Novelization of Baldur's Gate - By Nonnahswriter
Nonnahswriter
Member Posts: 2,520
Truth be told, I've never actually seen the original BG opening...until recently that is. I'm one of the ones who've only ever played the second game, and BG:EE was the first exposure to the original game.
That being said, BG:EE has been a real treat for me! Now I not only understand all of the first-game-references/jokes from the second game, but I also get to see how the full story began and see it unravel.
As far as the new opening was concerned, I'd seen plenty of people debating and complaining about how the old opening was so much better, captured the "mood" more effectively, though the new artwork is awesome, and...blah-blah-blah. So I decided to look up the original, and, low-and-behold, I could watch it on youtube.
I'd been thinking of writing a fanfiction of Baldur's Gate for a while, to help get those creative juices flowing for my own works, and after seeing the opening... I guess you could say I got a little inspired. And thus, this was created.
Could this be the start of a fanfiction? Perhaps. But in the meantime, here's a nice pretty prose-rendition of the original BG opening.
I hope you enjoy it~ And feedback is always welcome!
(Disclaimer: the dialogue used in this work was taken from the original game. It is not mine. Same with the quote. Everything in between, however, is mine.)
***
Prologue
“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster… when you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you…” -Friedrich Nietzshe
A jagged flash of lightning cracked across the sky, and dimmed the full moon’s glow for just an instance. The dark stormclouds have already stretched themselves over the lower reaches of the city, save for the tall citadel that pierced the sky with dark, gothic spikes. Another roar of thunder rung out, before the door at the top of the citadel opened.
A man stumbled out, dressed in battered platemail armor and a horned helmet that hid most of his face. He limped forward, and huffed a heavy sigh of exhaustion as he fell on his knees. He’d barely gotten out of there alive as he scrambled up the long staircase, tripping over his own metal-cast feet. He dared not even look over his shoulder, lest he see his assailant, and his eyes, those burning, terrible eyes…!
Thunder rumbled through the storm again, but it was the banging from the door that startled him. Suddenly, a tall, armored figure crashed through the door, so hard that it broke off from its hinges.
His entire head was encased in a helmet carved from the skull of a horned beast, with rows of teeth encircling his face. Curved spikes grew out of his pauldrons and gauntlets, piercing the air like a monster’s claws before the killing blow. His eyes glowed in the dark of night, a sick, burnished yellow brimming with power…and evil.
The fleeing warrior spun around on the floor, and despite the metal locked against his body, he shook with very noticeable fear. The sight brought a grin to the dark one’s yellow eyes, and he let out a low chuckle as he stepped closer.
“N-No, you can’t…” the warrior stuttered as he struggled to push himself away from his hunter. He couldn’t even regain his footing, with the fear weakening his legs.
The dark one only laughed harder, and pointed a metal-encrusted finger at his victim.
“I will be the last,” he said, “and you will go first…”
He came closer. The warrior crawled away on the floor, until his back hit the fence. Finally, he got to his feet, pulling himself up with the help of the bars.
“Th-There are others,” he stammered, “I-I can show you… Please!”
He turned his head, and yanked at the fence’s bars. There had to be a way out. Any way out, a gate, a loose bar, a crack he could squeeze himself through…
But that was his mistake—he felt his hunter grab hold of his head, and slammed him against the fence with inhuman strength. He fell to the ground, and his helmet fell off, clattering against the stone floor. Blood leaked down his nostrils, and his eyesight blurred as his heartbeat pounded against the inside of his skull.
He lay there dazed a moment before he saw the metal boot of his hunter set down in front of him. But before he could move, cold metal fingers wrapped around his throat, and he was dragged back on his feet. He struggled to even breathe as the sharp metal points jabbed into his throat.
Suddenly, he wasn’t even touching the ground anymore. His assailant was lifting him into the air, with just the grip of one hand. A terrorized scream ruptured from his lungs, earning another low, growling laughter from the horned hunter. And he slammed into the railing yet again, only this time, the bars snapped broken, and the metal curled against the momentum of his body weight.
He tried to put his foot down, only to feel it slide against the slanted roof. He dared not look down; the citadel was an easy ten stories above the rest of the city’s buildings. He could only stare into the hungry yellow eyes of his enemy… A murderer, a fighter, a monster, capable of terrible power and destruction. He would be the last…and he will go first.
The warrior reached for the hand wrapped around his throat, but he couldn’t even free a finger. He fought to work air into his lungs, to plead for his life, but the words were lost in pained whispers that barely blew past his teeth.
