Day of Life and Night of Death
Eighteen years had passed since Lysara came to Candlekeep. Her once straight black hair had become wavy, fell to the middle of her back when loose, and turned the color of chestnuts. Her body now betrayed her heritage as much as her ears did. She was, by human standards, rather short, extremely thin, and her curvature generous - this time by elven standards - yet her muscles were well toned. It wasn't that she had an unhealthy lack of fat, but rather appropriate to her build. Her hair was, as it often was, tied back in a loose ponytail as she went about her day-to-day chores and lessons; during which she wore, as she did today, a simple pair of dark blue breeches and a loose, mid-grey tunic. Her chores, which varied day by day, could include: dusting and polishing tables and bookcases, putting books back in their proper place, helping Imoen in the stables - which was rare because of the inherent trouble the pair got into when they were given a task together - and cleaning the statues in the temple, which was also rare after an incident involving Imoen and a jar of ink.
Today, she had been instructed to assist one of the visiting nobles, a snotty, self-absorbed brat of a man named Lord Aton Romsy around, and fetch whichever books he required for his research. It was a slow, tedious job, as she couldn't leave the man's side except to get him books, often these had no bearing on the prophecies he claimed to be studying, but were coincidentally located on a high enough shelf which she had to climb a ladder to reach them, or put away those he didn't need. He seemed to be trying to piece together what a particular prophecy meant, and having very little luck at it. The first time he recited it, it struck some deep chord within her. After the ninth time of him reciting it, trying to find hidden meanings, she was extremely annoyed, but knew it by heart:
The Lord of Murder shall perish,
But in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny.
Chaos will be sewn in their passage.
So sayeth the wise Alaundo
Finally, seeming extremely frustrated, he spun on Lysara and said, "I can't seem to figure this thing out! Have you any thoughts on the prophecy, wench?"
"Perhaps my Lord does not understand the common tongue," she snapped, her patience at an end. She knew full well that the books which required a ladder to reach were summoned simply because it gave him a view of her climbing said ladder, and didn't like it at all. "It simply means that Alaundo knew Bhaal was going to die, but have children first and that they'd cause an unholy ruckus, just like I'm going to do in a minute… Sir."
"Impudent, ignorant... wench! Prophecies never mean exactly what they say. Begone with you! I shall speak to your superiors about your tongue."
Without another word, Lysara turned on her heel and strode out of the library. She was absolutely fuming. Very little in her life had ever infuriated her more than being called 'wench' and being oggled like a steak didn't help her anger either. She steamed and stormed and fumed the whole way to her next stop, causing several resident scholars to step lightly out of her path. Each was far too aware of her temper. She was to be studying sword techniques at the barracks training ground, which would be a good means of venting her excess anger.
"What's bothering you, Lys?" Jarl was one of the keep's watchers. His rugged face held the scars of battle and war – all before he decided to take an easy job in the last years of his career – while his black hair was kept back in a topknot. Gorion paid him to tutor her in combat because he was the best warrior in the keep, and because she absolutely loved his fighting style, which was as much flash and performance as it was lethal. Though he was the same height as Lysara, and looked even less muscular than she, he had a singular gift for predicting where his opponent was going to move and what they were going to do, giving the impression that he was almost twice as fast as his already above-average speed. He also had an even temper, and a fair sense of right and wrong.
Taking a moment to compose herself, Lysara answered him, "Nothing, really. I shouldn't have let him get to me."
Surprisingly, Jarl let out a laugh. "Lord Romsy?" he asked.
"How…" she started, but he cut her off.
"Let's just say that you're not the first woman to become irritated with Romsy's constant glances, nor the first that he asks to fetch books from the upper shelves. Why I recall one of the girls — he always asks for a young woman to aid him — actually… well, let's not go there. But that's enough about him. Shall we get to the lesson?"
Before she could say anything, he handed her a sword belt, with a short sword in its scabbard on the left, and a dagger buckled to it on the right. This was odd, as he'd always just given her the blades, and not the sheaths; she preferred the sword and dagger combination.
