I didn't recognise the name Sarevok chose to first howl.
"Winski!" he shouted, and turned toward the back of his older wizard; and plunged the sword into his own follower. The grey-haired wizard slid slowly forward, dying, turning his head to Sarevok at the last. Dark red gurgled from mouth and gaping hole in his chest. "You promised me—this is not what you divined—liar!"
There was wide space cleared by instinct around Sarevok; still he moved so quickly that none dared approach.
"For...the Grand Duke's architect..." Winski Perorate groaned. Wetly he fell to the ground. Soon his limbs stopped their thin twitching.
"Semaj! Tamoko! To me!" Sarevok called. Slowly Tamoko came, weaving through the crowded scene, a dark shield summoned about her body and her heavy black armour; Semaj hesitated.
"You've just killed your other wizard—I don't know that I—" the necromancer began.
"Take me to the throne!" Sarevok howled, and his wizard began to obediently cast. Then we dashed to fight him. Semaj's magic pulled a dying doppelganger from the crowd, tore it to pieces in a storm that ripped around and shielded the three figures from attack; he cast mage-words in soft complicated whispers of his own tongue. Tamoko's dark eyes stared at nothing I could tell. Then they were gone from sight.
"Crap," one Imoen said, separating from the others, "I'm starting to get the hang of the goddess thing—cute little girl down in Bloomridge who got knocked on the head when the Ravager attacked—old man wounded in the port battle asking for infection cleared—
"Sarevok's here, coming, beating on the temple walls with his friends," she said, "Dyna and Claud're going through summon scrolls like they're the Almanac in a mass dysentery attack, place's filled with goblins and kobolds and hobbos below the throne, 'Jantis's hiding out in the back with me—Shut up, Ajantis, no backtalk to demigoddesses! You've gotta get down here, I can't teleport you—" The image shook.
"Gorion's killer," Imoen added, her eyes widening as though in shock, as if on the opposite end of a long black room the double stone doors marked by the skull and tears had been forced open... I had never seen the place. "If'n you think I'm gonna let you win you're wrong, wrong, wrong—" The glow in her eyes stood more strongly. "Flowers, healing, grant me the power! Gonna point you right, just get here quick—"
"Go," Vai of the Flaming Fist ordered; she stood, pale-faced, wounded; doppelgangers still twitched around her and not all ought to have pursued him; on the ground Sauriram gave a nod, her holy guardian dissolving into nothingness.
Imoen's first mirror image raised a finger to point the way outside the palace doors, shimmering and spinning as it imitated its original, and then on the outside in the streets stood more Imoens. They gestured the way to run, and beside me Shar-Teel kept pace in her heavy plate. They pointed to Bloomridge, across the Wyrmgate Bridge and down through Cohrvale Street—the Censorious Cowpat, a memory of Imoen describing burst forth. A brief smile there as I ran at her direction.
Then Felonius Gist's manor rose before us; and there beside it was a second mansion, where blazoned on the doors was a scratched and ruined symbol of the Iron Throne. The image of Imoen outside it pointed a hand to the weighty door, and Shar-Teel shouldered it to burst through; when it did not budge the first time Faldorn flung seeds against it and conjured vines to grow through it, crumbling the stone. Another blue-tinged Imoen materialised on the staircase pointing down to the cellars, between a pair of doppelganger bodies seared by spellfire. We ran through her transparent shape; then another to the secret door concealed indeed below layers of defence. We rushed down dark stairs that showed signs of being used. Tiax briefly cried to stop us:
"A trap in your way; hark at the great Tiax—" He bent to remove it, and there we continued to the shores of the Undercity. The passage showed signs of recent-building, excavation for Sarevok through rubble and the ghostly remains of the old dead city—
Pale grey waters lapped at a shore of old sand, and atop this was a tall wall that guarded a black-roofed temple; the doors were open. A brown skull hovered above a gathered tribe of goblins, hissing some smoke that stunk at a great distance, killing many of them in only a moment. Spellfire flared around the mage's shape; dark shields rose to meet it. Semaj el Farsi smiled. The godson by him charged—
A flood of golden magic surrounded Sarevok. It was Imoen's incantation to make vulnerable, and then the next moment Faldorn's vines sprang up below his feet and her wolf appeared before him. In moments he cut it down, but my sister had caused spells to pierce him. Viconia's dark ribbon settled on his shoulders, and the casting showed effect of cracks in his pauldrons. He yelled an incoherent battlecry and turned.
