Chapter 26: Coordinated Chaos
The next morning, Imoen found herself chatting to one of the bandits, "I hear we get our coins from some Iron Throne or somesuch," Imoen asked innocently.
"Shut yer mouth, fool!" The man before her snapped, "Tazok works for the Zhentarim, and they spreadin' everywhere! Why you think they bring us from Iriaebor?"
"Iriaebor!?" Imoen blurted out, her voice laced with a hint of surprise. She leaned in closer to the bandit, "Well, I'll be damned! The money must be right good for ya'll to be workin' with them monsters, considerin' what's been happenin' east of the Chionthar."
The bandit's brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued by Imoen's words, "What in tarnation d'ya mean, lass?"
Imoen seized the opportunity, "Word is, them monsters callin' themselves the Chill been causin' a ruckus in them villages 'round Iriaebor. Raidin' 'n pillagin', leavin' nothin' but ruin and terror behind 'em." Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of malice gleaming within them. "Caught me a merchant who swore by it right afore I put 'im outta his misery."
"Those damn monsters think they can do whatever they please," The bandit responded, his voice filled with a mix of fury and concern. "Eatin' folks and now raidin' our villages? It's gotta stop." He clenched his fists, visibly agitated.
Elsewhere, Edwin approached a different Blacktalon lackey, "That hobgoblin, he has a most unique magical aura about him." he commented to no one in particular.
The bandit turned his attention towards the mage. "Best watch yourself!" he cautioned, his voice tinged with a mixture of apprehension and wariness. "There's strange magic around that one. Not like any hobgoblin I ever seen!"
Edwin looked unimpressed, "Not that it would concern a genius such as I, but I hear he delves in the art of… er necromancy. That means evil magic, and undead. Understand? (Yes. That should sufficiently scare the monkey.)" Edwin said, pleased with his convincing ploy.
The bandit wasn't sure if he was being insulted and knew better than to question a mage, rookie or otherwise. He decided to settle for cautious agreement, "You reckon?" he asked, "Wouldn't put it past those low lives." The bandit shrugged, deciding that no matter how suspicious the mage's word sounded, Arendor may well be a demon from the Nine Hells for all he cared.
By the time evening came around, the human encampment was abuzz with whispers of pillaging monsters, undead and the imminent destruction of the city of Iriaebor. The Blacktalons eyed the Chill with growing suspicion and tensions were running high. Pleased with the result Charmane decided to introduce herself to her supposed "superior".
"You there! I would speak, and best you listen well." the man in plate armour declared as she approached. "I am Taurgosz 'Tenhammer,' leader of the Blacktalons. You are small and weak compared. Remember this. You cross Talons, and I kill you. Not with a hammer, but with a little finger. Slowly."
Charmane stood her ground, a knowing smile dancing upon her lips as she locked eyes with Taurgosz. "No doubt your title came from some impressive feats," she countered, her words filled with a touch of appreciation. "However, I've had my share of achievements. I'd be lying if I said your moniker or your threats scare me. Perhaps you should save those for our enemies?"
The flickering firelight danced upon Taurgosz's face as a boisterous laugh erupted from his throat. "Ha ha ha! Good attitude," he exclaimed, a sense of camaraderie threading through his words. "Be sure to keep it when Tazok arrives. He hires Blacktalons for the Iron Throne, but remember, you take orders only from me. Understand? And stay away from Chill as well: They're only our friends until the job is finished."
Charmane soaked up the information while she set her trap, "Is it true what they say?" Charmane inquired, widening her eyes with a feigned sense of curiosity. "That Iriaebor's been overrun by those monsters?"
A flicker of concern flashed in Taurgosz's eyes as he grasped the seriousness of Charmane's words. "I've heard whispers," he grumbled, his voice tinged with unease. "But 'til I see proof, they're naught but gossip," he retorted, striving to sound more assured than he truly felt.
