Previously…
The whining draw of a crossbow reached her ears then. Fraeya whirled in the direction of the sound just in time to recognize the assassin lying in wait. Sarith Kzekarit stood before her with his crossbow sighted and drawn. He was dirty and haggard and covered in a sickening amount of blood. The rogue recalled then what Jimjar had said that first day in Velkynvelve's slave pens.
His charge is murder. Murder of a fellow warrior.
That is not so rare among my people.
Still. Best watch your back.
At the time, Fraeya had dismissed the warning. But honestly, should she have expected anything but this very scenario? Sarith was drow, after all. Just as she was. This was what they excelled at. Pacts of convenience. Deception. They were sowers of chaos and discord as their patron goddess bade. When those around them proved no longer useful, or a more favorable arrangement presented itself—
Fraeya drew her rapier in a single, swift motion.
Sarith loosened the bolt from his crossbow in answer.
But the sting of impact never came. Instead, the rogue's hair fluttered ever so slightly as the piece of ammunition whizzed just past her ear. A thousand questions raced through her head in those few dizzying seconds. But predominantly—how could he have missed?
The answer came in the form of a dull thud and a sharp intake of breath. Fraeya's first thought was that the stray bolt had struck one of her companions. But, what she saw instead, rattled her. For the bolt was embedded deep in the chest of the scout that she had not known was stalking up behind her.
Chapter Fourteen
The Ambush
1485 DR / Day 18
The Northdark, seven days southwest of Sloobludop
Fargas Rumblefoot woke to pain. It was an all-encompassing, dizzying pain that left him both breathless and writhing pathetically on the ground. Confusing silhouettes, outlined by the occasional flicker of flame, danced just at the cusp of his vision. Fargas blinked wildly. His enchanted goggles were tucked away in his pack, for he had no need of them while sleeping. Now, the halfling wished he'd been a little more cautious.
There were many troubling sounds, gasps, and panicked shouting. And yet, Fargas could not discern the words. The pain stemming from his lower stomach was too disorienting. He could, however, understand the connotation of the other noises—scuffling boots, the whistle of a blade cutting air, the stretching whine of a bow, and the thwack of arrows. They were under attack!
Not a moment later, the darkened cavern filled with blinding orange light as a sphere of roiling flame was called forth from Kazimir's staff. An agonizing scream followed, and the stench of burnt flesh hung ominously in the air. Fargas grimaced. He could now see the flurry of activity around him. And that only served to baffle him further because his companions were fighting off—surely his eyes deceived him—human surface-kin?
Fargas lurched to his feet and reached for Glimmer, intent on defending the camp alongside his companions, but stopped short as another uncomfortable spasm rocketed through his lower belly. The halfling glanced down and let out a cry when he saw the cause at last.
Blood. A frightening amount of it. Pooling through his linen undershirt.
And that was all he saw. For the world around Fargas plunged back into hazy shadow as the flames of Kazimir's conjured sphere suddenly burnt out. "A little help here!" the halfling wheezed as he fumbled blindly. "Zelyra, I need you—now!"
The druid instinctively turned. A jagged shard of ice was partially formed in her hand. "I'm a little busy, Fargas!" she shouted back. Zelyra wished to take back the inconsiderate remark when she saw the reason that Fargas had called for her specifically. "Oh, gods! You're bleeding!" she exclaimed.
"Oh? I hadn't realized!" said Fargas.
The offensive ice spell was lost as Zelyra threw up her wooden shield and picked her way across the unexpected battleground, dodging stray arrows and bolts, one angry downward swipe of a rusted longsword. She gave a brief nod of thanks to Derendil, who had blocked the latter attack. Her hurried pace slowed only upon noting that not one but two dark elves fought among them.
Where the drow warrior had materialized from was as much of a mystery as those whom they fought. But Zelyra's sight was true. The warrior was indeed Sarith. He and Fraeya were positioned back-to-back, twin swords flashing and rapier dancing, as they engaged in close combat with three of the human bandits that had unexpectedly ambushed them.