"Now Lys, how you draw a sword can have a huge impact on what you're going to do with it in the first few heartbeats of the fight…" He began, starting the lesson. After two straight hours, the first of which was devoted to drawing the weapons, how it impacted technique, speed of the draw, and probability of disarming or being disarmed, Lysara made her way back to her quarters on the third floor, her arms and shoulders positively aching, yet feeling that she'd made progress. She was a quick study, and Jarl was a good teacher.
The sun was just beginning to set behind the western wall, over the sea when she reached her room. It was slightly larger than most of the cells used by the monks and priests, and held all the personal treasures that she'd collected over the years. Her bed was made only because the daily cleaners made it, and the same was true of her dressers and wardrobe. Her desk, if one could call it that, was a disorganized mess; scraps and whole roles of parchment scattered about its surface, as well as an old spinning top which she'd long since lost the string to littering its surface. She deliberately kept her room messy, despite the way it irked her; as it made it much harder for the warders to search it for the treasures that she and Imoen had the habit of accumulating from unsuspecting guests who had made one or the other angry.
She sat down as she usually did during sunset - whenever she had the time to watch it - on the narrow window sill, her back leaning against one side, and both knees drawn to her collar bone. She loved the sunset. Sometimes she even said a prayer to Lothandar, god of the sun. Well, he was god of the dawn, anyway, but in her mind there was little difference. Today she quietly sung one of the hymns she'd picked up digging through an old songbook in the library. As she looked out, the sun's light glinted off of the waters and clouds, and the horizon seem to glow, even as trees turned to shadow along the cliff shore. As she took it in she allowed her mind to wander into her usual daydream, the one where she single-handedly stopped a war and became a heroine, to everyone's admiration, including some handsome paladin that treated her as a lady despite her legendary capabilities. It was not until the sun's upper rim sank beneath the horizon that she turned back to her quarters.
She nearly fell out of the window. An auburn haired human woman stood right next to her, her chocolate-colored eyes twinkling and a mischievous grin on her youthful face. Lysara leaped onto her feet, yelling in surprise at her childhood friend, Imoen, who just giggled and winked. "Happy day of life, Lys." she said, pulling a box out from behind her back.
"Im, you know I hate it when you do that… but thanks." Lysara said, taking the box. In it was a pair of strange boots, which appeared to be her size. They were finely made of a very soft leather, the same - or very close - color as the stonework of the keep, and looked extremely sturdy, with laces going up the seam in the middle designed to look like interwoven vines.
"Aww, you old stick in the mud. Live a little, and relax for once." Imoen replied, "I figured you'd like those. Took me a whole month's allowance to buy 'em for you. Can't ya' figure out what they are?"
Lysara tried the boots on, which came up just below her knee, and tried taking a few steps in them. They didn't make the slightest sound that she could detect. After another moment's thought, she replied, "These boots... they were made by my people, yes? The wood elves?"
Imoen's grin, if possible, became even wider. "You got it! Merchant told me they were made in Sulda-something. Figured they'd come in handy, and-" she was cut off here as Lysara threw her arms around her, holding her dear friend tight, which was a thanks more profound than any words.
"Ease off, there!" Imoen pretended to protest, returning the hug for a moment before pushing Lysara away by her shoulders, "Oh, and Mr. G. wants to see you."
Lysara's good mood instantly evaporated. She knew what was coming. Gorion was going to tell her off for her behavior earlier, and she knew she deserved it. Times like those, and there had been a good number before, were the only ones when he seemed to get angry with her.
"Thanks again Im." Lysara told her.
"Aww, you in trouble?" Imoen asked knowingly.
"Lost my temper again. This time it was with that bastard Romsy."
"Oh I heard about that. I don't think your dad will be too mad at you. I would've slapped the guy, then kicked him in a rather unseemly place if he'd been gawking at me like that."
She thanked Imoen again, vocally this time, and started down the hall to her father's room. Imoen caught up to her before she'd made it a dozen paces. "Nah, he's not in his room," she said, "Tethie's got him."
An unfamiliar acolyte they were passing glanced up at hearing the library's headmaster referred to as 'Tethie' but said nothing. Lysara dismissed him as being new, since she thought she knew the faces of all the acolytes.
