? —Flamerule, probably
This is a long tale; let it begin with a small squirrel. Any unexpected help is better than none...
1. Aquerna
Ajantis is a very silly boy, who could make much better use of the intelligence he has; he spends too much time polishing his sword (in a purely literal sense, of course) and too little time thinking for himself; and he sees evil everywhere he looks for it, which is to say everywhere he looks at all. But he is my silly boy, and fairly often a good boy; and it was long past time he stopped feeding her candied nuts on the sly and letting her watch from a distance and finally introduced her to his friends, Aquerna his companion squirrel thought. Before they did something very silly to him without her guidance. (They might also give her more candied nuts, but Aquerna preferred to think of matters beyond simple instinct.)
Pardon me; but what exactly are you strange people planning to do to my boy? she spoke out at last, aiming the projection of her words to all of their heads. (A squirrel's vocal cords were most limited.) Ajantis, dear, I told you that you simply must not keep me hidden any longer; one would almost think you were ashamed of your holy steed.
The orange—formerly red—lad had clearly abandoned all his defenses, openly prepared for hilarity; but the magical pink girl began to smile at Aquerna. She was quite good company for Aquerna's boy, a nice young lady really. The cruel lady who killed non-talking squirrels was glaring; she'd practical sense and battlefield experience that Ajantis could learn from, although no ethics at all. And then there was the bard of the pretty music and the bard of the depressing music, that green-haired girl who thought of killing, and the priestess.
"Aquerna...please...I..."
"A squirrel! It is a squirrel!" the orange lad chortled. "(Perfect ammunition against the armour-brained ass!) Oh, paladin, do not tell me that your holy steed is forest vermin? Now I think of it, I do see the resemblance; it's somewhere in the vacant, animalistic expression and overly prominent teeth—"
"Aquerna is my...holy steed, yes," her boy admitted. "As it were. Or rather my due punishment for arrogance; I requested a noble warhorse that listened to my commands from my Lord Helm, at a time I see now that I was not worthy of the honour, and Aquerna... Mock, wizard, if you truly must."
"Shar would never treat her followers so," said the poor dark elf. She had terrible sorrow in her past, Aquerna mused in her presumptions; and despite her goddess, or perhaps because of her open avowal of that goddess, was no danger to her boy.
"Yes, my dear boy wasn't enthused at the prospect of you people meeting a squirrel for his holy steed," Aquerna said. "But I have my strengths even though I'm not technically a steed. Or even always holy. See, Ajantis, I've already made the orange lad completely defenceless with the way he's laughing at you. I like the pink girl; she's nice and she's magic."
"Yep, talking squirrel, that's some kind of magic all right," the pink girl said. "Awww! She's so cute!" Aquerna did not boast, but she knew she was still a young and smooth-furred squirrel; she was a little older than she looked, but humans had every right to notice her good grooming. It came from being a talking, intelligent squirrel steed-substitute. (Regrettably, the talking was her only unusual ability; but intelligent talking was a very useful ability.)
"As I have told you, Aquerna, we must face this Iron Throne and their evil mine..." Ajantis said.
"Not without my open help you will not," Aquerna said with all the telepathic firmness she could muster, and added an emphatic squeak in squirrel-talk. "Believe me, you'll need it. Remember that poor angry hamadryad?"
Ajantis' lips set thinly together. "I told you she must have been evil!" He succumbed to Aquerna, though; she had never known herself to be wrong before, after all. "I must do this—we must reach the Iron Throne somehow," he said. "You can hide in Imoen's pack, if you have to..."
Her boy was a terrible actor; although in his borrowed armour he did have some basic resemblance to the other guards Aquerna had seen from her forest perch, as much as most humans looked the same to her if she did not take careful stock of the colouring of their pelts. (She probably knew more about the Iron Throne's layout than even the spying girl; leaping from tree to tree and climbing fences was a much faster way to learn everything.) "Then do not say anything to them, Ajantis. The password to the gate guard is, Ravage. Say that your captain said to go straight to—Davvyorn, I believe the name is, probably a most horrid person. But keep your mouth shut unless you absolutely must speak." The boy sounded like the Waterdhavian noble he was born; it was a respectable accent, but he had no dramatic ability to disguise it in the least.
"Then I must do this; and I shall," Ajantis said.
Aquerna could not help but feel doom approaching, as she had before most of the previous important battles Ajantis had been previously involved in, such as his final squire's examination before his mission to the Sword Coast, or the horror of his ankheg quest. Yet she knew the boy wished to do his duties, and she could give him helpful advice. "I will be near, kit."