The men played to the biggest weakness of the drow. Light. They held their weapons in one hand and blazing torches in the other. Zelyra could see that the flames disoriented the dark elves—strangely Sarith more so than Fraeya—and she contemplated stopping to help them. But another pained cry from Fargas spurred her forward. That was where she was most needed. Fraeya and Sarith could protect themselves.
And each other, so it seemed.
Zelyra reached the injured halfling shortly after. One look at the offending wound had the druid dreading her next course of action. Fargas had been stabbed just between the lower ribs. The perpetrator had removed the weapon in a hurry, which tore the tissue further. It was a wonder that none of his vital organs had been punctured.
Dressing such a wound would be no quick matter. Magical healing could only go so far. It was not the first time Zelyra had performed hands-on field medicine. She'd cut an ill aimed arrow from Zelphar's thigh once. But she'd had the Master of Medicine's steady hands to guide her then. This time, she was on her own.
The druid took note of Fargas's sweaty brow and his pallid face. There was no other choice. In the Underdark, without access to proper medicine, a wound like this would spell death to the halfling.
"You'll stop the bleeding, right?" Fargas asked, panic slipping into his tone. For that was the alternative. If not taken by infection, he could simply bleed out.
Zelyra shushed him. "Yes, just relax. You're going to be fine."
A shadow fell over them. Zelyra tensed and reached for her shield, fearing an attack. But instead, the druid's fretted gaze met a pair of stern gold-flecked eyes—her fellow half-elf. Nine stood over them, longbow in hand with an arrow preemptively nocked.
"Do whatever you need to do," the ranger advised. "I'll cover you."
"Thank you," Zelyra breathed.
"I'm not doing it for you," said Nine.
The slightest hint of a smile formed on Fargas's lips. "I… didn't know…you cared," he wheezed dryly.
"Shut up and let her dress your wound, Fargas," the ranger said, though her tone carried none of its usual austerity. "You're of no use to me dead."
Fargas let out a small chuckle.
Zelyra began gathering several herbs from the embroidered pouch at her side. Yarrow to clot the blood, ground turmeric and wedelia for their anti-inflammatory properties, chamomile and neem to prevent infection, and a potent mix of mint oils to numb the skin. But as her hands neared the wound, Fargas squirmed and shied away from her touch. The druid sighed. It was imperative that he remained still. If he did not allow her to start applying pressure soon…
Her only hope was a form of distraction. And perhaps a little magic wouldn't hurt either.
"Close your eyes and tell us a story, any story," Zelyra bade the loquacious halfling as she began to weave a spell simultaneously. Then, as familiar spectral vines snaked out from her fingertips and swathed the halfling, the druid added, "You said that you come from a line of explorers. Humor us with one of their tales."
Fargas knew just the one. He set the stage for a thrilling tale told to him by his father, Falver Rumblefoot, who, along with his own set of adventuring companions, seized the treasure horde of a red dragon. But the halfling soon found himself distracted, unable to look away from Zelyra's face, her eyes. A warm glow surrounded her, magnetic and entrancing in every possible way. He didn't even notice the stinging poultice as Zelyra applied it. The herbs, working in tandem with the soothing nature of the druid's enchantment, quickly lulled Fargas into a complacent daze. [1]
…
When Fraeya first sounded the alarm, the escaped prisoners of Velkynvelve thought that Ilvara had caught up with them at last. But to their complete and utter surprise, they were met not by any denizen or creature native to the Underdark but by a band of hardy humans wielding rusted weapons and patched armor.
There were six in total, all male and varying in age. A seventh lay dead, killed by a well-aimed bolt that struck his heart. They might have been slaves fleeing their Underdark masters. But the men were equipped with colorful clothing, sensible armor, and weapons popular to the land above—not stolen material—and they did not appear malnourished, which told the adventurers a very different story. These were raiders. Foolish individuals hailing from the surface world that dared to delve into the deep dark in search of foreign treasures. Ironically, not so different from Fargas and his ranger guide.
