20 Kythorn
Summer solstice: a long day.
They called for proper-patrol, not just skulking around guarding the camp. (The Black Talons seem to be paid quite well. Better than the hobgoblins.)
"All right, new-ones. Time to prove your worth. Wizard!" Edwin turned his head to give his attention to Alf, one of the Talon captains. "You're with my patrol. Lucrezia, you too." I tried to look eager to kill people. "Damon, I'll have you fer extra strings. And Greywolf." A tall man in studded leather, his hand already to his swordhilt, grunted an assent.
Greywolf—Greywolf—Greywolf— Where I'd heard the name came to me. The bounty hunter we'd been mistaken for in Beregost; a tough one from the sounds of it. He didn't seem to have any visibly lupine features, although there was something disturbing about his stringy hair and twisted grimace. Lucrezia might know the name, depending on where he'd been. If he was a bounty hunter: was it bandit scalps or iron he wanted here?
"Yer a pig's secretary?" The slang was too derogatory for the bounty hunter. I kept on after his growl. "I mean—yer a good hunter?"
"Yeah, I'm a bounty hunter, off an' on. What's it to you, girl?"
"'S just, the name Greywolf's one on the clockwork. 'Tis on the roses wherever ya go in the Coast Way—want a mowing, hire Greywolf fer the grass; want gullynappers fetched, find Greywolf for the squeakle..."
"Shaddup before I spit ye, brat!" Alf ordered. "Silence on the patrol!"
"If ye want some tips, ye can join me in my tent later," Greywolf whispered with rancid breath, nudging me. I saw Edwin's smirk.
Most merchants had been quite sensibly scared off, I thought. It was why we hadn't wanted to come this way. So we were just—making sure beyond a doubt the iron crisis would last. Just doing that, of course.
We wandered around the forest until my feet hurt; Edwin, too, was starting to fall behind.
"All right, men. We head back to the camp."
"And about time too, simian," Edwin complained. "In this completely unprofitable endeavour my time would have been far better spent, say, counting the hairs in my beard (Which is resplendent, virile, and not in the least 'straggly' as certain undereducated people would have it)."
"Greywolf, silence the bellringer."
A short silence. "I shall ensure there is no need for gratuitous violence. Sir," Edwin said. "(The gross indignities these chimps inflict upon me.)"
Along the Coast Way, back again; then, there were sounds in the distance. Alf gestured for silence.
"Spread out, men! Archers, wizard: make yerselves ready!"
A semicircular formation, well spread out. I quietly waited in the branches of a tree, ready to fire. Let it be nothing.
We waited. The noises grew louder; something, clearly. Then I saw a bright glint of metal. Had to be an armed caravan, hurtling through this forest as though desperate to escape...us. I steadied my bow.
"We have you surrounded!" Alf yelled. That was the cue for spells and arrows. I could see the Merchant League's emblem drawn in bright yellow paint on the first caravan, and the ten guards in escort. My arrow hit the ground in front of a horse ridden by a man in mage's robes; the beast startled. "Your iron or your lives!"
"Kill these brigands!" the finely-dressed mage howled, trying to regain control of his mount. Edwin cried out his spell, a thick black miasma materializing below their horses' hooves. The other archers sent a rain of arrows, with me, against the soldiers' shields. I saw one man, hit—I don't know by me, or no; I'd aimed for the mage's horse—and a flash of blue light.
"Helm protect us!"
A priest. Healing the others, like Branwen used to. The mage had rolled from his wounded horse, and chanted something of his own: six wolf-shaped things appeared out of thin air beyond Edwin's spell, howling and running for the throats of the fighters with us.
The one thing to distract a mage is often a well-placed arrow. The wizard began another chant; I loosed a shaft, and missed, and saw him turn pale grey. Shielded.
"Help—help us—" Edwin's second spell had spread to them; some of the soldiers lost their courage, but Helm's name was cried loud into the air to regather them— No choice but to keep to target.
Fire to my left; Edwin screaming and a smell like burning meat. That wizard—like Dynaheir killing the gnoll chieftain.
If Edwin had his way, he would be safe in Beregost. I didn't want to miss. I wanted the mage to die. He couldn't be allowed to cast more spells. He was moving, casting; I aimed carefully, and that one hit. The spell faltered.
Edwin cried out again, less painfully. White, draining light from his direction, trying to heal himself. Good. The drain of life—no! Good that my team heals— I could not stop.
Greywolf and the others charged on the humans, the wolves nipping at their heels. The wizard gathered some dust in his hand, chanting quickly, and threw.
"Blind!" Alf choked, grabbing at his eyes. I saw the wizard, moving into another spell-posture, that rhythm and incantation for the flames again. I saw one arrow take him despite that ghostly armour; saw him scream, and the fireball spread centred on him, the smell of burning again. His mage robes were on fire and he attempted to beat them out. I saw a second arrow, a hit to the eye, pierce whatever protections had remained after the fire. It was easy to feel rage.
Greywolf and the priest of Helm. Greywolf's sword shone, dramatically gold and dark-bladed, and he shouted a barbaric battle-cry. He and the others butchered the burned caravan's guard one by one, and I helped them.
