We had to beat out the fire, first, lest it consume the forest and us, with water from the stream and Shar-Teel wielding shovel and axe as strongly as a sword. Bind wounds and try to stay upright. Then, we searched the bandit camp. Garrick was in the woods, the overturned, poisoned cauldron behind him. He had managed to run some way.
"Garrick!" Imoen and I both rushed to him. His face was green; near him was blood, bodies of bandits; he was half-buried. We both dug to find him. His crossbow had fallen some distance away. He had drawn his sword at some point; it lay near him, broken. Another sword, hobgoblin-coarse, was also too near. "You can't be—you can't! Viconia!"
She bent over him, touching his chest, lowering her face to his. "As good as dead," she said.
"No!" So stupid. I clutched to the idea of Garrick in danger in my head. It was easier to think about (but this too is blood you have shed). "You have to do something!" Imoen joined me. "You have to!"
The priestess of Shar was smiling. "For a useless male, you demand of me...?" She shook back her hood, releasing her light hair, allowing the moment to last: taking pleasure in the power she held. "You have made a poisoner of him; and for that I shall petition my surface goddess to grant me those remedies. Xuil l'mriggan d'Shar."
For what felt like hours, Viconia sung her prayers; coated her hands with charcoal dust, spread it across his skin; opened a slight cut to shed blood from his left arm, mixing it into the dust; covered him darkly and thrust strange herbs down his throat.
Imoen's hand was twisted in mine; I think it was she doing the comforting, strangely enough.
"He'll be fine. He has to—" I heard Imoen say.
"Odd. It was a thankfully short acquaintance, but it seems to me the barbaric Northwoman was a more gifted cleric..." Edwin commented. "Will this never end?"
Viconia paused her ministrations; Imoen and I glared at Edwin. "In the Underdark there was no more devoted acolyte of the Spider Queen than I, jaluk. For centuries I devoted myself and rose to unimaginable heights upon her power, casting transcendent rites it is beyond your ability to envision. Yet Shar has granted me succor in this roofless world." She slapped Garrick's face. "Huertar, jaluk, elg'cahlir. Guuan."
Her grim task continued. We saw Viconia nod her head, once, her hands pressing heavily upon Garrick's chest.
"Funny," Imoen said. "It was my bow on Damon's cousin dead in the woods, Damon killed your brother, you killed him, and then Edwin killed Sique. Ruined his face first. I thought those acid arrows were powerful. Funny ol' world, huh?"
It was all so very clear.
"I'll kill them," I said. Imoen was staring. "I have to kill them. I'll find out who I need to kill—" I released Tazok's scrolls. Three were incomprehensible runes, magic spells; two were not. I opened them and read.
"The Thorass alphabet. Thorass, but it's not right; it's not spelling out any language I've heard of."
"So they have obviously encoded it, brat." Edwin stood over us, impatiently reaching for the papers. "What an unexpected precaution to take for an iron conspiracy. You're smearing blood all over it, befouled wench. Give it to me; my superior intelligence ought to decode it."
"Yes, you're right, Edwin," I whispered back; Garrick and Viconia. Think about the writing, to avoid cold fear. "X-gh-j-l-p. K rr-l-m-sh x-k-gh-x... It's merchants' cipher! Thorass letters to confuse it, but Common merchants' cipher—every house in the Gate uses some variant. I guess anything more complicated would be hard on Tazok. So I can help you..."
"Hinder, more likely. I must remember—what are those two characters, the ones placing that miniscule dot to the top or bottom?"
"The ie'jami? Gha above or—"
"Or the other one below, yes, I was expertly educated in language as all else." The other one below was gim. "(I should like to see this featherbrain attempt to keep a spell in her head. Magic is the most important field.)"
"Lend me a quill, too, Eddie," Imoen said softly. "Let's figure these creeps out."
The messages emerged.
Tazok,
I hope that everything moves along smoothly. I have written to give you instructions from our superiors. I have been told of a certain person who might cause the Iron Throne some trouble in the future. You are to insure that they don't live to upset our operations. Obtain the services of the assassin Nimbul, he should serve you well. Deliver more bounty notices also if you see fit.
DAVAEORN
Tazok,
I have noticed that your shipments of iron ore have slowed as of late. It is imperative that we receive another tonne of ore. Step up your raids, and get a shipment to our mines in Cloakwood within the next week. We need to stockpile as much ore as possible before our ultimatum is given. Also, Sarevok wants to know what has happened with the band of mercenaries at Nashkel. Have they been killed? You had better insure that they have been, as Sarevok will not take kindly to any other news.
DAVAEORN
There was a crude sketch, too, upon the back of the letter. Given that it was the Cloakwood, the roughly-drawn path marked was enough for an idea of the iron mines' location, near the Chionthar banks. Their secret supply source to profit from the shortage.
I don't think I know anyone called Davaeorn.
But Sarevok? The Iron Throne?
Not Sarevok Anchev of the Iron Throne?
