19 Kythorn
A lot has happened. There's a lot left to happen. Imoen and I discussed this possibility with Shar-Teel and the others, who agreed to it; it's happened.
Bandits attacked while I was on watch that night. Shar-Teel struggled out of the tent to fight; I went to back her up. Imoen's fire crackled in the air; warm and useful. Edwin came out with a battle-cry of 'How dare you disturb the rest of a Red Wizard!', and Garrick and Viconia helped from the back.
The man I was fighting was young, I think.
"Last 'un, I kicked 'im in the head 'till 'e was dead! Give it a go, girlie?"
Shar-Teel likes to fight dirty. I caught him in a parry and kicked him; it seemed to hurt. He kept fighting, though—I could dodge him, but he's stronger than me— A magic missile from Imoen hit him; he cried out.
"'Tis your choice which hits the ground first: your swords or your heads!" The speaker was walking toward me, a man in heavy chainmail and carrying a large warhammer. I saw movement in the trees behind him; only once, but...
He had confidence to talk. We didn't.
I lowered my sword; jumped back from an uncontrolled swing from the bandit still chasing me. Maybe I had already begun to learn something from Shar-Teel. "We'll not fight you. In fact we want to join your group."
Bandits. Join them and—it's safe again? I wasn't being attacked any more; a break in the fighting.
"Now there's a laugh! Why should we take you rattle-pates?"
"'Cause dungeonrobbing's a mug's game!" I said, loud enough for Imoen and Garrick to hear me. "C'n see the flag-wavin' that yer where the bits o' tin are these days." I expected the others would notice the accent. Picking up Baldur's Gate thieves' cant around Eldoth and his friends was much easier than learning Mulhorandi or Alzhedo; rhyming slang, carelessness with dental fricatives, and h-dropping for emphasis.
"Yeah, the boys saw you waste that Flaming Fist," the man said. "What do you call yourselves?"
His hammer was still a threat; and a bowman behind him was showing himself.
Killed your brother.
Killed the young Black Talon with brown eyes.
You are not my daughter. "I'd be Lucrezia the Bastard." I spat on the ground. "Sneaksman and treasure seeker, a dab shot with bow besides. Pink cove back there's no rank rider neither, barmaid's prodder an' master in bells." (Lockpicker and spellcaster, I had to explain afterwards.) "She's—Bathory the Axe. Splits skulls wiv the bells. Shanky 'ere's a bung nipper sure enough alongside 'is pipes and bells—" I pointed to Garrick, who nodded frantically—"an' Eddie's a Red Wizard, fearsome enough they be. Vic the drow be worth 'er price inna moonlit, and the fronting-doxy and her toothpick be Shar-..."
"Shar-Teel the Man-Slayer, we know 'er repute already."
"Yes. Yah, well." Shar-Teel was fighting three bandits at once, wild-seeming strikes that had them all kept cautiously back from her; lost to the fight. Would we have won against all these, if we'd tried? This was easier.
"Asset or liability?" He clarified the phrase for Lucrezia's sake. "If the camp bosses like you, maybe you're in. Or we can fill you and your man-hating friend full of arrows here and now if you can't stick to our orders."
"Thick cullies or thin rogues? Don't think it matters to 'er, we're all for th' patting. Oy, cut it!" I called to her, hoping she'd listen. "Down the toothpick now, new takings fer the rolling!"
"Lay down your weapons, boys," he ordered. "They're new recruits good enough for me. Take them to Tazok."
Shar-Teel reluctantly backed away from the fight. A relief. Infiltrating the bandits solved one problem. Tazok: the name in Tranzig's letters. Perhaps not let on knowing; perhaps, and rather quickly, dispose of the Black Talon scalps in Shar-Teel's pouch.
"From the Gate, aren't you?" he said to me.
"Yep! That Duke Eltan liked me 'ead so much, I'd'a been riding the rope for him to get a hold of it. So I ran and th' bunch of us joined up for pieces together..."