Kazimir's futile attempt to parlay with the men did not go well. They took one look at the body of their fallen companion, at the bolt sticking out of his chest, and determined that they had no interest in talking. Their captain returned fire at Kazimir—and poor Stool, who cowered pitifully behind the wizard's robes—with his heavy crossbow. A fierce skirmish erupted from that moment on.
Balasar roared with fury as his trusted sword clashed with the captain's scimitar. Any reluctance to fight had left him the moment that the captain fired a bolt at their wizard and the defenseless myconid sprout. The dragonborn promptly charged the raiders, his longsword leading the way. He feared not the flames of their blazing torches. Balasar was, in fact, grateful for them.
The bandit captain was taller than the rest of his men, muscled, and judging by the finesse of his returning strikes, had at least some sort of military or martial arts training. Balasar stepped back just in time to avoid an underhanded strike from the parrying dagger cleverly concealed in the man's opposite hand.
It had been some time since the dragonborn had faced off against a dual wielder. But he knew their habits well enough. Dual wielders, especially those utilizing curved weapons, often fought in circles to allow their blades to roll over one another seamlessly. Balasar quickly adjusted his stance. He made another interesting observation then. The captain's scimitar showed evidence of corrosion. Why the weapon was compromised, he did not know. But if Balasar struck the blade at just the right angle, it could be rendered useless with the right amount of force. He only had to get passed the damned parrying dagger.
The dragonborn grinned despite himself. Bunrick's champion did not lose.
Eldeth was off to the dragonborn's left, flanking the man currently engaged with Prince Derendil. The shield dwarf anxiously called attention to her companion's missed strikes, his clumsy blocks, for it was clear that the cursed elf prince faced his opponent begrudgingly.
Derendil carried no weapons aside from what his beastly form naturally gave him. He was not a fighter. That was sister's domain, and for that very reason, Gilziriah was their father's favorite—not Derendil. His foe, however, had no such internal debate. The man saw not an elven prince. He took one look at the creature before him, saw the claws and the beady eyes and the sharp-toothed maw, and promised the sweet kiss of death.
Never had Derendil loathed his curse more so than in moments like these. He was the crown prince of Nelrindenvane. Such violence did not become him. It was one thing to fight a monster, an aberration, such as when the carrion crawler had taken Zelyra. But to face off against a human being was another matter altogether.
The prince imagined the faces of Turin, the court wizard, and Uland, a tutor from his youth, Harold, an old sailor, and his two children, Thomas and Thanra. Of course, Derendil would never think to harm any of them. But the accursed animalistic rage bubbled below the surface all the same. His control over that rage waned with each cut that tore at his quaggoth skin. A low growl formed deep in his throat.
Fortunately for Prince Derendil, Eldeth made the call for him. Her axe came up and then down, dealing a fatal blow to their opponent's spine. Blood spewed forth from the wound, covering her axe and shield, her face, and blended seamlessly with her flaming red hair.
"You killed him," Derendil sputtered as the man fell face-first to the ground.
"He would have killed ye, had I not!" Eldeth snapped.
The prince shook his head miserably.
"We are in an unforgiving world. Difficult choices are before us. Are ye prepared to make them?" said the shield dwarf as she slung the bloody axe over her shoulder. Despite her harsh words, Eldeth truly did feel for the prince. It could not be easy to carry such a dreadful curse. As an afterthought, she added, "We know ye wouldn't hurt a fly. But that man saw a brutal servant of the accursed drow, not a noble prince. He would not have hesitated."
"But why attack us at all? We did nothing to them. We were sleeping. And there are far more surface dwellers among us now than not," Derendil argued.
"Who can truly know their motives," said Eldeth. "Perhaps they were desperate. Or perhaps it had more to do with the crossbow bolt that felled their companion than desperation." Her gaze turned accusingly then in the direction of Fraeya and Sarith.
"Perhaps," the prince echoed with a sigh.