"Thank you."
"And someday I will tell all of you the whole story about how I became the boy's favourite holy steed he's ever had..."
"The only holy steed I have ever had..."
"Yep, come into my pack! You're adorable!"
—
2. Imoen
The warmth of the squirrel's tail brushed the back of her neck; that heat was welcome in the cold night, waiting for Ajantis. Skie was holding onto that fancy sword and staring unfixedly at the bridge looking horribly grim, as far as Imoen could make out in the dark. Those bandits—Skie wanted to kill the bloke in charge, Sarevok-whatever-he-was-like, and he'd done all those things trying to kill them and probably deserved it. But seeing Skie covered in all that blood back at the camp, and then watching her go all this way without complaining once, marching through all the tiredness and spiders and hamadryads wanting to murder him, wanting to ignore that nobleman and that boy... Made her almost miss the complain-all-the-time Skie. The thing with bows and spells, Imoen thought, was that you didn't have to get too close with 'em. You didn't have to stab people ridiculous numbers of times and walk out of bandit huts covered in torrents of blood dripping all over the place so's your best friends couldn't hardly recognise you.
But it was still Skie; the friend who'd come to Candlekeep and helped her nick Ulraunt's roses and run across every rooftop in the place and drink stolen wine. Splatting a few kobolds and bandits'd come easier to Imoen than to Skie, at first—hadn't ol' Puffguts and Mr G. told her all those adventuring tips? Skie'd taken to it too, yep, and they were just gonna splatter a few more evil-bandit-mine-poisoning types here. Never let a best friend down, no siree.
Imoen reached across, and touched Skie's hand where it held that sword; and her friend did acknowledge it, turning to meet Imoen's eyes, though she didn't smile back. The thing was, Imoen noticed, was that Skie's fingers above the hilt felt as cold as something dead.
Then there was an explosion of flaming death and Imoen's hand went free; she'd a spell to cast. It filled her mind and left no time for any other thought. Rotten egg, hand gesture, words, concentrate; she reached out into the air for the threads she needed and there they were, green things she had to plait together like they were strands of hair. She practiced cantrips every night even when she was so exhausted she could hardly see, and each time it was easier and easier to scoop out what she'd need to change the world. Heh, prob'ly Edwin the conjurer even felt the same, magic filaments that turned red-orange for him somewhere aboutwise, though when he reached into the woven threads his hand always went deeper. Never tell him though, he was still running scared of her.
Imoen's green cloud hit the other side of the bridge an instant after Edwin's fireball. Then Shar-Teel the Bloody charged across the bridge, and just when she reached the other side two guards had dodged the spells and attacked. There were screams from men:
"...damned fire! Hurry—"
"Alarm—attack—"
Skie'd sheathed that sword and drawn her bow in a few quick movements (why take the sword out first, anyway?); her arrow hit and there was a cry. Imoen didn't like the light here, dark night and confusing fires; she chanted a second quick spell to put white light behind her eyes, and drew her bow as well. She could see perfectly as though it was day, and aimed quite well.
Then a rushing wind blew past them. Skie was down but rolling aside, bleeding a little over her armour—it was a man-shaped blur, running at inhuman speed—Imoen tried to shoot at him, aim for that moving target. His weapon glittered golden. Edwin screamed.
"If I must." Skie's evil boyfriend of evil; sounding resigned and even bored if anything, casting something himself. The instant Skie'd let slip he made her pay for drinks when they snuck out to meet with each other, Imoen'd known he'd be bad news. Well, maybe not quite known 'till she'd met the guy, Skie did make out like he was better-looking than Lathander and fought armies of gnolls for fun. Okay magician, but completely sleazy in the way he eyeballed Vic right in front of Skie—
The blur slowed to a normal fighter's pace. A brown-haired man, raising his gold-coloured morningstar above Edwin's head for a second hit. Imoen's arrow slammed into his left shoulder, and he twisted; he met Skie coming at him with her sword. The girl'd really tried hard with Shar-Teel, Imoen thought. She was blocking him, meeting every blow, and he was bleeding out from that arrowhole. Imoen aimed a second time.
"Cross the bridge now!" Skie screamed, and they ran for it—Garrick and Skie just ahead of Imoen, one arm-of-Edwin apiece..
Chanted spells in the air. Imoen darted back; suddenly there were more blurred men, Skie in the thick of three of 'em, Garrick stumbling aside with two more waiting for him, Edwin down. Another Cloud, Imoen tried; if she could aim like she'd done before, she'd...
No, not quite; it'd saved Garrick, not quite Skie, Imoen thought in despair; then—
"Help me!"