"Hey, mister! What'd you say your name was?" Imoen asked him. "It's so nice of you to let us join! We'll be rich as queens in no time!"
"You're welcome to call me 'Captain Raiken', or 'Commander Raiken'. Let's see how well you keep up."
The bandit camp up beyond Peldvale. My feet hurt; Viconia and Garrick were lagging behind by the time we reached the end of it. There were twelve men besides Raiken; the one I'd fought was called Kerl. They all kept close to us, during that walk. Running away now wouldn't be encouraged. At least we'd all been able to gather our equipment.
"You're sure, Sk...you?" Garrick whispered to me. "All these bandits..."
"Sneaking, Shanky. They tried recruiting us, it's easier like this." Like Imoen's and my grand Plan to be great thieves. Bandits.
"RAIKEN! Who are these ones?"
A large half-ogre. I think his voice was enough to make my hood ripple and fall back.
Our captain stood at attention. "Keeping numbers up, Tazok. We'll not have time to bring more from Iriaebor, and Kerl spotted them murdering a Flaming Fist with the drow here, so I thought..."
"YOU DON'T THINK! I THINK!" Tazok's orange-tinged eyes weren't as bright as those of the one who killed Gorion, but reminded me of him; I cringed back. "WE PAY BLACK TALON TO DO STEALTH HERE, AND YOU RECRUIT THOSE YOU ROB? WHO ARE THESE WEAKLINGS!"
Shar-Teel took a stride forward. I'm scared when she smiles like that. That is, more scared. "I don't take any crap from ogre garbage. Go scare some schoolboys, snaga."
Talk about fighting words. He just rushed at her, roaring, and she rushed back.
I guess she and Tazok have a lot in common. Shar-Teel's probably smarter, but in that fight intelligence didn't count. Just two heavy swords hitting each other, fast and forceful. He was half again her size, large and tall and terrifying. Though she clearly didn't find him so. It was difficult to do anything but watch them, in those first bloodthirsty moments. No sparks flared in the air with each metallic strike as in bards' songs, but the swords moved so quickly as to blur; Tazok's harsh attacks as though to cleave her in two, armour and all, Shar-Teel's quick deflections, somehow bearing up under that power—
Wait. Shar-Teel on the defensive. Shar-Teel breaking a sweat while the ogre laughed; Shar-Teel slipping to the side, like I do when I'm failing to fight her. Shar-Teel in tr... She had been fighting already, and done the long march; maybe he had also come to the fight like that, maybe not. But that was a sequence of slicing blows from him, and there was Shar-Teel, in time to counter them but not to do anything else. Shar-Teel taking a step backwards, even, no longer smiling. No, that was better for her. That was a sudden, fast movement that might make it past his defences. But: he was blocking it. That—sent her down to one knee, if only for a second. She didn't say anything, or try to taunt him; only parried and forced herself to her feet again. Moving with less grace than she had done; favouring, slightly, her left side this time. Probably the half-ogre noticed.
Revenge, if anything happened to her. If anything happened to her, the same to the rest of us. Raiken did nothing as the beginning of spells were muttered; when a hit from Tazok had Shar-Teel in the shoulder, I took from Imoen's quiver the ice-arrows we had gained. I fired; it stopped him, briefly, from another blow. If this was a one-on-one duel, we had cheated and had to not die for it; the spells hit the instant later. Shaken off, from Viconia; some slight damage, from the lesser ambition of the arcanists.
"These odds are more fun. Show me how you fight, pinklings." He was laughing at us. The arrows seemed to hardly hurt his hide, and Shar-Teel—it was a hard hit she received; she was losing despite everything. I heard her grunt in pain blocking a low blow. The metal gauntlets covering her wrists crumpled from the strength of it. Imoen's fire and Edwin's acid seemed to barely distract him.