Charmane nodded knowingly, her expression mirroring a subtle sense of understanding. "Wise," she replied, "Tis best to question the tales we hear. But if there's some truth-"
As she spoke, a man came charging towards them with desperation etched upon his face. He skidded to a halt a few paces from Taurgosz, his ragged breaths punctuating the tense silence. Gasping for air, he managed to wheeze out his urgent message, his words laden with fear and alarm. "Gnolls! Direwolves... and an unholy army of undead! They're advancing through the eastern forest as we speak!"
"Chill reinforcements?" Charmane asked, adding fuel to the fire.
Jaheira's stomach churned uncomfortably, she would have to fix Imoen's habit of overusing herbs in her dinner. Clad in the classic leather armour donned by the bandits, Jaheira approached the mouth of the cave when a hobgoblin intercepted her path, his gruff voice slicing through the air.
"You not allowed in here!" he warned, "Gnolls kept in cave until tempers calm. If you go in there... don't expect to come out in one piece!"
"I'm a druid. Been assigned to tend to injuries. Just following orders," she responded, her voice firm and unwavering.
"Your funeral." the hobgoblin growled in reply.
As Jaheira cautiously ventured into the cave, the growls of agitated canines filled her ears. "You come to mock Garclax!" a voice snarled. In the dim light of her torch, she discerned a formidable brown-furred gnoll, its large form looming before her. "Garclax's clan been in cave long enough. Let us out now, or die!"
"Boss says you are free to go. Told me to say: there won't be a next time," Jaheira declared, mustering as much confidence as she possibly could. She was outnumbered and acutely aware that if the gnolls didn't believe her, she would become their snack within seconds.
Garclax sniffed the air, "Is that fear I smell?" He asked, looking more confused than threatening.
"Is garlic, boss." Another gnoll supplied.
Garclax's canine features contorted in disgust. "You reek. Clean your fur before you come near me again," the gnoll sneered, before leading his pack out of the cave, leaving Jaheira to breathe a sigh of relief. Given the fortuitous turn of events, she decided that Imoen's lecture could wait.
Within the dim confines of the cave, Jaheira stood patiently, her ears perked. Suddenly, a cacophony of enraged growls and clashing steel erupted, engulfing the camp in chaos. Seizing the moment of confusion, the druid stealthily slipped away.
Charmane revelled in the chaos that unfolded as Taurgosz split his forces, taking an eager contingent to confront Arendor and his monsters. Meanwhile, Charmane and the remaining bandits hastened to intercept the approaching enemy army in the forest, Imoen and Khalid in tow.
Guided by the scout's information, they swiftly arrived at the designated location. The air crackled with tension as the bandits braced themselves for the imminent clash. Suddenly, skeleton warriors, gnolls, and direwolves charged toward them, driven by some unholy force. Amidst the chaotic fray, a peculiar ghoul with a shock of pink hair hurled rocks at the bandits.
As the bandit forces struggled to process the unexpected developments, a perceptive member spotted their newly recruited drow and the red robed mage among the enemy ranks. Before he could voice a warning, Imoen's arrow found its mark, striking him squarely in the back. Charmane's dagger was now lodged on the nape of another. The combined assault from both sides proved devastating, and before long, the Blacktalons were decorating the forest floor.
The forest echoed with distant clash of steel and battle cries as the party returned to the camp and reunited with Jaheira. Charmane was smiling ear to ear, "Glad to see you alive and well," she remarked, relief shining in her eyes.
Jaheira offered a faint smile in return, "With no small thanks to Imoen," she replied, with genuine gratitude, leaving the young rogue confused. "That will be a tale for later." the druid added with a smirk.
As the party approached the entrance to Tazok's tent, they were abruptly interrupted by a man, who stumbled as he walked toward them. He was adorned in poorly fitted leather, bearing the unmistakable signs of a recent recruit. With a cocky swagger, he pointed a finger at Charmane and her companions.
"Hey, you, new blood!" he bellowed, his voice grating on their ears. "What's all that ruckus?"