Then a snap, and a sickening crack, and his neck was broken. The man fell limp in the hunter’s grasp, the life gone from his gaze, and another low, victorious laugh bubbled to the surface. He could almost feel the power rising up from within him, the power it took to take another’s life.
But this wasn’t enough. No, it could never be enough… One man, one pathetic man whose dying breath begged for life until the very end. He needed more, more death to drink from, more bones to serve as the pillar of his throne.
Lightning split the sky once more, and with a grunt of dissatisfaction, he tossed the body over the side of the citadel. He barely heard the crunch of bones under the rumbling thunder. The last he saw of the poor fool was his blood flowing from his corpse. Like a red river carving a path through the hills, perfectly melding into the ebbs and contours of the cobblestone road…
That being said, BG:EE has been a real treat for me! Now I not only understand all of the first-game-references/jokes from the second game, but I also get to see how the full story began and see it unravel.
As far as the new opening was concerned, I'd seen plenty of people debating and complaining about how the old opening was so much better, captured the "mood" more effectively, though the new artwork is awesome, and...blah-blah-blah. So I decided to look up the original, and, low-and-behold, I could watch it on youtube.
I'd been thinking of writing a fanfiction of Baldur's Gate for a while, to help get those creative juices flowing for my own works, and after seeing the opening... I guess you could say I got a little inspired. And thus, this was created.
Could this be the start of a fanfiction? Perhaps. But in the meantime, here's a nice pretty prose-rendition of the original BG opening.
I hope you enjoy it~ And feedback is always welcome!
(Disclaimer: the dialogue used in this work was taken from the original game. It is not mine. Same with the quote. Everything in between, however, is mine.)
***
Prologue
“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster… when you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you…” -Friedrich Nietzshe
A jagged flash of lightning cracked across the sky, and dimmed the full moon’s glow for just an instance. The dark stormclouds have already stretched themselves over the lower reaches of the city, save for the tall citadel that pierced the sky with dark, gothic spikes. Another roar of thunder rung out, before the door at the top of the citadel opened.
A man stumbled out, dressed in battered platemail armor and a horned helmet that hid most of his face. He limped forward, and huffed a heavy sigh of exhaustion as he fell on his knees. He’d barely gotten out of there alive as he scrambled up the long staircase, tripping over his own metal-cast feet. He dared not even look over his shoulder, lest he see his assailant, and his eyes, those burning, terrible eyes…!
Thunder rumbled through the storm again, but it was the banging from the door that startled him. Suddenly, a tall, armored figure crashed through the door, so hard that it broke off from its hinges.
His entire head was encased in a helmet carved from the skull of a horned beast, with rows of teeth encircling his face. Curved spikes grew out of his pauldrons and gauntlets, piercing the air like a monster’s claws before the killing blow. His eyes glowed in the dark of night, a sick, burnished yellow brimming with power…and evil.
The fleeing warrior spun around on the floor, and despite the metal locked against his body, he shook with very noticeable fear. The sight brought a grin to the dark one’s yellow eyes, and he let out a low chuckle as he stepped closer.
“N-No, you can’t…” the warrior stuttered as he struggled to push himself away from his hunter. He couldn’t even regain his footing, with the fear weakening his legs.
The dark one only laughed harder, and pointed a metal-encrusted finger at his victim.
“I will be the last,” he said, “and you will go first…”
He came closer. The warrior crawled away on the floor, until his back hit the fence. Finally, he got to his feet, pulling himself up with the help of the bars.
“Th-There are others,” he stammered, “I-I can show you… Please!”
He turned his head, and yanked at the fence’s bars. There had to be a way out. Any way out, a gate, a loose bar, a crack he could squeeze himself through…
But that was his mistake—he felt his hunter grab hold of his head, and slammed him against the fence with inhuman strength. He fell to the ground, and his helmet fell off, clattering against the stone floor. Blood leaked down his nostrils, and his eyesight blurred as his heartbeat pounded against the inside of his skull.
He lay there dazed a moment before he saw the metal boot of his hunter set down in front of him. But before he could move, cold metal fingers wrapped around his throat, and he was dragged back on his feet. He struggled to even breathe as the sharp metal points jabbed into his throat.
Suddenly, he wasn’t even touching the ground anymore. His assailant was lifting him into the air, with just the grip of one hand. A terrorized scream ruptured from his lungs, earning another low, growling laughter from the horned hunter. And he slammed into the railing yet again, only this time, the bars snapped broken, and the metal curled against the momentum of his body weight.