Shar-Teel went down. Not dead; knocked onto her back with a hit to her left side. Trying to get to her feet again—too slowly—I kept shooting. Tazok stopped to yank the arrow out—Viconia flung bullets in a sling Imoen had twisted for her—Shar-Teel stumbled out of the way. She wasn't giving up, in spite of everything; would never surrender to a male. Stood up, somehow, for the end game.
Maybe her perseverance would win through. No—probably not. No movement, still, from the other bandits. They must have known nothing would work. Shar-Teel, sweating, moving slowly. Block. Parry. Turn. Tazok, smiling as yet another missile turned away from him. He forced her down to her knees, his sword crossing hers and bearing down; all she could do was try to hold a little longer. The way her face looked when she knew she was beaten... I hadn't thought she could be defeated like that. Kneeling to a man.
Tazok ended it.
A strange test.
"Heh! Stop now!" he yelled. "That mean you in the back!" He lowered his blade, and brushed at a trace of acid on his arm. "You fight pretty good. I think you make fine bandits. Go have run of camp. I have business to do but Ardenor and Taurgosz will keep eyes on you! Patrol! Tonight we leave!"
"I won't ask where you got those arrows, eh?" Raiken said quietly. "Go introduce yourselves to Tenhammer. Make yourselves useful or heads'll roll."
Taurgosz 'Tenhammer' Khosann, who once killed ten men with a single blow from his hammer, has no people skills.
"You lead these rivvin, jaluk?"
"Last time I saw the head of a drow bitch I was nailing it to a cliff face."
Relations did not improve.
Credus the second newest recruit showed us around the camp: the Chill hobgoblins, the gnolls, Tazok's special tent with the special papers in it (interesting), better still, Damon formerly of the Baldur's Gate Thieves' Guild, and best yet: Sique of the same previous affiliation.
Sique is the kind of thief that normally one only reads about. His face is perfect, his hair is gorgeous, he's witty and intelligent and bathes regularly, and he was a specialist in locks and traps before he and Damon had to leave the city.
"Best I do here's lift a barmaid's frock once in a while to save the effort of splitting a chest, or take down a bit of ettercap webbing...but a job's a job. Lucky my cousin Vairvon got us this gig."
"Could we see you work?" Imoen asked him, putting on her biggest smile.
"Eh...Tersus keeps the supplies locked up tight, I reckon if there was a reason I could get into 'em. You need the regulation armour?" Suddenly I wished I wasn't wearing armour, like Imoen.
"Nope. Can't cast my spells with it, mucks with the hand gestures," she giggled.
"Wizard, eh? And here I thought they were all old long-bearded coves. Not but that Venkt's not so bad for a wizard," Sique said.
"Venkt?" I said.
"One of 'em who spend quality time in Tazok's tent. Connected to the bosses. 'E's learned his way 'round the throwing darts—walked in on a friendly-like match once, walked off with the pot. Some say, bloody wizards, prob'ly dirty bells somewhere, but I say, best prove yerself a man like the rest of us! Savin' your company, ladies."
"Oo, the bosses!" Imoen said. The bosses: take down the Nashkel mine, have bandits steal iron, and thirdly—profit from their own iron stocks, lead an Amnian or other force to take over the weaponless city, or some third option. That much was obvious.
"Zhentarim this time, Vairvon said to me," Sique whispered, a frown on his cleanly chiseled features. "Heard it from the cheese—Taurgosz Khosann himself. Zhents."
Certainly they're capable of banditry and iron sabotage. But this doesn't suit their style, somehow—like the puppet ruler of Shadowdale, or the seizure of Darkhold.
"Nasty!" Imoen said in an imitation of an approving tone.
"Come on and I'll see you get equipped." Sique said. He briefly flashed the end of a lockpick from his sleeve. "Rank-and-file supplies are under Tersus—none of the real good stuff, 'cause 'e's only a gobbo."
"Seen 'em about. The gnolls too," I said.