"Thanks, Im." Lysara said, changing course for the stairwell. Tethtoryl was the new Headmaster of the library, having taken over for Alastor about five years prior. He had his office on the seventh - and highest - floor, in his predecessor's chamber. She ascended the wide stone stairwells, her boots still making absolutely no noise as she climbed, a mixture of guilt and anxiety brewing in her. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she reached for the solid oak door to the dean's office, fingers curled to rap on it with her knuckles.
Before she could touch it, the door burst open so suddenly, and with such force that she had no chance whatsoever of moving out of the way. She half spun, reflexively trying to dodge as the door's edge hit her forearm. She turned back to the figure in the doorway, expecting herself to demand an apology. She froze though, some terrible fear gripping her, as she realized that the man in the doorway was so much taller than her, that the top of her head came just barely short of his diaphragm. He was about three times as wide in the shoulders and was also extremely brawny.
But it was not his physical stature that evoked her fear. She looked up, and saw a bald head and chiseled face framing a pair of cold, cruel black eyes, like twin windows into the abyss. One glance at those eyes was what struck terror into her heart. Though she'd forgotten it, they were almost exactly like the raven's eyes she'd seen as a child, eyes that she had once had nightmares every eve about, except these eyes had whites.
Her facial muscles went slack, and she felt her jaw drop. Then the man's deep voice bellowed "Out of my way!" and one of his heavily muscled arms swatted her to the floor as though she were some kind of annoying insect. She fell on her rump and skidded painfully along the smooth tiles.
He moved quickly past her, his heavy footsteps reverberating so badly that she could hear him even after he was concealed by the stairwell. As she picked herself up, Gorion appeared in the doorway.
"Lysara! Did he injure you?" Gorion said, his normally gentle voice full of concern and… fear?
"No, father, I'm unhurt." she replied. Gorion was one of the only people she was ever formal with.
Gorion ushered her into Tethtoryl's office. Tethtoryl himself was a short, frail-looking man in the autumn of his life. He was a little on the rotund side and balding, with only a few whips of white hair left on his head. He bowed to her and excused himself to reprimand the large man, whom he referred to as Koveras.
"Father, was that man a friend of yours?" she asked as she rubbed her forearm without thinking.
Gorion looked at her a moment, as though considering how best to answer her. He did this quite often, which often led her to believe that all parents did the same to their children. After a moment, he answered, "No, child. That man is no friend of mine. Nor, I think, will he ever be any friend to you."
Something in his tone gave pause to Lysara, but she had no time to voice it because Gorion gestured at a pair of boxes, one was long and wide but relatively flat, the other one was quite short, but even thinner and a little deeper. Even with her limited magical training - she had very little aptitude in the Art - she could sense an extremely powerful aura coming from them. He asked her, "Well, are you going to open your life-day gifts?"
Lysara looked startled, having expected to be bereted for her earlier behavior. Gorion noticed her expression, smiled kindly, and said, "No, child. You will not be reprimanded for your outburst this afternoon. Compared to almost all of the actions that others in your position took against the… er, the young lord, yours was actually quite tame. I am proud of your restraint, my dear. Now, are you going to open your gifts?"
Lysara, her spirits considerably lightened, approached the desk, but one question was still on her mind, which she asked of her father, "Father, you almost never come to see Tethtoryl. Why are you here?"
Gorion gave her that certain look he used whenever she noticed something he'd rather she didn't; which happened more frequently as she grew older. "Child, I will tell you that tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy your day of life," he replied. Then noticing her reaching for the larger box, he added, "The shorter one first, dear one."
As instructed, she pulled the lid off of the shorter box, which was labeled with her adopted father's name. What was inside made her jaw go completely slack once more. After a few moments of stunned silence, she drew out a sword belt. What it was made of, she had no idea. It wasn't leather, at least not any leather that she recognized; but it was some sort of extremely soft and supple material braided together to give the illusion of woven vines. Seamlessly attached to, or else a permanent part of the belt were two scabbards. She could see no way to remove or detach them from it.
On the left was a sheath for a short sword, complete with blade, again made out of no wood she could identify, but completely smooth - bereft of even visible or tangible wood grain. It was a solid, handsome black except for gold rune letters down the side, and the symbol of a tree directly below the mouth. Although she had studied her peoples' language, she could not read these runes. On the right side - as it have been while being worn - was a smaller sheath with different, but equally incomprehensible runes, including an icon of a drop of water, which held a dagger. She fixed the belt around her waist, finding that it fit perfectly, and seemed to just sit there on her hips so long as the two ends crossed each other. There was no proper buckle. Eagerly, she pulled the weapons out of their respective sheaths.