He tried to put his foot down, only to feel it slide against the slanted roof. He dared not look down; the citadel was an easy ten stories above the rest of the city’s buildings. He could only stare into the hungry yellow eyes of his enemy… A murderer, a fighter, a monster, capable of terrible power and destruction. He would be the last…and he will go first.
The warrior reached for the hand wrapped around his throat, but he couldn’t even free a finger. He fought to work air into his lungs, to plead for his life, but the words were lost in pained whispers that barely blew past his teeth.
Then a snap, and a sickening crack, and his neck was broken. The man fell limp in the hunter’s grasp, the life gone from his gaze, and another low, victorious laugh bubbled to the surface. He could almost feel the power rising up from within him, the power it took to take another’s life.
But this wasn’t enough. No, it could never be enough… One man, one pathetic man whose dying breath begged for life until the very end. He needed more, more death to drink from, more bones to serve as the pillar of his throne.
Lightning split the sky once more, and with a grunt of dissatisfaction, he tossed the body over the side of the citadel. He barely heard the crunch of bones under the rumbling thunder. The last he saw of the poor fool was his blood flowing from his corpse. Like a red river carving a path through the hills, perfectly melding into the ebbs and contours of the cobblestone road…
Post edited by Nonnahswriter on
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Comments
(Not that I'm known for following the rules, so...)
Here we see a little bonding time between Gorion and child-protagonist.
Also, for the convenience of me as the writer, even though our hero is an elf, we're going to keep his age progression the same as if he were a human. So when he grows up, he'll magically be 20 even though by elf standards he should be 200. I call Bhaalspawn hax!
Anyway, hope you enjoy~
***
“The final confrontation was near. Dan Silvershield stared down the ogre, his fingers wrapped around his morningstar. The monster that had destroyed his home, his family, even kidnapped his beloved Shara from right under his nose. Yet when the ogre met his glare, he bellowed a loud laugh, and waved his club high above his head in challenge…”
Gorion looked up from the book to see the bright, wide eyes of his nine-year-old foster-son. The young elf’s dark green eyes were fixated on the page, his mouth hanging open just slightly agape. If the old sage didn’t know any better, he swore he could see the book’s scenes playing out behind the boy’s eyes.
He kept quiet a few moments longer, before the boy frowned, and shot an accusing look at him.
“Well? What happened next?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t you already know?” Gorion chuckled, “We must have read it a dozen times by now.”
“So?” the boy pouted. But at Gorion’s wry stare, he let out a longing sigh. “Come on, please dad? It’s my favorite part!”
He held the stare a while longer, absorbing the boy’s features. He looked so much like his mother, with the raven hair shining against the faint candlelight, the perfectly smooth and fair skin, and deep green eyes that reminded him of the elven forests, where he was born. Sometimes he could still see her when he looked at her son, lying broken and bloodied in the snow that winter day. He had taken her hand, pressed it close to his chest in hopes that could keep her there with him, even as her spirit slipped away…
“Dan Silvershield charged at the ogre,” Gorion continued, “They say that they battled for three days and three nights…but in truth, it was over within three blocks, and three strikes. Dan’s trusty shield with his family emblem caught the ogre’s club three times, until the family crest splintered apart, and the great shield cracked in two.”
The boy gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. Gorion bit back another chuckle, but couldn’t resist the tug of a smile at the corners of his lips.
“Without his shield, Dan could only dodge to the best of his ability, and hope the ogre missed on bad luck. But his beloved Lady Shara was counting on him, and he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—give up so easily.
“The ogre struck out at Dan, slamming the club into his shoulder. That was one. And one more at his foot. But the third and final strike wasn’t done by the ogre—it was done by Dan himself, a slam to the ogre’s stomach, with every last of his strength.”
Gorion raised his fist to the air and shook it for emphasis, and his foster-son joined him in the shout as he reenacted the great swing into the monster’s gut.
“‘For Shara!’”
“He had screamed, despite the broken bones in his foot, the bleeding in his shoulder. The ogre fell over, limp and lifeless, and the club left his hand. Shara was in a cage in the ogre’s cave; Dan cut her free, and after she healed his wounds, he scooped her up, and brought her to their new home as his bride.”
With that, Gorion closed the book. “The End.”
“A very good end!” his son exclaimed with a jump and a grin.
Gorion shook his head hopelessly. “Now if only I can get you to read with the monks…”
The boy pulled a frown. “They all read boring stuff… Besides, I like to hear you read, dad. The way you tell the story… It almost sounds like we’re really there!”