"Yeah. No bitter ends, we ain't," Damon said darkly. "Here just for this 'un's marks. Were ye in the stab—or one o' them lone wolves?" Thieves' Guild or no: there were bad rumours about what happened to lone wolves.
"Were but a few hands' lengths," I muttered. "Under the Ravenscar." Thank goodness Eldoth talked about these things sometimes.
"Bungled the swag or worse?" It was hard to avoid the stare of Damon's beetling, sinister eyes. Some gentleman thief!
"Reckon it were the killin's, like. Crashed a few too many an' the guard got all curiouslike." I shrugged modestly. It's not like I haven't killed people; boasting about it's easier, though.
Damon rolled his eyes. "Damn stupid newborn cullies. Okay, Princess Bloodthirsty. Show what'cha can do, iffen you made it into Ravenscar's."
I assembled my collection of picks little by little, from different locksmiths I visited with excuses of lost keys to jewelry boxes. The chest in Tersus's tent looked relatively crude, old and battered; first a hook pick and a torque wrench to get the feel of it. Three pins.
"Rake pick?" Imoen suggested; she's good at using the tools she inherited from Winthrop. Was it trapped? I felt for any unpleasant surprises; no, and it would be better to hurry up with it.
"You!"
The head of my pick snapped off when the hobgoblin's yell surprised us.
"You!" he repeated. "What you doing in Tersus' stuff? You two with Black Talons, but you not supposed to be here. Tersus keeps all the stuff for the Chill and Black Talons. You can get out!"
"Calm down," Sique said. "These two're new recruits. Checking their weapons."
The hobgoblin stockboy looked suspiciously at Imoen and me. "That pretty good armour. And she has pretty good shortsword, too." My studded leather and NIMBUL's blade.
"She don't." Sique pointed to Imoen; her shortsword had been bought during the iron crisis, and although she hardly used it, the blade was chipped and tarnished.
"I was told to give leather armour. You want leather armour?" Tersus snapped, glaring pugnaciously. "I have couple swords, but nobody told Tersus to give them out."
"No thanks." Imoen rolled her eyes; the armour was torn in several places, and smelled strongly of what I assumed was hobgoblin, for its similarity to Tersus' odour. "Could use a sword."
"NOT TOLD 'BOUT SWORDS!" Tersus snatched up the chest from me, holding it tightly to his body. "NO THEFT! Stop confusing Tersus!"
"Hey, didja know your name'd be Susret spelled backwards..." Imoen commented.
"AAAARGH!"
A real bandit camp. Interesting! About seven bigger rough huts beside Tazok's tent, a larger shed, and a few simple tents for the men. Gnoll patrols and hobgoblins march in their routes between the Black Talon clusters. Each building looks very temporary; the bandit camp switches locations every few weeks or so, and gets rebuilt on a location Tazok specifies. Credus says that only a few men Taurgosz Khosann picks out are allowed to carry Tazok's tent and the chests stored in there. The camp's never built too far from Peldvale or Larswood, where most of the raids are based. That leaves the iron-carrying merchants to pass through the Cloakwood if they want to avoid us, which is in the direction Tazok's patrol headed toward. Pass through the Cloakwood to avoid us. Are we proper bandits, yet? Shar-Teel practices with her sword against both Viconia and me at the same time, and says rude things to any bandits watching us. Then we've just had to patrol the camp's border so far, in case of Flaming Fists.
We join the bandits for a meal on the fire—mostly horse, squirrel, and vegetation, with the odd dried supplies the Black Talons imported. It's not wise to inquire what the hobgoblins and gnolls eat.
"Sing a lullaby, prettyboy!" A Black Talon with a large moustache slapped Garrick on the back, nearly pushing him into the fire.
"Ballad of Whorehouse Nell—know that one on yer sweet li'l harp?"
"No—no, I don't know that one—"
"Be a shame if'n anything happened to them bowstrings." A swarthy man next to him, grinning.
"Nell was quick/And Nell was kind/And Nell'd a great big—" came the raucous cry across the fire.