There was worse than that. A frail League's merchant and his son sitting and shaking within the caravan. The son was not a child.
"Prisoners? These ain't much use to the other lot, idiot! Kill them!"
There were iron stocks, headed south. Some gold. Mundane provisions. A few bolts of rich silk, some expensive Waterdhavian wine to sell. The spell for blindness wore off.
"Is his spellbook remaining, I wonder?" Edwin stood over the wizard's body; what remained of the enemy's robes still smouldered, along with what remained of Edwin's beard. "(Ah, Fireball. If only I may write that spell if only I may write that spell...) Perhaps someone will assist me by searching the corpse."
Damon scraped through the wizard's robes, peeling off a few rings and necklaces and recovering a few blackened pages; and yanked the arrow from the wizard's eye. "I take it this stick be yours?" he interrogated.
"No, as you appear to be indicating, it belongs to the ill-mannered interrupter of a mage's duel I was clearly winning. (In Thay she would be executed for such a thing.)" Edwin held out his hand impatiently. "Keep the baubles, I care for the true power."
"Last time we'd a mage to fight, twasn't good." Damon said. "Ye've proved yerself with us, Lu. 'M keeping a finder's fee though."
Reflexes; catching a single copper-coloured ring. Very warm to the touch.
"The spellbook?"
"Don't seem to me your prissy spells worked much. Up to the lady, ain't it?" I shifted from Greywolf and his yellow and gap-toothed smile. In one of his hands hung a dripping, severed head; my gaze shifted quickly to the symbol of Helm in the other.
"Edwin's right. About everything."
"Ha! It is...about time that my greatness was acknowledged. Yes, the spellbook. (My great powers were instrumental in the defeat of those previous assassins. I am talented in the use of my magic to kill humans and I certainly do not feel nauseated by these particular events.)"
"Good work, men. Return to camp!"
Iron and a tenth reserved for the employers, the rest split amongst us. They begged Viconia to come out from the shade being fanned by a number of younger bandits and heal; she eventually did that, for everything but Edwin's beard.
I was alone, just outside the camp. A large History of the North I'd obtained in Beregost, the first time we were there. I was halfway through the tome, I knew; the words danced on the page, swimming and blurring before my eyes. Illefarn—Nimoar—War Lords—dead—foes—dead— Then movement; Lucrezia stowed away the reading material quickly.
"Leadin' me a bit of a dance? I don't mind, girlie." Greywolf's bulk leaning against a tree. Breath and clothing smelling like singed, rotting meat.
"Greywolf? I..."
"Ye said yer wanted tips." Tips: etymology from tippen to poke or touch lightly from Uthgardt dialect of old Illuskan, Common meaning to give something originating from historical thieves' cant. He grabbed me. "C'mon. Have some fun."
"N-no thank you. It's very kind but I..." I tried to escape.
"Ya know you want it. Oh Greywolf! Greatest hunter on the Sword Coast!" His voice lingered on a high, cracked falsetto. "No sense in turning shy on me. Not alone in the woods like this. Ye never know what might be lurking in the trees."
A tree root behind me; I fell.
"Ye don't want any violence." He grinned. "Hey, yer not upset at the killing there, are ya? Thought Lu the Bastard was already a murderer. My kind of lady."
"Go away!" I did have a sword. Good women are supposed to fight or die first. Not good; killing gets easier. Not with his magic sword. "Get..."
Inspiration. Eldoth, help.
"You've been in Beregost! You went to the Jovial Juggler!" Bounty hunter. Bounty hunter at least in Nashkel. Guesses, working in my favour for once.
"Yeah," he said. He was smiling; standing over me. He wouldn't have to do much. "And I've seen the real power here, and I've been loyal longer than you. Be nice, and we'll both keep our secrets, won't we?"
A movement, behind him. A flash of pink.
"Oh, no! I thought I was practicing my powerful magic completely alone out here, and I think I'm losing control of the spell! Help! Run!"
Imoen's subtle hand signals. Gonna do the smoke trick. Steal from him!
That small pouch around his waist Greywolf liked to finger, as though reassuring himself it was still there. I couldn't!
You can! Do it!
"Greywolf, look out!" I took one last deep breath; the smoke hit, and I rolled to one side. Greywolf swore; I ducked under a large, swinging arm, severed the pouch with my dagger, and ran back with Imoen for a nice patch of shadows.
"Heeee! We made it! That was great!" Imoen laughed. "C'mon, open it! What'd we get?"
A pair of matched green emeralds. I've never seen a finer cut; the gems in my hands were brilliant and clear, a colour that ran deep and true. I felt the murkiness of our deeds reflected in that sea-like surface, an unblinking eye accepting all in its calm, limpid reflection.
"D'you think they're real emeralds, Skie? We've got to be the best pickpocketing team ever! Can I hold on to them? I love shiny stuff like this!"
"You'd better hold on to them," I said. I looked away from the jewels. "Magically disguise them or something, maybe."
"The old secret pocket in the spell component pouch." She giggled again. "No stinky old waist-bag for these pretty things, nope! It'll be a nice home with Auntie Imoen until we find something good to do with you."