“Once upon a time, I had my own adventures too. Now… Now they’re just memories.”
A reminiscent smile stretched across his face for just a moment, before he picked up the book and returned it to its place on the shelf.
“Go on, now,” Gorion ordered, “Into bed. I’ve kept you up late enough as it is.”
The elf boy jumped to attention like a soldier to his captain and climbed into his bed. He hardly seemed tired, still twitching with the excitement of the reading, even as Gorion pulled the blankets over his small body.
“Dad…” he began, twiddling his fingers against the blanket’s edge, “…do you think, maybe when I’m older… Could I be an adventurer someday?”
“Oh? Do you want to be?”
“Well, yeah! It sounds so exciting! Fighting monsters, hunting for treasure, making friends, and becoming strong! Why, I’d be so tough, I could scare off an entire town of kobolds with the swing of my sword! Hyah!!!”
Suddenly, he was standing up in bed once more, swinging around an invisible sword in haphazard movements. He almost hit Gorion square in the nose, before the old sage grabbed hold of his wrist and eased him back under the covers.
“What?” the boy asked when his foster father said nothing, “You do think I could do it…right?”
Gorion let out a heavy sigh, enough to make the wick of the candle quiver in the faint breeze, and he laid a gentle hand atop his son’s head. From far away, he swore he could still hear his mother’s words whispering to him, with her own dying breath in the snow:
“Take care of him, Gorion… Don’t let him…become like his father…”
“I’ve no doubt you could…” Gorion sighed, “…but I would hope that you’d never have to.”
The boy tilted his head, but knew all too well the look in his foster-father’s eyes. The dim, cloudy, sad look that seemed to stare past him as if he weren’t even there. He’d be getting no more answers from him tonight, that much was certain.
But it only lingered a few moments longer before Gorion blinked away the oncoming grief, and the gentle smile had returned to his features. He patted his head and picked up the candleholder as he stood back up, and his shadow seemed to grow twice its size.
“Goodnight, Markra,” he said, “May you rest well, tonight.”
“You too…” Markra replied, with a shy wave goodbye. And Gorion closed the door behind him, plunging the small room into pitch darkness.
So I'll beg. Update, please?
Just kidding.
Player: "Ooh, an abandoned warehouse. There's probably treasure inside!"
Charname: "Uh, shouldn't we be going to the inn and then meeting Gorion instead?"
Player: "Pfft. He can wait. We need all the experience we can get!"
*gets attacked by random shank*
Yeah, you get the point.
I promise, I do intend to continue it, but at what rate I'm unsure of. There should be an update coming soon, but the muse is an elusive thing, and especially difficult to capture. Just try to be a little patient. And I'm flattered that you're so eager, really, that's the best compliment I could ask for! :'D
Just letting you know I thought it was good enough it should be continued, whenever you feel good to go.
Also, I'm totally convinced that this is your life in Candlekeep before you leave with Gorion. So much to do around the keep! And...you're getting absolutely nothing done by doing so. XD
As usual, hope you enjoy~ And feedback, people, feedback!
Chapter 1
Eleven years later…
Markra’s eyelids slowly pushed themselves open when he felt the bright glow of sunlight press against them. A few dark strands of hair lay matted to his face, and when he wiped them free, the back of his hand became slick with sweat. A dim headache pounded against the space between his eyes, and as he sat up in bed, he felt the pressure sweep to the back of his skull.
He winced as he held his head in his hands. It wasn’t often that he woke up with an ache, and he didn’t remember drinking the night before. Then what could cause it…?
A dream… That’s right. I’d been dreaming. Upon that realization, he shook his head lightly, trying to dispel the sleepiness. But what had he been dreaming about? When he shut his eyes, he thought he could still see flickers of it, burnished orange flames licking the air, growing from the snowy ground like flowers out of season… But whatever meaning the dream had was already lost.
No matter. It was only a dream.
After half-heartedly running his fingers through his long hair, Markra climbed out of bed and grabbed some clothes from the dresser, a blue tunic with gold trimmings and black pants. After a quick inspection in the mirror, he cleaned himself up and was ready for the new day.
At this point he realized just how bright his room was. His window was only half-empty, but sunlight filled the entire space. Just how late of a morning was it?
Oh no… Markra’s eyes widened as he scrambled to the windowsill, and he pushed it open to look outside. And sure enough, he could see the monks bustling about, chanting and reading books, and the businesses open for customers.
“Crap!” Markra swore between his teeth. He’d slept in far later than he thought he did. “Gorion’s probably already left the house, and I haven’t even cleaned the dishes yet…!”
He tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that told him he should have done the dishes last night, when he was supposed to.
Then his body kicked itself into automode-hyperdrive. Every morning, Gorion would go to work running errands around Candlekeep, and every morning he was out and about, Markra was charged with the tasks of cooking breakfast, cleaning the floors, organizing the books, doing the laundry, dusting the corners, making the beds, checking for rats, taking out garbage… The list went on and on. And after he had finished his chores, he would continue his studies with his tutors in the citadel, Parda and Karan. Sometimes Gorion would even find the time to teach him a little magic in the evenings, though such time grew increasingly rare the past few years.
And then, after all of that work was done…training. At last, all of the endless hours spent doing chores finally came to fruition. For Markra, there was little in Candlekeep that could compete with his lonely hours of practicing swordsmanship or archery. There was just something about the movement of the weapons, the fluid slicing of the air that made him feel right at home. He was especially good with longswords and longbows, no doubt a trait inherited from his elven heritage.
But there would be none of that if he didn’t finish his chores first. Gorion was very strict on that rule, no matter how much older he got.
One sprint downstairs revealed the mess he was about to wrestle with. Books lay about the dinner table, a few half-open, and others covered by rolls of parchment paper and ink bottles. The dishes from dinner the earlier night still sat in the sink, with a few stray flies circling around them. A fresh layer of dust sprinkled on the floor, along with a few crumbs and stains from a spilled drink. And of course there was the matter of the bathrooms and bedrooms—the beds whose sheets needed to be changed and the bathrooms whose filth needed to be cleaned out.
For anyone else, the mountain of tasks might have appeared daunting. In fact, for Markra, they still seemed daunting.
“Well…” he sighed, and rolled up his sleeves and pulled back his hair into a low ponytail, “It’s not going to clean itself.”
Time slipped away all too fast. He only had a few hours before Gorion would come back, and he knew all too well the punishments for sleeping in late and neglecting his chores—more useless reading and less training.
Not that reading’s useless or anything… Markra reminded himself, I like the stories. But… Gods, one can only stare at those beaten history tomes for so long, and I must have read all of them fifty times over…
The first order of business was those books. He couldn’t eat breakfast at a table overrun with paper and leather. He had precious little time though, so he piled the books on the floor closeby and had a quick, continental breakfast before heading upstairs to make the beds. And after he came back downstairs, he kicked himself into overdrive, cleaning everything at a vigorous, lightning-fast pace. He was at war—his sponge and mop doing battle against the dirt and grime of the kitchen.
Occasionally he’d sneak a peek outside, and see the golden summer sun shimmering between the vibrant green leaves, almost hear the rustling of the wind running through them, and he’d be a child again, laughing and playing in the grass with his red-headed partner in crime, Imoen… Until he’d startle out of his daydream at the slightest bump in the house, afraid it would be Gorion, home early and ready to see the mess. That thought alone forced him back to work, quickly moving from one room to the other until he had the entire house covered, twice.
Several hours later, the house was spic-and-span clean, and Markra lay slumped on the floor with aching knees and shoulders.
“Now the books…” he sighed as he forced himself back on his feet. But he had just bent down to pick up the pile and start putting them away when he heard the front door swing open.
“Markra?” came Gorion’s voice just around the corner.
Markra’s shoulders jumped, and he dropped a couple books.
“Here, father!” he called back reluctantly as he bent down to pick up the spilled tomes.
Gorion stepped into the kitchen, dressed in an out-of-place green traveling robe with a small rucksack on his back. He held his quarterstaff in one hand, and his belt was decorated with a few other bags and vials. His feet barely stuck out from under the ends of his robe, and Markra could recognize the brown, scuffed toes of his weathered boots.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Gorion greeted.
“Yeah, sorry about the mess,” Markra hastily explained, “I slept in late, and I was just about to start dusting when—”
Gorion cut him off as he brushed past him and reached for the stack of scrolls laying on the floor, where Markra had kept them for safe keeping until he put the books away. He fiddled through a few of them as he talked, until he finally picked one out and stuffed it in his sack.
“Don’t worry about the chores,” he interrupted, “We’re leaving Candlekeep.”
“What?” Markra gaped at his foster-father, and quickly put the books back down on the table, or he’d drop them again. “Why all of a sudden? Not that I’m not thrilled, but—”
“No time to explain. Here, take this.”
And to Markra’s surprise, Gorion handed him one of the small bags hanging from his belt. It jingled with the sound of coins inside.