"Er—if you don't mind—I think I'd rather—"
"Shaddup, Shanky." The moustached Black Talon put a meaty hand over Garrick's arm. "You got girly hands, prettyboy. Ever do any real work?"
"If a man is known by the company he keeps, then I shall be known as an illiterate bully."
Brave Sir Garrick—
"I think prettyboy here's insulting us, Smitt! Think you should teach him a lesson?"
"Yeah, Jorm. Too bad those girls ain't here to protect you, Shanky. Hey, why don't ya wear skirts like that wizard of theirs?"
Laughter at this witticism.
"I did not mean—" Garrick tried to escape them.
"Leave 'im alone!" I threw down a knife, into the ground near the fire. It was enough to make the Talon called Smitt jump back. "Shanky's too good with the bells. Knows songs'd drive you mad—mad—"
'Simple' never works, dear Skie. The more outrageous and outré a performance, the more likely to be believed. Eldoth.
"Lu the Bastard, ain't it?" Smitt looked up and down my body in a way men in taverns sometimes used to, when I waited to meet Eldoth.
"Yeah. Shanky's one o' ours." Not too clever a retort.
"What'cha gonna do about it?"
Blood. "Something. There's a saying in the Gate." Stealing from a novel, but the Talons didn't seem especially strong on literacy. "A good rogue, can stab to the kill before you've time to draw your blade." I'd a second throwing knife ready, shining in the fire's blaze; I made sure it caught the reflection for his gaze. "A really good rogue, she's finished the job before you know she's there at all. 'Fore you know it, yer face's beaten in by yer own ribs and blood's fountaining from your—"
He reached for his dagger; his belt whistled above his head and landed in my right hand. Garrick's good with sleight-of-hand. We've all learned each other's skills.
"Come an' get it, boyo." I probably shouldn't have said that. He did stand up and rush for it, and he's a lot bigger than me. I roughly sidestepped—he wasn't armed, so I tried a slash that shallowly touched his shoulder.
"Ye'll pay fer that, ye little—"
"Halt—" Garrick's voice, singing a single pure note. Only distracted Smitt for a second—I kicked him on the shin (blood smell but no killing him—)
"Puny humans no music!" A hobgoblin's yell from their own firepit stopped the action.
"Calm down, Smitt. They've proved 'emselves to Teven," one of the men said. He stood; offered me a handshake. "I'm Knott. You and the boy ain't bad. Enough, Smitty."
"Just testing ya." Smitt muttered. "Get the drow to heal me and we'll say nothin' more about it."
"Get 'er yourself. An' for no hard feelings: Shanky 'ere's a great cook. What's that stuff on the fire, horse?" Silke and the Dale Wind Troubadors both made Garrick serve his apprenticeship doing all the chores; he's the only decent cook in our group. I haven't experience, Imoen likes experimenting too much, Edwin whines, and Shar-Teel and Viconia refuse outright.
"Yeah. Stewed with a few spuds."
"All right. I'll do my best to work on it!" Garrick said.
Yes. With seasoning and some supplies Garrick had in his pack, even horsemeat wasn't bad. Rowdy, interesting conversation; Knott talked about how he joined up, getting himself out of trouble he didn't specify from Nashkel and escaping a life of mining. Sique and his beautiful voice and deep green eyes was there too. Bandits and thieves and they think we're good enough rogues to be one of them. Sique showed us a small chest, and picked it himself in the dark while Imoen and I watched and learned. Rogues need a good sense of touch, and of course Sique has long, delicate fingers. Lovely professional thief.
It's good that Garrick's a great cook. Thanks to Viconia we have drow sleeping poison we can use to deal with the camp. If we want to deal with the camp.
—
Last time I saw the head of a drow bitch I was nailing it to a cliff face—While the Forgotten Realms article on Taurgosz Khosann doesn't seem entirely reliable, I liked the concept of this little detail.