The sword was magnificent, like nothing she'd ever seen. It was so light compared to the blade Jarl had her practicing with, and seemed to be perfectly balanced. The entire sword seemed to be made out of a single piece of pure silver or perhaps platinum, with the slender grip wrapped in a soft material that felt like leather and molded itself to fit her hand. The blade tapered from the cross-guard to a fine point, and the edges were sharper than razors, yet would not, it seemed, cut her finger as she ran it down the edge. The dagger was a miniature version of the sword, but perfectly balanced for either close combat or for throwing. After putting the blades through a brief practice maneuver, she sheathed them again.
"Beautiful." Gorion commented.
"You've never drawn them yourself?" Lysara asked, tilting her head curiously.
"I came across this blade and dagger set in my adventuring youth. Some friends and I drove a red dragon from its lair. Being then fond of the double-weapon combination, as you are now, I took this as my share, not even realizing that I cannot draw them from their sheaths. I believe I know why, but I'll get into that later. I thought you might like them, though, and my researches led me to believe you would be able to use them. The other box contains some things that another took from that same horde."
Opening the longer box, Lysara found a longbow, taller than she was. The haft was made of the same smooth black wood as the sheaths on her belt, while the string appeared to be a single strand of the same fibers that made up the belt itself. She drew it back to test it, and as she did so, a translucent arrow sprang into being, in position to be fired. Very slowly, she let up tension on the string, and the arrow vanished.
"Another piece of my heritage?" she inquired, awed by the weapon. Archery had always been a favored part of her education.
"As well as the cloak underneath it," Gorion answered, "All of your presents this year have something to do with your elven heritage; including that pair of boots that I don't seem to recall on you before. You see, the owner of the bow, another wood elf, was never able to use it either, something which leads me to the belief that their magic is locked to a specific bloodline. To cut the story short - I'm rather short on time now - my research has shown me that you are the last known daughter of that ancient bloodline… on your… your mother's side."
So entranced was she with these things that it took her a moment to register what he had said. "My mother?" she asked softly, looking at him hopefully. "My mother was a queen, then?"
"No… I'm sorry child. I promise… I promise soon, I will answer all of your questions. All of them. Your cloak?"
She drew a hooded cloak which she hadn't noticed out of the box that had contained the bow. It was grayish in color and woven of yet another material she hadn't yet seen, though she was sure it was different from the others. At the neck was a clasp shaped like a sword behind a leaf. She didn't hesitate to put it on, though it was a bit of a juggling act as she still held the bow.
"Another piece of the same set?" she asked. The cloak wasn't quite as fine as the other pieces, but it looked to be of a kin to it.
"No, no." Gorion said, chuckling. "The cloak, chain mail, helmet, and the other pieces remain lost. All I know of them for certain are that they aren't in any museum I could find, nor a private collection. And that they were the property of a king, or at the least a noble. Several thousand years ago."
Another question sprang to her lips, but this one died before she gave it voice. Gorion made a brushing motion at her and said, "Shoo! Shoo! I must find Tethtoryl, and seal his office when I leave," while trying to suppress a chuckle.
She couldn't help gawking at the bow for a few more minutes once she arrived at her room. Then she leaned it up next to the door and left, doing something she'd never before bothered to do. She locked her door.
Once out in the night, she drew the cloak's hood up over her head and pulled it tight about herself. Just then an idea came to her, and she made her way to the stables, where she stood quite still in the shadows by the wall. Surely enough, after a few minutes, Imoen came by, leading a horse belonging to one of the departing guests. Lysara crept very stealthily to follow Imoen, who was humming cheerfully to herself and to the horse on the way to the gate. Just a little farther and they were passing through the darkest part of the outer grounds. A grin crept across Lysara's delicate features.
Never in her whole life prior had Lysara seen anyone jump so high, or land in quite so much mud as she leaned in and whispered the word 'boo' into Imoen's ear. The other girl let out a short, piercing scream that was especially painful to Lysara's elven hearing and more than likely carried over the whole of Candlekeep. The horse responded as well, rearing up and neighing loudly before bolting. But it had been worth it. After about ten years of Imoen sneaking up on her, and ten years of trying to return the gesture with no success, Lysara had finally gotten her back. After Imoen's stream of cursing had abated, she allowed Lysara to give her a hand out of the mud.