“Go to Winthrop’s inn, and buy supplies. You’ll have to be well-equipped for travel; we’ll be on the road for quite a few days.”
“Supplies? Like…Like food, and water, and—”
“—And weapons and armor and anything else you might find useful.”
Markra’s eyes widened a little. He had been longing for the day when Gorion would let him buy his own sword. He probably would have leaped at this opportunity if not for the fact that Gorion seemed so skittish, so nervous, so anxious to get on the road when he had been perfectly content within Candlekeep’s walls in all the years he’s known him.
Come to think of it, Gorion had been acting strange the past few days. He came home later than usual, and spent hours on end reading and scribing tomes. Sometimes he’d even pass out at his desk or on the dinner table long after Markra had gone to sleep. Other times he’d pace around the room, rubbing his chin in anxious thought as he waited for the messenger to deliver a letter or news from the outside. Markra had shown concern, though Gorion had refused to talk to him about it, dodging his questions with a reassuring smile and new chores to do.
Now he knew why.
“Where are we going?” Markra asked after feeling the weight of the coinpurse in his hand, “And what about Imoen?”
“I’ll explain on the way,” Gorion answered, “As for Imoen… I believe she’d be safer if she stayed here, in Candlekeep.”
“And we wouldn’t be? Candlekeep may be a library, but it’s a fortress as well. What could possibly harm us here?”
“Markra.” Gorion looked up from his scrolls with a steely glare. “We have precious little time as it is for you to be asking questions. Just trust me when I say that Candlekeep is no longer safe. Now please, for once, do as you’re told and hurry to Winthrop’s. I will meet you at the foot of the citadel when you’re done.”
Markra wanted nothing more but to keep asking questions. Since when was Candlekeep “no longer safe”? Who could possibly want to do them harm, and how did they get in? But one last look into Gorion’s hard gaze held his tongue. Gorion was more than just his foster-father, after all; he was a great sage of wisdom and knowledge. And he had never steered him wrong before.
“All right,” Markra agreed, “I’ll be back.”
“The citadel, Markra. Meet me at the citadel.”
***
The Candlekeep citadel towered high over everything else, in the very center of the fortress. Built of ancient stone and blue-tiled roofs, it was the oldest building in the keep, having stood since the arrival of Alaundo himself. Within its walls were a boundless number of books and texts, including the collections of Alaundo’s prophecies, and several classrooms where the monks went to study.
The rest of the keep encircled around the citadel. A small collection of shops and residential houses hugged the tall, stone wall, leaving a fair amount of space for walkways and shrubbery. Despite its scholarly nature, Candlekeep was very much a fortress, nestled atop a high hill at the very edge of the coast. No one was able to enter Candlekeep without donating a book of great knowledge, and once you left, you weren’t allowed to get back in.
Which means once we leave, we won’t be coming back… Markra thought as he briskly headed over to Winthrop’s inn, training stick in hand. A feeling of weariness suddenly swooped over him like an ocean wave cresting over his head. He’d never been outside Candlekeep in his whole life. Not that he could remember, anyway. And all of a sudden, he and Gorion were going to leave it behind, never to return. The only home he had ever known.
But then again, think of the world outside, he reminded himself, The cities, the people, the landscape, and stories…! I might even run into other elves! This is just like an adventure out of the books!
And all of a sudden, the restless vigor that had filled him as a child came flooding back to him, and he broke out into a straight run to Winthrop’s.
The Candlekeep Inn was a modest building (as if Candlekeep got a lot of visitors anyway), but every time Markra opened the door, it was just as lively and warm as could be. The moist smells of steak, stew, buttery potatoes, and beer filled his nostrils as he walked in. A bard in the corner played lively music on his flute while the mage Firebead Elvenhair sat hunched over the table, scribing a magic scroll. Winthrop, the chubby owner, stood in his usual place behind the counter, greeting a couple of nobles.
“Only the best o’ old Winthrop’s service to ye!” he laughed, “Here’s the key to yer rooms, and enjoy yer stay in Candlekeep!”
“Er… Yes, quite…” the nobleman agreed as he hesitantly took the keys from him, “Thank you…peasant…”
“Oh, darling, is this really the only inn in town?” asked a noblewoman, assumed to be his wife, “Heaven knows how dirty the place must be, what with these…vagabonds around.”
“Ah, you’ve nothin’ to fear ma’am!” Winthrop’s face was as lively and joyful as ever, despite the cold insults, “Me an’ my staff keep the place as clean as can be! Why, I’d go so far to say my inn’s as clean as an elven arse! Ahahahaha!”