"Ogres!"
"Flaming tanar'ri!"
Edwin, casting; "Drow! I...do not feel so well; heal me—" he called from the ground.
"You are well enough to cast, male!" Viconia struck out wildly with her mace, dancing through the battle; she'd not so much casting favour from her goddess as Branwen used to have.
Thank you Mystra, Lady of Magic— Imoen tried to think of the pretty goddess, the seven stars bound into her Weave.
"Viconia!" Skie nagged the dark elf, taking her place in the fight. Her dance might have been slightly stronger, if not so graceful—
Garrick was kneeling by the dead man with the morningstar, pulling off his boots. Imoen didn't have time to stare at that; "Speed—" she thought she heard his voice, crying into the smoke-seized wind behind the path of her bow. Shar-Teel fought beyond, and Imoen thought that she looked content. A uniformed guard that could only be Ajantis was fighting other guards, nearing her.
"Take the weapon too, jaluk—" Viconia's voice sounded. More chanting.
Skie cried out, clawing at her neck; acid-arrow. Yet the girl began to make the wound disappear almost as soon as it had appeared. Imoen searched beyond the fire for the casters, looking between ashes. She ran from a beam falling in a shower of sparks and thick smoke; it was hard to breathe.
Skie must've been working on her rogue's eye, Imoen thought hazily; she and Viconia attacked something invisible together, and when Imoen looked down she could see footprints in the ash after all. There was too much smoke blowing around them. Viconia held the gold morningstar in hand. Time to aim more arrows; magic-invisibility was invisibility-to-magic, the reasoning came to Imoen and made sense for the first time, so instead she aimed her bow—
Edwin finished the final syllable of a spell and five kobolds erupted out of thin air, chittering and jumping around, spreading out in front of them. One of them was butchered in seconds, and Imoen tried not to think about how hard the mine kobolds'd been for them to fight.
"Move!" Shar-Teel stood over a second body dressed in mage's robes; Ajantis swung his shield wildly against a swift-moving, brightly-dressed warrior. Then Shar-Teel moved herself, and decapitated the enemy; Spider's Bane was bright below the blood, and Imoen thought she could sense the magic of it in that moment. The head rolled along the ground. Imoen ran.
A narrow bridge joined the two isles, like Skie'd said. Viconia summoned a thin fog about them; Imoen could see the fire was keeping the guards busy. She saw one man in a shift who might have been a slave, struggling with a bucket of water. She felt guilt strike her; but that could be later, best she helped the kid now. When they got to the other side, Skie added a flaming arrow to her bow and stopped a few pursuers; four more guards waited. Three men, one woman, Imoen noticed hazily, and conjured (invoked) a magic missile at the woman in the lead. Skie's fiance took a green-tipped arrow and used that, out of the fancy bandit bow Shar-Teel hadn't said he could have...
They'd made it across. Garrick had run much too quickly, dancing from one foot to the other in the dead man's boots. Ajantis and Skie held off the guards, and Shar-Teel hacked through the bridge's ropes. There was a giant wooden structure, Imoen saw, with several large doors into it; she went back to using her bow, and the outnumbered guards were beaten. Gorion and Winthrop had both hated slavers.
The doors were locked from the inside. Imoen pointed to the one with the most well-trodden ground near it, and Skie went deep with her tools to twist it open. It led to a small and cramped area that could barely fit the group, with a large shelf taking up the entirety of the space on one of its walls.
...Kit? Do tell me you haven't stranded yourself— the voice echoed from behind Imoen. She reached up to pet the squirrel, reassuring herself that Aquerna was still there. Holy animal, yeah.
Ajantis looked momentarily confused; then came that particular look in his eyes, as though he too cast something not unlike infravision upon himself; the one that made Skie and Eldoth shy away. "I sense evil and corruption beyond that!"
Imoen helped Skie lever the shelf open, and there was the lift within the long shaft leading below. Guards ahead, and coughing and the clink of iron upon stone.
—
3. Edwin
His side ached horrendously; the priestess was failing to look after him properly. Was it not necessary to protect his spellcasting talent? And if that weeping brat was right about her Sarevok to be found here, then he would be obliged to keep up with her. So irritating, the way she and the apprentice could run so quickly.