At least, that's what Lysara thought.
Imoen cackled with impish delight as she yanked her best friend into the mud with her. Watchers converged on the spot, swords bared, but it didn't take them long to figure out what had happened, though they almost went for Lysara, not recognizing her at first, stuffbefore Imoen stopped them. This wasn't the first time that any of them had been called upon to pull those girls out of the mud. After the watchers had left, Lysara showed Imoen the cloak, swords, and belt. Imoen, her spirits high, even by her standards, cracked her best grin, and said, "Ha! Now I don't have to buy you anything for about six years! Yikes! I'd better catch that horse and get him to the gate. Comin' with?"
"Nah, I think I'll drop by Winthrop's for a drink."
"Kay, bye." Imoen said over her shoulder as she sped off in the direction the horse had bolted. Lysara, feeling more content than she had in months, made her way over to the inn and went inside without event.
The Candlekeep Inn was fairly small, usually used by merchants passing through, as the keep itself held the quarters for the visiting researchers, students, and staff. When Lysara entered, one or two of the patrons looked up, but almost immediately went back to whatever they were doing, except Lord Romsy himself, who glared at her a moment before indignantly huffing his way up the stairs. As she went up to the bar, a portly, completely bald man with grayish blue eyes, who wore an apron over his tunic, welcomed her.
"Well, if it ain't my favorite little Miss Vantress," said Winthrop, eyeing her new gear appreciatively, which for some reason caused her ears to start to tingle, "Come of age, today, eh? First ale of yer choice is on me, lass."
"Thanks," she replied, "Let's see... the Bitter Black Ale is supposed to be good, right?"
"Ain't me personal favorite. Not got much kick to it. Though a little lady like yerself'd probably be better off with somethin' that ain't got so much kick, aye?" Winthrop chuckled, and then said, "I'm only joke'n. Tell ya what, what you're want'n is Shadowdale Wine. Good stuff if ye've not drinked before."
"Alright then, I trust ya, Winthy," she answered, a smile on her face. The common room wherein the bar was located was empty now, except for Lysara, Winthrop, and some man in an armchair by the fire who seemed to have nodded off. Winthrop pulled out an empty mug and searched around under the counter for a moment, before sighing. "Jus' a moment, lass; I'll just go get a bottle from the cellar," he explained.
As soon as Winthrop was out of sight, Lysara crept up the steps to the second floor. After quickly checking three of the doors, she found what she was looking for: a contentedly snoring Lord Romsy. She crept into his room, making no sound a sleeping human would ever perceive, let alone one who snored so loudly, and looked around. Aside from the inn's minimal accommodations, the only thing that may have belonged to Romsy was a wooden chest with a tough looking lock on it.
No question about it, Imoen was the better lock-pick. It took Lysara almost a minute to spring the lock, all the while casting nervous glances between the sleeping Romsy and the cracked-open door. She sifted through an assortment of clothing, cloaks, shoes and boots – being very careful to leave them approximately where she found them – before coming to something interesting: a jewelry box. A brief inspection for traps and a few seconds later and the box was open. By now she was running out of time; Winthrop would be coming back from the cellar any moment, and was unlikely to appreciate her ripping off his customer… again. She hurriedly picked out three pieces of jewelry, and two gems that didn't have any kind of distinctive symbol on them, stuffed them in a special tight-seal pouch that she and Imoen had invented, replaced the box and left the room, closing the door as she tucked the pouch down her was back at the bar with almost half a minute to spare, barely remembering to pull her hood down and wipe her face clean of sweat. Winthrop came out carrying a dusty bottle and saying, "I think ye'll really enjoy this, ye will."
Then he was pouring, and she was tasting alcohol for the first time. She enjoyed the taste of this wine, which, she also enjoyed, seemed to have absolutely no other effect on her; so she drank down the whole flagon in two pulls while Winthrop just stared at her.
"Delicious, Winthy. Didn't feel a thing," she said.