“We’ll take your word for it,” the nobleman went on hastily, and wrapped his arm around his wife, “Come along, dear. We’ll find some peace upstairs.”
Eager to leave Winthrop behind, the wife nodded and they dashed up the stairs out of sight. Winthrop counted the coins a moment just to make sure they were all there before putting them under the counter, and looked up to see Markra at the counter. He burst out laughing at the sight.
“And speakin’ o’ elven arses!” he laughed, “Good to see ye, lad! Oh, hope you hadn’t forgotten the 5000 gold entrance fee, as per Candlekeep custom, don’tchaknow.”
Markra gave a small grin. “You always were the big kidder, Winthrop. That joke gets funnier every time I hear it.” Then he paused. “Well, maybe not quite so often.”
“Haw! I’m just havin’ a bit o’ fun with ye, my friend,” Winthrop chuckled, “Them monks may be walkin’ about with poles in their nethers, but you know you’re always welcome in my sight. Gorion did well by you, he did.”
He must have realized he was rambling, for he cut off abruptly and grabbed one of the mugs from under the counter and offered it out to him.
“So, is there anything I can get for ya? Some drinks, or a meal? Oh, we added this delicious platter to the menu, and—”
“Actually,” Markra cut him off, “Can I see your wares? Gorion sent me to buy equipment.”
Winthrop’s face suddenly dipped a little.
“Ohh…” he began, “So the day’s come at last. The day our lil’ elfy boy’s gonna buy himself his own weapon! Well, be careful with it, whatever ye pick. Them swords aren’t playthings; one wrong slip, and you could lose a whole finger!”
“I’m not a child, Winthrop,” Markra insisted with the roll of his eyes, “I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Just expressin’ my concern, is all. No need to get snippy!” Winthrop reassured him with another wide grin. He turned his back for just a moment, and unlocked a couple drawers behind him. He pulled out a few clothed bundles and spread them out over the counter. Lined up in a row were dozens of weapons, glinting with steel against the candlelight of the inn.
“There’s armor too, but that stuff’s heavy,” Winthrop explained, “We got… Leather, chain, splint, and plate. If yer interested, o’ course.”
“I am,” Markra answered, and immediately picked up one of the longswords. It was heavier than his training stick, but the most natural fit for his hand. “How much is this?”
“Sixteen gold pieces!” Winthrop exclaimed with a show of his fingers, “A fine choice, lad! Crafted with Iron Throne metal an’ all!”
Markra nodded and handed over the coins, then hooked the new weapon on his belt. Next would be the armor—if they were leaving Candlekeep, he’d need to wear protection. But he had started with roughly a hundred gold coins, and how he’d spent sixteen of them on just a sword. Could he even afford a good piece of armor?
“How much is the armor, anyway?” he asked Winthrop, “Plate’s the best…right?”
“Right ye are, lad! The plate’ll cost you about 500 gold pieces!”
“All right, Winthrop, honestly. How much is it?”
“Eh? But I am being honest!”
“500 for one piece of platemail…?” Markra gaped, and sheepishly stared back down at his coin purse. “That’s way too much… What’s the next best thing?”
“Splint’s a good choice if yer goin’ the poor-man’s route,” Winthrop explained, “It’s a lil’ better than chain, but a lil’ pricier too. That’ll be 89 pieces for that!”
Markra had already began doing the math in his head, and if he was right, he was short by five pieces. He stubbornly went to work counting what was left in his purse, but his efforts were futile.
“I’m just short…” he mumbled.
“Aw, that’s too bad, lad,” Winthrop sympathized, “Well, ye can always come back after a lil’ job-huntin’. Lots o’ folks could use a hand ‘round Candlekeep, and I’m sure they’d pay ya kindly if ye helped ‘em. Not like the splint’s goin’ anywhere!”
Markra nodded a couple times after a few moments. “Yeah… Yeah, I’ll try that. Thanks, Winthrop.”
“Anytime, lad!” Winthrop shouted with a wide wave goodbye, “And give Gorion my best wishes, a’right!?”
“I will. I’ll be back.” And Markra headed back out the door.
Once he was out, he leaned his back against the door and let out an exasperated sigh.
“And just like that, the ward’s back to running errands…” he muttered. Markra was well used to this by now—between his chores, studies, and training sessions, he’d often seek out odd-jobs around the keep in hopes of making a quick buck. Gorion never gave him much of an allowance, and Imoen’s methods of getting money were a bit…criminal at times. Even if all the nobles deserved it for being the snobby, toot-nosed brats that they were, so she always claimed.