Charmane suppressed an exasperated sigh, "The Chill betrayed us," she responded curtly.
Unfazed by her brusque reply, the man nodded self-assuredly. "Maybe I'll go check it out. Just you keep in line, 'cuz I'll be watching you!" he declared, attempting to assert his newfound authority.
Charmane couldn't help but roll her eyes, the condescension evident in her expression. "And you are?" she asked, looking as unimpressed as she sounded.
"Me? I'm Credus," he proclaimed, puffing out his chest with an exaggerated sense of importance. "I'm your superio... superbior... I'm your boss," he proclaimed, after much struggle. "I was the newest recruit until you showed up. Now you'll get all the crappy guard duty and I'll be moving up," he boasted, his attempt at asserting dominance falling flat amidst the seasoned adventurers.
"Guard duty? In a bandit camp?" Charmane asked incredulously, her eyebrows shooting up in disbelief as she struggled to contain her amusement. "And what is it exactly that needs guarding?"
Credus, undeterred by her questioning, flashed a smug grin. "Good attitude! Important work it is!" he declared, emphasizing his words with exaggerated gestures. "Gotta keep an eye on Tazok's tent and make sure no one gets too close. They do super-secret planning in there, all about where the iron and stuff goes," he continued. "Smack anybody who goes near! Hey, maybe we'll give you a little test. You can guard the place for tonight. Tazok will be pleased that we took ini... initinivvi... initititive..." Credus stumbled over his words, his confidence momentarily wavering. "That we didn't wait. It'll give me a break for tonight too," he finally managed to say, relief evident in his voice. "You just make sure nothing goes missing, or your head goes next," he added, attempting to inject a note of threat into his poorly delivered ultimatum.
Charmane gave a small salute, "Yes, boss!", struggling to hide a grin as the man walked away.
"I'm reckonin' Credus gonna get himself a mighty big promotion once we're done here," Imoen mused in a low, mocking tone, barely suppressing a chuckle.
Tazok's tent mirrored the layout of the one allocated to Charmane's party, albeit on a grander scale. The spacious interior was filled with a staggering display of ill-begotten wealth, meticulously arranged with an attention to detail that seemed out of place within the chaotic world of bandits. Armaments of various types, including gleaming swords, wicked-looking daggers, and finely crafted bows, adorned weapon racks and stands throughout the tent. Works of art adorned the walls, expensive rugs, bearing intricate patterns and vibrant colours, were spread across the floor, lending an air of opulence to the otherwise rough surroundings.
The walls of the tent were adorned with a mix of familiar Blacktalon flags, symbolizing the authority of the bandit group they had infiltrated, and the distinctive blue banners bearing the symbol of a fisted gauntlet. The latter was likely the emblem of the Chill.
"Sorry, friend," a mocking voice jeered, before the party, sans Charmane, could fully take in their surroundings. A long sword gleamed in the man's hand as he eyed the intruders with arrogance. "But you've got a date down under." His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his stance betraying his readiness for combat. "I don't care who you are, no one's to enter Tazok's tent, under penalty of death."
"Penalty o' death, ain't that a right lovely surprise," Imoen mocked. "I reckon it'll be your heads on the chopping block!"
The bandit's face contorted with rage as he shouted, "You're dead, little worms!"
Even as the bandit charged, his sword poised to strike, a cry of pain erupted, piercing through the tension. A green robed wizard, now sporting a giant gash across his back, stumbled forward, wheezing in agony as Charmane's poison worked its insidious magic.
Undeterred by the chaos unfolding, Khalid and Jaheira strode forward to intercept the enraged warrior and a towering gnoll, its deep brown fur bristling with ferocity. The couple's movements were swift and coordinated, parrying and striking with a seamless rhythm, defending against their adversaries with unwavering determination.