How many Sarevoks are there in Faerun? How many Sarevoks work for the Iron Throne? How many Sarevoks work for the Iron Throne on the Sword Coast? Sarevok Anchev. Tall, broad, amber-eyed, Rieltar Anchev's foster son. The last time I met him at a ball I think we danced once and conversed about the weather and a ship that had lately come into harbour, above half a year ago now. Eddard used to tell some wild stories about his fighting skills. Possibly every one of those wild stories are true. Or the nasty stories about him, the reason why girls dance with him and nothing else, the thing that happened to Amadia Rossit and the story about that Calishite woman. No wonder he is only danced with. Sarevok: the golden-eyed figure in the darkness murdering Imoen's foster uncle?
Sarevok Anchev. His father and mine might so easily have negotiated something, Iron Throne to Silvershield; or I would have trusted him as an acquaintance, if he'd only offered Imoen and me an escort instead of this complicated business. (And then of course they would have killed us.) His assassins think my name is Sky. Just like the letters describing Imoen and me in Candlekeep.
"I'm going to kill Sarevok Anchev." The words rested easily upon my tongue. "We'll get to the Cloakwood mines, and we'll do it before any other messages can get there. We can find him there and kill him. For everything."
I'd spoken too loudly. "Skie," Garrick croaked, staring up at us, his head lolling back an instant later.
Viconia stood, releasing him. "Your poisoner will live, jalil. Xuil Shar udos te-smur."
"Crisis successfully averted, I suppose. (As though I would not be delighted to end these moronic simians myself!)" Edwin fumbled for his pack, on the ground behind him. "I take it you will continue to abuse my oath for my valuable services? Rational enough, to attack before they slaughter u—I mean, you brats, for...this." He waved a hand weakly at the destruction of the camp. "Brats! You suddenly take it into that pinhead of yours to blatantly murder one of them, dragging the rest of us into this fool's vendetta—fools!"
"It was my fault. Not Imoen's," I said.
Stabbed Damon forty-four times. Three less than Shank. They were already dead—
Sarevok Anchev's fault.
"Sorry."
"As you ought to be," Viconia said. "You may grovel, baut'wael."
"Yes, grovel before the drow, lick her boots and such. Especially if you bathe first," Edwin said.
Shar-Teel returned. Possessions she carried fell to the ground, clanking loudly. "Bloodlust is acceptable," she said. She took Greywolf's sword from the pile. "Seems you're not completely weak after all. Should've waited for that snaga to come back. No male beats me twice. Here."
She held the gold-and-black hilt toward me, her gauntlet lightly wrapped around the blade.
"Allow me." Viconia, smooth as silk, took it gently, cradling it between her hands, caressing it as though it was a work of art rather than weapon. She closed her eyes. "I know its nature. The scent of Shar. Shar's creation on the heart of its first owner. She was a warrior, murdering hundreds upon hundreds of betrayers to the faith. At the feast of the Moon Bitch, in darkness, she became the sacrifice. They sheathed the sword in her life's blood, turned her skin to ice, bound her to Shar's altar. They promised her life again, but she was forgotten and left to wait in eternal cold. What insane hatred can you imagine arising from such a thing, giving power to those who accept it? When her tomb was found at last, not a trace of her remained: only this blade, calling for a frozen death.
"I trust you will use this in a manner my goddess would approve."
She handed it to me, a sword as cold as snow on a winter's morning. A strong enough sword to carry in the Cloakwood; to warm its edge in battle.
"Witch, here." Shar-Teel flung a rent, blackened, and bloodstained mage's robe to Imoen; one I recognised.
"...Ew? It's all..."
"It's magic. You're the spellslinger, use it." She stowed away a clinking bag in her own pack, next to a large bow. "Seems enough gold for a while, one of those enchanted bags. Sword for the bard." A short, shining blade, like the one I'd been using. "Carry the potions, girl." She'd gathered a selection of bottles, some blackened from the fire; I picked them up, cringing at the heat. A healing potion among them, for Garrick. Shar-Teel herself now wore parts of Tenhammer's full plate. "Drow: Tenhammer's weapon?"
"It ought to be mine to wield, sargtlsinss." Viconia produced it from somewhere about her person, stretching idly. "Mmm, Tenhammer. Perhaps the man ought to have been called Tentongue...a most interesting time between us. Such antagonism, such passion. The many things that man was willing to do, large and strong as the finest of pleasure-slaves, dextrous enough for my pleasures. I had not expected to meet a rivvil able to perform the position of the sarah hamil five times sequentially, so it was agreeable to me when he..."
Imoen made a disgusted face accompanied by a loud noise.
"Ah, well; one taste of the meat is sufficient. Or rather, seventeen tastes."
"Loot goes to the party, drow. Use it, but bear that in mind."
Imoen's enchanted robe gathered around her, shimmering clean and bright orange-pink the instant she put it on. I hope it protects her enough.
"We have to leave. We can drag Garrick, can't we?"
—
Xuil l'mriggan d'Shar - with the guidance of Shar
Xuil Shar udos te-smur - with Shar we shall prosper
sargtlsinss - female warrior
sarah hamil - camel