"You just wait, ye do," he replied as she waved herself out, "takes a bit afore ye start ta feel 'nythin'."
Lysara's ears tingled as she stepped out of the inn, and she was was about halfway to the stables when she heard a whistling sound, and then felt a sharp pain in her right arm. She looked down at it to see a tear in her tunic sleeve, which was starting to turn a dark color, spreading downward. What, exactly, had grazed her, she didn't know, but didn't have time to think about it. She dove left just as she picked up on another whistling sound – this one followed by a thunk – and scurried around behind a warehouse. She tried to calm herself as she moved around behind the warehouse, being as quiet as possible, in spite of her rapid breathing. Someone had tried to shoot her. Twice!
Then her ears picked up a cranking sound followed by a click. So, whoever was shooting at her was using a crossbow, and they were close enough for her to hear. That gave her a good estimate of the distance and an approximate direction. Her heart was telling her to run like hell, but her head was telling her it was a bad idea to expose her back to an archer that way. And besides, she wanted to know who wanted her dead, and why.
As she moved along the back wall towards the side of the building that faced the inn, she pulled her sword from its sheath. She was almost to the corner when something slammed hard into the side of her face. She spun, her sword dropping from her hand as the ground rushed up to meet her. Even as this happened, there was another twang, and a clip as the bolt struck stone and skipped.
There was an incoherent snarl of rage, and a pair of hands closed over Lysara's throat. Instinctively, she tried to seize her opponent's arms. She tried repeatedly to break his grip, but it was too strong. Everything was turning a spotted black as she struggled to breathe. Then, as suddenly as her throat had been closed, it opened again. Coughing and trying to inhale at the same time, Lysara rolled up into a kneeling position.
Then someone kicked her in her presented rear-end, and she understood. Whoever her attacker was, they meant for her to die slowly, and in a very humiliating way. Her heart seemed to freeze as she felt someone trying to pull her pants off. That was what really got her into motion. She rolled up onto her side and kicked out with her leg, almost at random, and was rewarded with the sound of a bone breaking as she made contact. Somewhere above her a male voice swore loudly, and she'd caught her breath enough to let out an ear-piercing scream for help as she gained her feet back.
A heat-silhouette of a man in a hooded cloak, dagger drawn, greeted her as she stood. She just barely pulled her own dagger in time to parry his thrust. He countered with a kick of his own that connected painfully to her ribs and laid her back in the mud. She saw him, standing above her, dagger raised for a killing strike. So she took the only two actions she could.
A ball of mud hit the man's eyes at almost the exact second that her boot's toe connected with his groin. Off balance, blinded and in pain, he staggered backwards and slumped down next to the wall. Lysara rolled into a crouch directly in front of him, picking up his dagger as she went. With both blades pressed against his throat, she questioned him:
"Why did you try to kill me?"
He went still, his expression somehow smug even as he froze in the act of trying to wipe the mud from his eyes. In response, she lowered her left hand, which held her own blade, to point at a somewhat lower target than his throat before repeating the question. He didn't look quite so smug, but still held his tongue.
She only just heard the second person approaching behind her, and acted on instinct. Her left weapon reversed and drove back and up, impaling itself the stomach of a second assailant, and the man behind her let out a sound she could put no name to. This action, however, caused her right hand to move forward just a little too far, and opened the first man's throat. A grunt, a gurgle, the sound of a weapon hitting the ground, and a corpse falling were the sounds of that horrible second. Yet none of them registered.
She had killed.
She had killed two people.
But the second man wasn't dead yet. His mouth was working, but Lysara didn't hear his words. She picked up her sword, and ran as fast as she could towards the keep. She had just crossed the threshold on her way to Gorion's room when the alarm bell, heard so rarely, began to sound.
It seemed almost as though he was expecting something like this to happen. He was so calm, or at least he seemed to be, after checking her for wounds and healing the cut on her arm. Barely aware of what he was saying, she did as he ordered. She went back to her room, stuffed some clothes into a sack, including her stash of purloined gems and coins, shouldered her bow, and joined him in the gatehouse. He led her out of Candlekeep, off of the main road at first chance, and started cross country. Lost in her own thoughts of the last half an hour, dwelling on the lives she had just taken, absorbed in the horror she was feeling, she barely heard most of what Gorion was saying, and paid no attention whatsoever as he guided her through the forest.