Meanwhile, the rest of the party focused their efforts on the wounded mage, desperate to eliminate the arcane threat. But in a sudden, jarring twist, an arrow sliced through the air, grazing Charmane's upper arm with malevolent precision. Time seemed to slow as the deadly projectile pierced her flesh, causing her grip on her weapon to falter.
Her once steady hands now turned clammy and cold, as if touched by the icy fingers of fear. Beads of sweat formed on her furrowed brow. The weight of her own breath became an oppressive burden, her lungs struggling to draw in the necessary oxygen. Shallow and erratic, each inhale felt like a desperate gasp for survival in the face of encroaching darkness.
With the taste of bitter determination on her lips, Charmane's voice quivered as she cried out to Jaheira, her words a fragile plea buried beneath the cacophony of chaos. "Jaheira!" she managed to scream, the urgency straining her vocal cords. "Poison..."
But Jaheira was preoccupied, her senses attuned to the imminent danger that loomed before her. The druid gracefully ducked under the gnoll's sweeping halberd, the lethal weapon whistling through the air inches from her head. Her scimitar glinted as she retaliated with a slash of her own, the weapon finding its mark and drawing a crimson arc across the gnoll's flesh.
Grumbling internally, Charmane reached within, hoping her divine heal would delay death long enough for Jaheira's cure. "Get the archer!" she tried to shout, as a little bit of colour returned to her cheeks. However, all that came out was a hoarse croak. Grudgingly, she reached into her pouch and fumbled for the tell-tale shape of the antidote vial. She winced, only partly from physical pain, as she uncorked the precious elixir and brought it to her lips. The liquid coursed down her throat, its bitterness a minor irritation compared to the sting of parting with such an expensive consumable.
As the cool liquid soothed her parched throat, a surge of renewed vigour coursed through Charmane's veins, pushing back the crippling grasp of the poison. Just as she opened her mouth to repeat her command, a blazing fire streaked through the air and erupting into a furious inferno.
"Die! Monkeys!" Edwin's maniacal laughter rang out as he unleashed the fiery explosion. The enemy mage, already weakened, succumbed to its wrath, writhing in agony. The gnoll's howl of terror filled the air as its fur ignited, creating a macabre spectacle of fear and suffering. The hobgoblin that shot the poisoned arrows, staggered back, its once confident demeanour shattered. Despite being caught in the blast, magical protection left Charmane and the half- elf couple mostly unharmed.
Amidst the chaos, Charmane's focus remained resolute. She couldn't afford to waste another precious antidote. In a display of swift agility, she executed a shadow step, seamlessly appearing behind the hobgoblin archer. Varscona, guided by her expert hand, found its mark, slashing the vulnerable gap in the creature's waist. The hobgoblin's agonized howl reverberated through the air.
Regaining its composure, the hobgoblin spun around, facing Charmane with a sword raised menacingly. Yet the rogue was prepared: with deft precision, she expertly blocked the incoming strike using both her weapons and shoved the creature back. Her dagger traced a wicked arc across the hobgoblin's face, injecting its venomous payload into the creature's veins. Each strike sapped the hobgoblin's strength, the poison working its way into his veins.
Before the hobgoblin could mount a counterattack, a barrage of magic missiles surged forth, relentlessly pummelling the already weakened foe. The combined assault proved too much for the hobgoblin, as it crumpled under the weight of the onslaught, its life extinguished. With the mage and archer neutralised, it was only a matter of time till the remaining fighters lay dead on the tent floor.
Charmane was itching to check the loot, however, there was still unfinished business to attend to. In the corner of the tent, a bound and battered figure awaited their attention. Dressed entirely in black leather, the slight man bore the unmistakable signs of torture, his hood drawn back to reveal a face worn by suffering.
As Charmane approached the weary elf, his grumbling filled the air. "Troubled times are upon us," he sighed, his voice tinged with weariness. Charmane couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. It seemed the elf was oblivious to the fact that her party had just dispatched Tazok's minion. Or perhaps infighting was a regular occurrence among his captors.
"Is it time yet?" the elf asked morosely.