A confused rush; a flash of blade and Semaj's magic; running below Sarevok's sword with Tiax upon the other side, swinging shallowly against his armour, and then I could see Shar-Teel and Faldorn far behind and frozen in place, Viconia bleeding out on the floor, her hammer flung far from her hand. Goblins swarmed Sarevok for the moment—
I stopped by Viconia; she called Shar's name to heal herself. Semaj stood by his master, his mage-shield whirling and holding against Dynaheir's brilliant fires. He reached out his hands and seemed to take something, dark patterns swirling from the open doors, from inert bones that lined the walls and floor of the temple. Then I saw a pale finger, pointing, and everything inside me was gone—
I lay on the ground unable to so much as twitch. The mage laughed. "Master, I have that which the girl could not use; and lend me some of your own—" Then he cried out in pain; but the next moment the brilliant lights of the mage-battle grew stronger.
"Ravager," Sarevok called, "to you also I gave in blood and pain, I summon here!" I heard the crackle of lightning whistle above my head. Viconia, by me, whispered still to beg of Shar. Shar-Teel's grunt could be heard, as if she still lived, but there were no sounds of her moving from that hold.
Imoen's voice replied. "Oh, that lady? I fixed her. She's sleeping in a couple rooms on. One of the first I did. Y'know, there's something that's just not right about twisting real people to evil shapes to serve your evil ends—"
She gave a squeak as if something had managed to pain her. I found the fragment of strength to raise my head at last, and saw that some spell had left a black stain on her robes and cracked the golden pillar that flowed behind her. She glared at Semaj. On the dais the demigoddess Imoen stood in three mirror images, the central strongest in outline, her right hand resting on a throne; behind her was a glasslike pillar through which bright gold flowed. It was the same colour as filled her eyes. Light flowed from her and her robes glittered below their stains; she seemed far larger than her own shape, tall and strong and remote from humanity. Grimly determined, she pointed a hand at the other mage and seemed to strip his shielding. He snapped his fingers in return and once more protections built around him.
"Dyna, Claud—get the wizard," Imoen ordered; they already tried. "'M busy topwards—too many mirror-image avatars, got healing-for-prayer to do." Ajantis, standing in front of her, tensed; he held his shield and sword as a statue of one of Helm's guardians by the front of their temple. "Not yet, 'Jantis. He's too strong for you to jump in." Imoen's last line of defence: that had been the plan.
The cleric Tiax cried to the sky, and black fire fell directly to Sarevok's head. There was a smell of flesh searing, for Imoen had made magic to hurt him. The Grand Duke cried out like a beast.
"Duke of manure, Tiax commands your death!" Tiax began another spell; Sarevok's wizard conjured a pale shield by each arm and used it to collect a volley of mage-arrows and glowing missiles of Claudia and Dynaheir. I could still only watch them, limbs not moving no matter how I tried; surely the spell should pass soon even as the necromancer used what he had taken to fuel his powerful spells—
"Tamoko, kill him!" Sarevok screamed, and the clerical woman placed a hand simply on his forehead. A healing casting—which side was she on—
"You are human," she begged him. "Surrender, beloved, and rema..."
The metal gauntlet hit her face. Her skull had hit heavily against the opposite wall, and I saw a bloodied mess below her cowl before she fell still to the ground. The wizard waved a hand in Tiax' direction, and then I heard him scream. As if he was boneless Tiax fell to the ground.
Sarevok turned. "Death upon all of you," he grated. I'd have—killed the people trying to stop me, first, then the demigoddess, because they were in the way—if I could move, and if I were him. And then Faldorn's small shape was in front of him, and Shar-Teel was still trying and failing to fight her way out of the hold upon her.
Ajantis ran and shouted out, his sword pointed ahead, the squirrel on his pauldrons. He wasn't going to make it. My knuckles scraped against the stone. I dragged myself forward but not enough, never enough. Faldorn, Shar-Teel, not you—
An explosion as if a trap. Purple light blinded all; smoke filled the temple. Ajantis stood in tunic and trousers, a fairy dragon in Aquerna's place on his shoulders, a pool of molten metal at his feet. Patches of purple gathered on the floor; they entangled Sarevok within them, and a moment later he was moved to the other part of its squares. Another wave shifted over Ajantis himself, and then a small green toad dropped heavily to the ground.