"Need to move... harder to find us in a crowd... Baldur's Gate..."
At the last one, she snapped out of her trance and suddenly noticed that for the first time she was outside the walls of Candlekeep. She also finally noticed that her ears were tingling again in the oddly silent forest, and Gorion was talking.
"Hurry, child. The night can only get worse, so we must find shelter soon. Don't worry; I will explain everything as soon as there is time." He suddenly stopped talking, and walking, throwing out an arm to signal her to halt. Somewhere up ahead a branch had snapped, as though a creature stepped on it. Lysara's heat-seeing eyes caught the forms of several large beings up ahead.
"Prepare yourself, child. We are in an ambush," He whispered to her.
But it seemed that somehow, whoever was out there heard him, because the heat silhouette of a very large person stepped forward and said in a very deep, hateful and angry voice, "You're perceptive for an old man. You know why I'm here: Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist it shall be a waste of your life!"
When he stepped forward again into the open moonlight, he slipped out of the infrared spectrum and into the visible. Lysara could make out some details about his armor. It was a dark color, but she couldn't tell exactly what color it was, and spikes were protruding from every joint and along his forearms and the sides of his lower legs and pauldrons. From his helmet came two tall, curving horns, and from under his visor came two yellow points of light that may have been his eyes, yet she knew of no creature with such eyes. And she saw the light of the moon gleaming off of the largest sword she had ever seen.
"You're a fool if you believe I would trust your benevolence. Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt," Gorion replied coolly.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, old man," the armored figure replied with a voice now full of contempt. There was something familiar about that voice, as though Lysara had heard it before.
At that exact second, there was a click-twang of a crossbow being fired. If Lysara hadn't twisted in order to reach for her weapon, the crossbow bolt would have hit her heart, rather than her shoulder. The pain was unbelievable. Her knees caved and her uninjured arm supported her in a kneeling position, all thoughts of fighting gone. Gorion sent some sort of spell at the unseen foe that had fired the shot.
"Run child! Get out of here!" he yelled at her.
She somehow fought her way through the pain and got to her feet, staggering as much as running as fast as she could manage with a bolt in her shoulder, and forced herself to ignore the sounds of Gorion's spell casting, as well as the indescribable pain that jolted through her with each step. A horrible numbness began to spread from the wound, down her left arm, which began to hesitate to answer her commands. She briefly wondered if the bolt might have been poisoned or if that was just a consequence of a true wound, which she had never suffered before.
When she reached the edge of the clearing, and was safely up a tree - her arm was now completely numb, and the feeling was spreading into her chest - she turned to watch the battle unfold, allowing her elven eyes to slip into the thermal-seeing range as the moon once was once again obscured by a passing cloud. She saw two incredibly hot and large hulks on the ground. The third, Gorion's, was working his hands furiously, sending wave after wave of magic – whose flashes kept forcing her eyes back into the visible spectrum - towards the armored fiend. But it didn't seem to matter. The monstrous warrior seemed to simply shrug off Gorion's most powerful spells, though they did slow his advance. At last, the steady stream of magic seemed to be slowing down as Gorion tired. Spell after spell he hurtled at the warrior, but none seemed to actually faze him. Finally, after Gorion could summon no more magic, an armored hand shot forward and grabbed him about the throat, hoisting him several feet off of the ground. Whether or not the fiend spoke, Lysara never heard, but after a moment, he brought his other hand in close to his chest, the arm-blades oriented at Gorion's. A moment later, the warrior moved both hands in one sharp movement: His right pulling Gorion in, his left pushing the arm-blades into his victim's chest and heart. Lysara let out a sob, using all her restraint and willpower not to scream as her father's body crumpled to the ground.
The armored bastard bent over, pawing at the ground where she'd been shot. He didn't seem to find anything, probably because it was too dark for him to spot her trail. He straightened up, picked up his sword, and shouted out:
"Hear me, Lysara Vantress! One way or another, THIS..." he chopped down, cutting Gorion's corpse in half, "will be your fate! Your blood will be mine!"
He turned, though she was hardly aware. All was fading to darkness as the warrior picked up a figure no larger than Lysara. Then she felt herself falling, and all turned to darkness.
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