"Not yet," Charmane replied, her mischievousness taking hold.
"Why does Tazok draw it out, so?" the elf questioned, frustration evident in his voice. "If he is to kill me, he should kill me outright, rather than letting me waste away as a prisoner in his tent!"
"You know too much, that's why," Charmane responded, trying her best to look menacing.
"I know too much, do I? Like what?" the elf demanded, a challenge in his tone.
Charmane tapped her chin, adopting a cocky tone. "Mmm. Let's see now. Mulahey, the poisoned ore…" she trailed off.
"Yeah, I know about Mulahey... and I spit in his face and Tazok's too," the elf retorted, his defiance shining through. "And you know what else I know? Tazok's no Zhent man. He's got all you poor foolish bandits convinced, doesn't he? Well, mark my words, you've all gone soft if you think that's the truth of it. He covers his arse nicely and lets you and the Zhents take the rap for it."
Charmane was impressed by the depths of the elf's intel. "Who's he working for then, hotshot?" she inquired, desperate to know more.
"A merchant group, the Iron Throne," the elf revealed. "They want a monopoly on the iron trade, and they're using fools like you to drive up the price and make their fortune. If they can push us into a war with Amn, all the better, because nothing increases demand for iron like a good war, don't you see?"
"Wow!" Charmane exclaimed, unable to hide her surprise. "Alright, enough games. We're not bandits, and we're no friends to Tazok or Mulahey. The latter's dead by our hands at the bottom of the mines as we speak," she declared as she proceeded to untie the elf.
Free from his constraints, the elf gingerly stretched his wrists, "So Mulahey's dead, is he? That's good to hear." he said, with a look of relief on his face. "But, all the same, he's just small time. I'm from the Gate, and as I said, Zhents aren't behind this."
Curious, Charmane asked, "How can you be so sure?"
"A desire for silence isn't the only reason I wear soft-soled boots. I wear 'em so I can tell whose toes I'm treading on. I didn't mess with no Zhentarim. I picked my enemies, and I messed with one group and one group only—the Iron Throne. And, right as rain, here I am as Tazok's personal prisoner. You do the math."
"Where can I find this Iron Throne?" Charmane asked, as the elf proceeded towards the exit, his feet barely making a sound.
"Tazok's been making regular visits to the Cloakwood, so that's where I'd start if I were you." he said as he crossed the room. "There are some documents in there." he continued, pointing to chest beside Charmane. "That might be worth taking a look at, too. Now go step on some toes, all right? And you can tell them Ender Sai sent you," he added with a mischievous grin before disappearing from the tent.
After taking stock of the loot and the mouth-watering amount of gold inside the chest. Charmane read through the two letters inside.
Tazok,
I hope that everything moves along smoothly. I have written to give you instructions from our superiors. I have been told that a small band of mercenaries might cause the Iron Throne some trouble in the future. You are to ensure that they don't live to upset our operations. Obtain the services of the assassin Nimbul. He should serve you well.
Davaeorn
"Davaeron?" Charmane mused aloud, her brow furrowing with concentration. "Why does that name sound familiar?"
Imoen chimed in, "Reckon I've heard it somewhere 'fore, too, but plumb forgot where."
Khalid interjected, "Ah, t-the Surgeon's brother." he offered. "From the time we fought those s-s-sirenes."
Recognition sparked in Charmane's eyes as she recalled the memory. "Oh right! We met him the day Edwin died." Charmane said, with a grin. "Quite a day, wasn't it, Edwin?" she continued, earning a baleful look from the Red Wizard.
Neera, her appearance still that of a rotting zombie, jeered, "Hah! That was a laugh.", causing Viconia to look up with interest.
"This would make for an interesting tale, I take it?" the priestess asked, her eyebrows raised in curiosity.
Charmane, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, replied, "Without a doubt. We'll wrap this up and regale you with tales of indomitable willpower and cunning. Trust me, it'll be worth the wait."