The unexpected conflict wound down just as quickly as it began. Both sides were injured, but the adventurers overpowered and outnumbered the bandits. With two of their own slain, one critically burned by Kazimir's flaming sphere, and their leader quickly fading to Balasar's two-handed savage strikes, the remaining raiders wisely turned and fled. The travelers let them go.
Only the captain remained. His salt-and-pepper hair was slick with blood, and there was that vile stitch again in his side, but he refused to yield to sympathizers of the dark elves so easily. Finally, with a battle cry, he made his last stand. Balasar met him gladly.
From where she knelt next to Fargas, Zelyra looked up just in time to see the battle begin anew. Balasar brought his sword up and then down. An alarming clatter rang out as the rusted scimitar shattered under the might of the dragonborn's attack.
Only the parrying dagger remained, but the bandit leader did not stand down. Instead, he swiftly lashed out against Balasar's exposed side and then flipped the blade over to his right hand. His tenacity was to be applauded. But Zelyra knew that the man was most certainly going to die. If not by Balasar's hand, then Eldeth, Kazimir, Fraeya, or Sarith. And despite her wariness of humans, that did not sit well with Zelyra. There had to be another way.
She recalled a spell that Ploopploopeen had once used. The archpriest magically paralyzed his enemy. If Zelyra could do something similar, perhaps the fight could end without further bloodshed.
The druid took a calming breath and called forth her magic, offering it the freedom to shape itself independently, to create something that she was not even sure was possible. She held pressure on Fargas's chest with one hand while the other reached out toward the captain. The split concentration was far more draining than she anticipated. To her dismay, the spectral vines around Fargas wilted and fell away. The halfling began to stir shortly after. But it was not a wasted attempt. The new spell took shape, and just as Zelyra planned, the captain froze in place.
Balasar saw his opening. The champion fighter swung his longsword in a graceful arc and prepared for the killing blow—until a rattled cry from Zelyra stilled his hand.
"Stop! Don't kill him!"
"Why not?" Balasar asked.
"We have questions that need to be answered. So, let's do as we should have from the start. Let us talk," the druid proposed.
"Zelyra speaks sense!" Derendil readily agreed. "We can settle this in peace."
The adventurers then heard a childlike voice resounding in their heads—Stool. "Please. No more. I'm scared," they said. The pure innocence of the statement swayed many of the group. Kazimir quietly ushered the sprout behind the back of his robes.
Balasar took a reluctant step back. "Fine, we'll talk," he rumbled. "Can he speak?"
"I—I don't know," said Zelyra. "I've never tried anything like this before."
Paralyzed by magic, the captain might have been. But he could still very well hear the discussion occurring around him. The dragonborn had a point. How much control did the spell have over him? Could he speak if he so wished? The man pushed back against the alien influence and found that he could, in some ways, resist.
"There…can be…no peace," he ground out.
Balasar shifted his attention to the human. "And why is that?" he asked.
"The drow…killed…my son."
The captain's voice was halted and aggrieved. It took great willpower to combat the druid's influence. But the damning words themselves pained him further. His son was dead—his only son. If the captain could have cast an accusatory glare at the one he believed to be responsible, he would have in a heartbeat.
"We do sincerely apologize for the inadvertent—" Prince Derendil began.
"I'll hear no…justifications…from a beast!" the man interrupted.
"Mind yer tongue," Eldeth warned.
But Zelyra had already shot to her feet. The druid's fist clenched as she poured more power into her spell. Sweat formed at her brow, her temples, and the nape of her neck. She could sympathize, at least partially, with the man. She knew well the pain of losing a loved one to the ruthless drow. But that sympathy did not excuse untoward comments.
"Let me remind you that you and your men stole into our camp. It was you who stabbed someone asleep and unarmed. And it was you who shot at the equivalent of a child. Not the other way around," said the druid. She gestured dynamically to Stool and Fargas and then to the bodies of the fallen men. "Look around you! Do you not see that this is the result of your own foolish action?"
"Let's start with the big question—why did you ambush our camp?" Balasar asked. "What drew you? Did you wish to steal weapons? Supplies? Food?"
"Ha! I hope you like ripplebark," Kazimir quipped.