Edwin knew himself a great Red Wizard to be, and was proud of that noble station; he sought the power in this region. His researches now suggested Anchev was the one for him to return to Thay a hero. Skie would not kill the man (as if it were particularly likely a fool like her could kill...one of Those, if Sarevok Anchev was indeed one, but Edwin's intelligence was too great to leap to unwarranted conclusions from her descriptions); but since the bandit camp Edwin had rejoiced that the inferior band were serving his goals once again. (After taking advantage of his word against his will and stranding him with those unclean peasant bandits instead of escorting him to the nearest town as he had requested at the time, but Edwin Odesseiron had the power to repay their slights in a manner deserved.) Deny this Sarevok his goals in the guise of an Orange Wizard, and he would willingly accompany Edwin the Red Wizard to Thay. The lackeys were subconsciously learning at last.
Narrow mine walls, and groaning and scarred slaves. Edwin's rank in his homeland placed him far above the task of slave-supervising in the Odesseirons' various holdings in farming and crude crafting, and he was learning one of the reasons for this; the passageways were disgustingly narrow and the air had begun to smell foul. Edwin did not want to think about the probable descent.
"Guards! Andarsson's speaking ill of Davaeorn... You're not the guards! Guards! Guards!" It was only natural for a slave to be faithful to his betters, despite the present inconvenience to their group. However, the thickheaded tincan took offence:
"A slave who betrays his fellows? Evil!" he cried. This indeed caused further guards to attack following the raised voice. Edwin let a stream of magical missiles flow easily from his hands.
"No, Skie, you'll hit the slaves!" The apprentice tried to discourage her friend from her bow; the passage was becoming very crowded.
"Go find the way down!" Shar-Teel yelled. She and the paladin blocked the narrow passageway, fighting the guards before them with some effect; Edwin fled backwards along the warren, watching Skie's grey cloak fly behind her and trying very hard not to trip over his robes.
A blur of curly hair, old boots tied around the waist, and a flopping bumblebee-yellow doublet hit him from behind.
"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, didn't see you!" that foolish bard said. "I found a slave who said there's a guarded plughole up there, if we find the key ... Do you think these boots are a bit much?" he said, inflicting a fast-paced version of his generally irritating voice upon Edwin's ears. "...Ohandthere'reguardschasingmehurryupEdwin!"
Cursing, Edwin ran on.
Help me, dear sir...save me— slaves cried to him; Get me out of this hell hole—
A corridor.
"New mercenaries, huh? Hey, lemme ask you a question. M' wife, she's been complaining about our latenight activities, the starch's gone out of me maypole if you catch my meaning—"
How dare they ask him such questions. "Be silent you fools!" Edwin shouted, and lashed out with his quarterstaff; it was very important to have the substance of a long piece of oak between him and a well-armed simian.
"Oh, you ain't mercenaries. You're that group causing all the trouble!" The simian made the (naturally obvious, these people were fools each one of them!) deduction. The end of Edwin's staff had met the simian's breastplate; Edwin waved the weapon about to try and stop the man from moving. But suddenly, quickly, the guard had drawn his sword, and the quarterstaff was no longer that great distance between them.
"Die as you should!" Edwin howled. He ought to have cast a quick spell; but the walls were pressing and the simian too close. With rapidity and entirely too much efficiency, the sword swept toward his wounded body that suddenly felt clumsy indeed.
"Into the breach—into the breach—" The bard and his pretty little shortsword. Edwin watched him blur with the guard, a complex scuffle and what seemed to be quite a lot of blood— A scream from Garrick and a grunt from the guard. A bleeding wound moving at that speed looked like something much less lethal, like red-coloured sand laid out for a spell component.
Bracing himself against the wall, Edwin started to mutter a spell; if he did not have the mental fortitude to cast simple missiles then he did not deserve the name of Odesseiron. Or the mental fortitude for a spell he was still more familiar with, even if he was not the only one to prefer it—
He felt slightly healed of his (many, grievous, and pathetically ignored) wounds. The guard grappling with Garrick cried out and fell back; the bard's short sword must have finally done its job (Simians! Incompetent the lot of them!). Garrick too flopped to the ground beside the dead man.
"My...goodness. I think I..."
"Spare me your whimpering and swallow your healing potion, imbecile," Edwin said. He had no intention of dirtying his own hands by attempting to patch that wound.
"Er. I'll...I will try..." The boy, with one hand, slowly twisted the cap from the bottle and raised it to his lips. Edwin waited for the results. Then he extended a hand to the bard, hoping that it would be used by the least dirtied of the simian's limbs.
"We have to find Skie, do we not?" he said coldly. The bard's stare met his own; the boy rose to his feet again.
"Yes," Garrick said. "I know I must." He suddenly grabbed Edwin's arm. "C'monifIcanImust—"
Pulled along in the frantic bolting run, Edwin had no choice but to complain.
—