Edwin seethed, his face growing red with anger and embarrassment. He clenched his fists, "Fireball, yes…" he muttered darkly, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. "We'll see who mocks me then… yes… right in the middle-"
Charmane shook her head in amusement as she overheard Edwin's muttering and moved onto the next letter.
Tazok,
I have noticed that your shipments of iron have slowed of late. It is imperative that we receive another ton of ore. Step up your raids, and get a shipment to our base 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. Have they been killed? You had better ensure that they have been, as Sarevok will not take kindly to any other news.
Davaeorn
"Sarevok," Charmane read out loud, her voice laced with a mix of intrigue and concern. "This man really wants us dead. Or rather..." She paused, her words hanging in the air, as the weight of the realization settled upon her. "He wants me dead."
Despite all the questions swirling in her head, there was a spring in Charmane's step as the party moved towards the Chill camp. Adorning her hands were a newly acquired pair of gloves that magically enhanced her weapon skills. She couldn't wait to put it to the test.
As they approached the bandit camp, chaos reigned. Fallen bodies littered the ground, casualties of the fierce three-way battle between hobgoblins, humans, and gnolls. Charmane couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction, almost tempted to steeple her fingers and unleash an evil cackle at the sight of her plans coming to fruition.
"Edwin, do the honours," Charmane said, her grin widening.
"Why do I follow this ungrateful baboon..." the Red Wizard grumbled, even as he pointed purposefully towards the melee. Within moments, the weary bandits found themselves consumed by a fiery blast. The score of bandits dwindled to a mere handful, most succumbing to the fireball. The party swiftly dispatched the remaining bandits before moving towards Taurgosz and Arendor, who were locked in their own battle a short distance away.
Charmane observed with intrigue as Arendor healed himself even as Taurgosz brought down his hammer on one of his illusions. The fight had clearly been raging for a while, evident in their laboured breaths and the weariness etched in their eyes. A few more bandits were locked in combat nearby.
"This is too easy," Charmane whispered to herself as she approached the leaders.
"You there, assist me!" Taurgosz demanded upon catching sight of her.
"Gladly!" the rogue replied, compliantly dropping into the shadows.
The hobgoblin leader looked around in alarm and began to chant. But before he could complete his spell, a well-aimed dagger found its mark, plunging into his side. As the creature crumpled to the ground, Taurgosz nodded approvingly at Charmane before turning his attention to the remaining bandits. However, as he took a step forward, he suddenly collapsed onto the ground, succumbing to Viconia's Command. Without hesitation, Charmane swiftly ended Tenhammer's life with a clean decapitation, ensuring a swift and merciful death.
"Phew!" Charmane sighed, surveying the scene of destruction after cleaning up the stragglers. "That went well."
"While I am not fond of such bloodshed, I cannot help but admire the creativity with which you executed this plan, Charmane," Jaheira remarked appreciatively.
"P-perhaps, we could have avoided this with a more stealthy approach?" Khalid suggested, his gaze solemnly fixed on the fallen bodies.
"Nah," Charmane said dismissively, with a wave of her hand. "This is the only way to ensure the safety of the Sword Coast. Besides, how else are we supposed to collect their scalps?" she added with a mischievous wink.
Sitting within the confines of their previously assigned tent, away from the gruesome aftermath of battle, the party found solace in the cleanliness and tranquillity. The air was filled with a sense of relief, a respite from the chaos that had consumed them moments ago. It was within this sanctuary that Charmane, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, began to weave her tale of sirenes and the consequences of unchecked desire. Despite the Iron Thorn forced upon her as punishment, Neera couldn't suppress her laughter, and even Edwin, muttering darkly, couldn't resist being drawn into the infectious mood. They had a long way to go to figure out the mystery behind this Iron Throne but the day had proven fruitful, and as the night settled in, the party, with hearts full of satisfaction, retired to their bedrolls, with Neera a little further away from the rest to stave off the smell of rot.