"No," the man replied.
"Is that a 'no' to the ripplebark or…?" the wizard let the question hang awkwardly.
Rolls of steam poured from Balasar's maw, and sparks of blue electricity could be seen near the column of his throat if one looked closely. "Then what?" the dragonborn pressed. "Answer the question! I need not a sword to smite you where you stand!"
The captain chose his words wisely. "My son…did not die…here," he rasped.
Eldeth immediately understood. "He didn't, did he? He was killed in the tunnels outside of this cavern," she surmised.
The man did not waste effort on a reply. His silence was confirmation enough.
"You and your men followed the one you believe to be responsible. That led you to us," said Kazimir, expanding the shield dwarf's theory.
Again, the grief on the captain's face told more of a story than words ever could. All eyes turned then to the one who had mysteriously resurfaced just before the ambush.
"Sarith—" Fraeya growled, reeling on her fellow drow.
But any words of reproach that the rogue had prepared effectively died on her tongue when she saw the look on Sarith's face. Uncertainty. Denial. Fear. Something was not right. His aloofness, his control, was gone. The warrior rubbed at his temples and muttered, "I don't remember. I don't remember," repeatedly.
Fraeya's back straightened. "What's done is done," she told the captain coolly. "An eye for an eye. Your son is dead, and you saw fit to deal our halfling a mortal wound. So, I think we're even." Fargas was too drained to offer a witty comeback. That, in itself, spoke to the severity of his injury.
The drow swiftly approached the paralyzed man. Her rapier was drawn and in hand. "Just look at the poor thing! He's practically on death's door. If not for our healer's quick action, he'd have already crossed the threshold. So, tell me, how does it feel to harm an innocent? Will it bring back your son?" Fraeya asked as she touched the tip of her weapon to the man's chest. Such curious words from a drow but a clear warning, nonetheless.
"Why…do you care?" the man countered.
Fraeya did not dignify him with an answer. "Release him, Zelyra. I don't believe he will be more trouble," she said instead.
The druid grimaced. "But—"
"You asked us to spare him, and we did. Now what? We can't keep him all night," Fraeya interjected. "How much longer can you hold that spell, anyway?"
Zelyra was loath to admit that the rogue might be right. Sweat was prominent now upon her brow. Her hands were shaking. The amount of focus it took to combat another's willpower was taxing. If she did not stop soon, her magic would bottom out. And that would not bode well for anyone. Fargas needed further tending to, and he was not the only one. The druid saw many slices and cuts on Derendil's person. And so, with some reluctance, Zelyra dropped the holding spell. The relief she instantly felt was staggering.
As the captain experimentally flexed his fingers around his sword, Eldeth saw fit to offer an additional warning. "I'd be considering yer next move with care," she said.
"Or how about I make it easy—you have ten seconds to make yourself scarce before I shoot," Nine sharply cut in. "Instead of chasing revenge, perhaps you should regroup with your men and tend to the body that you carelessly left behind."
"Oof," Kazimir muttered under his breath.
Guilt flashed across the captain's face. And for a moment, he appeared so taken aback by the half-elf's callous honesty that he could not move by his own accord.
"Six seconds…" the ranger counted down. "What are you waiting for? Scram!"
The man abruptly turned on his heel and fled into the darkness.
"Good riddance," Eldeth muttered.
"That's it? We're just going to let him go?" asked Balasar.
"Yes," Fraeya answered. "There are more important matters to attend to."
Some of the party's focus shifted to Sarith while others looked to Fargas. Neither appeared well. The drow warrior was clustered off to the side, rubbing at his temples and muttering furiously to himself while the wounded halfling lay in a pool of drying blood. And they also had the fallen men to consider. It seemed disrespectful to loot their bodies. But on the off chance that they had been carrying rations…
The moral dilemma the party had faced in the tunnels was before them again.
Without much discussion, the three daunting tasks were delegated and split. Eldeth, Balasar, and Prince Derendil wandered over to the bodies. Zelyra and Nine crouched down again by Fargas. Fraeya naturally gravitated towards Sarith, and Kazimir followed at her heels, much to the rogue's annoyance. Sleep would have to wait.