In the confusion Semaj himself had lost control of what he saw, and Dynaheir and Claudia were beside him and armed. He reached for his spells, but Dynaheir's staff kept reaching for him as she stood smoke-blackened and proud; and Claudia stabbed across Semaj's throat like a frightened rabbit trying to kill. Shar-Teel had taken up her sword.
Her blade met Sarevok's, and this time he could not ignore her for another. I saw him reach to his belt and take a potion, moving quickly; and Shar-Teel kept up against every stroke. They sheared wide circles through the air too quickly to understand or anticipate. Faldorn lurched toward Sarevok's back, and then Shar-Teel's blade flowed above her head. A hank of Faldorn's hair fell to the ground; she dropped in her place. They stepped above her. Shar-Teel drew a dagger from her arm and slashed at Sarevok's throat. He blocked it with his own wrist and sent it skimming across the floor. The fairy dragon snatched up the toad in her claws and flew to the rooftop's refuge.
Two humans duelled. This time Shar-Teel matched him in everything. No man beats me. Viconia's healing at last finished on herself, and she slowly dragged me to stand beside her. It wasn't a long match; swordmasters' duels are supposed to last only until the first mistake. Steel flashed as if a globe of endless blades covered the pair of warriors. Nobody could have stepped into that and lived.
Faldorn stood and stared and watched; the clerics of the Black Sun lay still on the ground; the demigoddess of Imoen crackled and shone with gold. Viconia's lips parted and her stare to the fight was wide and hungry. The mage Semaj was dead on the ground; Dynaheir leaned heavily on her staff, sheltered with Claudia by a pillar. Shar-Teel fought as I'd never seen her before; as if in a dance, she'd finally found a partner to equal her. In helms and armour and almost of a height the difference between them vanished. The sickly yellow sword danced and did not shatter Shar-Teel's purple blade, until the colours too blurred into one. Then Sarevok's gauntlet hit Shar-Teel's face, and ripped the helm from her head.
"...Like your father," I heard Sarevok say, and for the first time he panted as he spoke.
"Nothing like, fool of a male," Shar-Teel answered, her red hair flying like a bloodied flag. And then they stopped.
The golden blade ran through Shar-Teel's ribs. The purple was buried deep in Sarevok's chest, and his blood ran red-tinged gold already at the more jagged cut. Only...a few instants...
Sarevok stepped away from her; and laughed as if he knew that none other dared come to him even now. He laid hands to the sword in his chest; he pulled it from himself; and bleeding, he ran to Imoen—
Faldorn formed a thin wooden spear from thin air and threw it; I sought to run for him. She cut through his back, but already Imoen was ducked down and rolling from the god's throne. And she was not his target.
The glassy pillar cracked from side to side with Sarevok's final blow. Gold, almost tangible, flowed below his feet by the throne and across the temple's flagstones; it seeped into the gaps of the floor and lapped at my feet. The eyes of the skull of the centre glowed by it. I could feel it, and it returned some of what Semaj had stolen; Imoen could feel it; he could feel it.
—was in the village that I strangled those thieves, wasn't fair I had to be killed
—I'd have shown him others, let me not die, I don't have to be murder
—Daddy? Mummy? Please help me!
—So that is why I've sorcery, murderer, killer, I liked it
—I foresee that the children of Bhaal shall kill each other in a bloody massacre
A single shape of Imoen lay on the ground, fallen. She stared above at the remains of her power.
"—You do not win, usurper," Sarevok said, and laughed once more. The wound in his chest did not heal; blood escaped from it, flowing thickly and reuniting with the scattered powers below his feet. Viconia had already placed hands on Shar-Teel to begin a chant. He looked down at the owner of the sword he held. "The Abyss, woman. You feel it. It calls for us both. Can you not taste its warm hot..."
Then from within it took him. Golden sparks bled from his chest, the wound widening of itself, suffusing his shape. When he died he dissolved into a thousand atoms of dust, bleeding only into the gold; and piece by piece the empty armour fell. The gold shivered and fell into the darkness between the flagstones. The eyes of Bhaal's skull darkened to mundane stone.
Imoen stood, dusting down her robes, less demigoddess than girl. By then I had crossed the room, and in each other's arms I felt her human-solid warmth.
"Depends on your definition of winning, ugly," Imoen said. "Mine? It counts. It just doesn't leave us much time, is all."
We stepped out of the temple—
—