller than the other, and leaping around. The bigger one wore spikes and horns, and carried a massive, fuck-off sword.
Imoen's eyes widened and her breath hitched. Forgetting everything behind her, she reached down and twisted her ring, winking out of visibility. Then she began to run, fast as her legs could carry her.
She circled, fighting for breath. He followed, so damn fast, even in that heavy plate.
His greatsword flashed in to take her head; whistling just above as she dipped low and timed a stab. Varscona reverberated off his armor, harmless. He laughed, stomped, and now his blade arced down, biting a furrow in the sand as she rolled aside.
Ashura was a bit more nimble —more mobile— than her brother. That fact, and tireless footwork, were keeping her alive. For now.
He was a pillar of unbreakable steel, and he knew it. Another rumbling laugh, followed by a chop. Varscona deflected the blow and Ashura stumbled back, her whole arm stinging.
"You had your chance, little sister," Sarevok taunted. "But even without my armor, you could not strike me down. And with this armor…forged in perdition's fires? No chance." Another one of those smug laughs followed.
Bastard had a point though. She wasn't going to chop through that stuff. She'd need some lucky –or close and dirty– shot.
Another clang and parry, and then she leapt in closer; grabbed at one of his armor's spikes. They grappled and spun. She tried to hook and trip; got turned around instead, and caught a hard forearm blow to the back as he threw her. There were stings all along her back, from his spiked gauntlet.
The ground rushed up, she caught herself, and rolled away as his blade bit into the sand where she had been. Springing to her feet, she chopped at his arm, but by then he had lifted his sword again. A clang and a parry.
"This armor was forged for this," he added. "And I have trained all my life for this, while you were reading your books. I have already slain five of our siblings. You killed…that one? The assassin that I pitted against you?" A full-bodied slash followed his taunt.
She ducked, then parried the quick cut that he followed through with. "Killed him, and your woman," she snarled, shoving back. "And your pet ogre, and his slaver partner, and your pet face-shifter-queen! And every assassin you've sent, and every one of your damn followers! You've got nothing left but that armor of yours."
"That is the point. The point to being a Deathbringer! The point to being the next Lord of Murder! To stand atop the ruins. No friends, or family; only power and blood. That is why I shall be the last, and you shall be the sixth notch upon my blade." And with that the blade he spoke of whistled in, and Ashura misjudged the feint. Again, she came away rolling, the chainmail at her bicep rent open and leaking blood.
"Because I am willing to sacrifice all of the Throne!" Sarevok added. The sword plunged down, and Ashura managed to catch it, bracing Varscona's blade with her free hand. "Because I possess a strength and surety that you do not!"
She twisted away, using both hands to swing and counter the flurry of quick little blows he shot at her. They sent her staggering back, and he hefted his sword for another great swing, looming high. Her eyes tracked his blade, knees bent to time her next dodge.
And then…he wobbled slightly, off balance, and shock registered in his burning eyes.
Steel rattled as a small, nimble figure materialized up on Sarevok's back. Then that figure's violet cloak fluttered as the armored man tried to buck and throw her off, but Imoen was on tight. Her legs gripped his sides like the trunk of a tree, and her hand held onto one of the tusks that protruded from the front of his helmet. She'd yanked that helmet up slightly, and her other hand was holding onto her dagger, which had been buried in the gap she'd made between helmet and his gorget. She ripped her blade free and a torrent of blood flowed from the wound, pouring down the front of his armor.
Clink. Sarevok Anchev dropped to his knees. He stared out, dimly, for a moment, and then fissures of burning gold began to spread and split across his face.
Imoen hopped backwards, landing on the dirt as Sarevok dropped fully, onto his side and then onto his back, his face turning to ash and fire; going up in a cloud of burning dust. It wafted out of every crevice in his armor, spiraling upwards in a whirlwind and leaving a husk of vacant steel behind. 'You've got nothing left but that armor of yours,' she had taunted.
Imoen's gaze shifted up to follow the cloud, but then her eyes locked with Ashura's. And those eyes were burning.
The golden glow hung heavy in the air between them. It resonated. It spoke. 'That dagger will seek your throat next. As sure as the sun sets. As sure as the way of all flesh. It is the purpose she was born for.'
Above them both, the wheel-shaped symbol of Bhaal that overlooked the temple glowed, brighter and brighter with each passing moment.
Imoen's eyes were all fire, and her teeth glittered, bared in a massive grin. She looked down at the husk of jagged armor, every motion quick and jittery. "I killed him just like that," she said, amazed. Then she giggled. "A hop and a stab, fast and invisible. That was all it took."
Golden dust danced on the wind, thrumming with heat. The very air between them was wavering. The heat of the Furnace. The hissing voices. The smoke and the shadows. It had all returned. They were standing on a sandy cavern floor, and at the same time they were not. Felt more like those were whorls of magma-stone beneath Ashura's feet than sand.
Imoen took a giddy leap forward, balancing on top of Sarevok's hollow breastplate. Her feet rested right beside the leering skull, and she looked different in the haze and the unearthly light. Thinner. Spidery. A trick of the shadows gave her tanned complexion a darker, craggier tone —as if it had been burned. And her mouth was wider than it should be. Too many teeth. She showed them off as she laughed. "Killed him just like that. Just like I can kill any creature here." Next, she made the dagger dance and twirl in her hand, shifting the hilt between different fingers. Then she juggled it. And it was not Montaron's old dagger now. Looked as if it was made of bone.
"I slew him!" There was a manic tinge to Imoen's voice, and her tail was wagging with excitement, the spike at the end twitching.
'That dagger…' the voice from the dreams whispered. '…you know it.' And, of course, Ashura did. Her longsword rose, and she struck a high guard. Her fingers felt different. Clawed. She adjusted her grip.
Imoen laughed again. "Any creature here," she repeated.
Here. Ashura knew, without looking, that 'here' was the realm of their father. There were daemons lurking and watching out on the periphery, and nearby lay a great vault, lined with statues that represented the creatures of this realm. One of the statues had been Sarevok's, and it was crumbling now. She could see it all, the scope and scale of the place, in her mind's eye.
Imoen danced on the breastplate, impish and impossibly quick, each twitch difficult for Ashura's eyes to follow, and like an imp she giggled and giggled. Her tail swung 'round and 'round.
Ashura bit back an animal snarl, her cloak rustling behind her, billowing out like a pair of wings. It felt a part of her. Her lips drew back, and there were more teeth there than usual; needle-sharp.
One more crazed giggle from the daemon-girl who danced upon the armor of her slain brother, and then Imoen gripped her dagger's hilt with both hands, raised it over her head, and sprang forward in a leaping stab.