"I wouldn't mind…going into another daydream," Fargas whispered to Zelyra as she loomed over him, fussing with the bandages she'd just applied.
The druid shook her head. "I'm sorry, Fargas. I can't—"
"Then let me try," Nine offered. The half-elven ranger's face flushed with uncertainty as she extended a hand and said, "Though, you might have to guide me."
"I think I can manage that," said Zelyra.
When the ranger and the druid placed their joined hands against Fargas's chest and spoke their words of healing, it was not merely spectral vines that soothed the injured halfling—five-pointed borage with vibrant blue petals bloomed alongside them.
…
"So, what are we going to do about that one?" Kazimir asked Fraeya, jabbing a thumb in the drow warrior's direction.
Fraeya shrugged. "Perhaps Zelyra should examine him. He seems out of sorts."
"I would be too if I'd just murdered someone," the tiefling replied.
"We do not know the full story," the drow countered.
"He's covered in blood."
"I'm well aware, Kazimir."
The rogue sighed irritably, knowing that she would not learn anything of importance with the wizard around. During the skirmish, Fraeya realized that Sarith had revealed himself to her specifically, not the group, for a reason. Perhaps she would have found out why if the raiders had not attacked.
Fraeya and Kazimir were so engrossed in their hushed disagreement that neither noticed that Stool was waddling over to the befuddled warrior until it was too late. To their astonishment, Sarith didn't turn the myconid sprout away. Instead, Stool released an intimate puff of yellow rapport spores. A conversation appeared to take place then, albeit telepathically. The drow warrior came back to his senses shortly after.
"What?" he snapped at the rogue and the wizard.
"You know, I feel we should be the ones prompting you with that question," said Kazimir. "Is there something you wish to share?"
Sarith sneered at him. "No."
But then the warrior's gaze shifted to Fraeya.
The rogue immediately understood. It was just as she had feared. Sarith would reveal nothing in front of the wizard. Kazimir knew that as well. He was merely being stubborn and problematic—such as wizards were prone to be, drow or otherwise.
"Can you at least explain why you are covered in blood?" the tiefling pressed.
The drow crossed his arms across his chest. "It's my own," he answered.
"Seems like an awful lot to be just yours. By all accounts, it's a wonder you're still standing," Kazimir said warily. "What reason do I have to believe you?"
Sarith growled and swept past the infuriating wizard to join Eldeth, Balasar, and Prince Derendil. Fraeya trailed after him, leaving Kazimir alone with Stool.
"What did he say to you, buddy?" he asked the sprout.
Stool heard the horned-one's question but could not offer a verbal reply. They had already expended their rapport spores on the dark one and the dark one alone. It would be some time before they could use them again. The sprout desperately bounced up and down, then shifted from one foot to the other. Their cap sagged as they tried to convey the dark one's sadness. But the effort was useless. The horned-one did not understand.
"It's okay, Stool. You can just tell me later," Kazimir said with a sigh.
Stool saddled up beside the tiefling wizard apologetically.
[1] Cure Wounds and (especially) Healing Word shouldn't be a cure-all, especially for a lower-level caster. If someone suffers a critical hit—such as a mortal stab wound to the chest—I like to think experience plays just as much of a part, if not more. In this case, I'm using Zelyra's healing magic as an anesthetic while she is forced to do the dirty work by hand and with the aid of her herbs.
[2] I imagine druidic magics to be more fluid and organic than wizardry. Therefore, Zelyra's manifestation of magic/learning new spells will differ from Kazimir's. This was my futile attempt to experiment with that.
—
I don't know how a month has passed since I last updated… hopefully, this chapter reads okay. I've been fussing with it for longer than I care to admit. The fight scene gave me a ridiculous amount of grief. I have zero experience with swordplay/combat in real life (obviously) so describing specialized techniques is entirely out of my comfort zone. Constructive criticism is welcome!