Well, it could be worse, Markra told himself, I could be a servant or slave somewhere, working for nothing. But really, what will happen to this keep once I leave? Without me to run the errands, the whole place may as well fall apart overnight.
Complaining would get him nowhere, however, and Gorion was waiting for him at the citadel. May as well get started.
The fetch-quests in Candlekeep have literally next to nothing to do with the storyline what so ever. I know that if I was the reader of the story, and the author was just stringing me along with boring fetch-quest events, I'd probably get so fed up I'd put the book down, or skip ahead until I got to the good part.
So I know there are quite a few sidequests in the beginning of the game. I am not going to address all of them. Some of them, in-game, can be quite humorous, and offer a lot of experience and items. Every time I start a new game of Baldur's Gate I do all of the sidequests that I can in order to get the most out of the starting area.
But this is not a game. This is a written story. And some sidequests, no matter how useful they may be, are just flat-out boring in written format that they would only serve to slow the story down.
This is just a heads-up for when you notice some things missing throughout the story. If I could somehow detail every single mini-quest and every single character and still keep it logical and entertaining, I would. I will try. But there will inevitably be some sacrifices for the good of the manuscript.
Anyway, /rant over. Let's move on to what you really care about, the last of chapter 1!
Also: I finally caved and made a fanfiction account. The story can be found here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8984482/1/Baldur-s-Gate-A-Novelization . Feel free to follow it and add to your favorites!
***
He headed west towards the stables, and found Phlydia looking lost. Phlydia was one of the scholars at the citadel, a plump, elderly woman famous for her grandmotherly cooking and flighty demeanor. From the looks of things, she had lost something again.
“What are you looking for, Phlydia?” Markra asked as he approached her.
“Ah!” Phlydia was so startled she almost dropped the small bundle of books in her arm. She turned to look at him through a pair of crooked glasses. “Why hello, Markra. Lovely weather we’re having, aren’t we?” She blinked a couple times, as if just registering what he had said. “Oh, yes. My book… ‘The History of Halruaa.’ You haven’t happened to see it anywhere, have you?”
Markra bit back a laugh. “Afraid not.”
“Oh…” Phlydia sighed, before frowning and shaking her fist frustratingly. “Confound it all! I hate being so absent-minded. I just thought I’d get a bit of fresh air just east of here, away from the constant shuffling of…arthritic feet up in the library, but now…! Ooh!”
She stomped her feet a few times and held her head in her hands hopelessly, blushing with embarrassment.
“I could look for you,” Markra offered, “You said it was east of here, right? It shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“Would you?” Phlydia asked, and boggled at him like he were a savior sent from the gods to save her from utter destruction, “That’s very sweet of you, Markra, and I do need it back, but…but I don’t mean to trouble you…”
“It’s no trouble,” Markra reassured, “Just stay here. I’ll be right back with your book.”
“Why, thank you, Markra!”
With a wave over his shoulder, he bid her goodbye and headed east, towards the stables and the priest’s quarters.
Just outside the stables, good old Dreppin stood raking the hay and watching the cows. His usual blue garb was beginning to stain with sweat, from working in the blazing heat all day. Knowing Phlydia’s habits, Markra wouldn’t put it past her to seek some fresh air among the cows; it was certainly a lot different from the musty smell of old books and dust.
“Hey Dreppin!” Markra greeted with a wave.
“Ah, hello kid,” Dreppin replied, though is wave was a little less enthusiastic, “Looking for Phlydia’s book? She left it in the hay, over there by the cows.”
Dreppin was no stranger to Phlydia’s cases of misplaced belongings.
“Yeah, thanks,” Markra told him, and ran to fetch it. Other than the faint odor of hay and cow manure, the book was perfectly in-tact. When he returned to Dreppin, he was heaving another batch of hay into the feeding tray for the animals, earning a content moo from one of the cows.
“I swear, that woman could lose a string tied around her finger…” Dreppin grumbled when he saw him, “Well, least you found it.”
Markra nodded and spared one of the cows a pet, but couldn’t help but notice that one of them wasn’t eating.
“What’s wrong with this one?” he asked, “Not hungry?”
Dreppin heaved a sigh. “You noticed too, huh? No, it’s not that. Nessa’s been feeling sickly for the past few days.”
As if in agreement, Nessa let out a weak moo, keeping her head low to the ground. Even if she was just a cow, Markra empathized with those big, pleading eyes that showed how much pain she must be in. He ruffled her hair a little atop her head, but there was little else he could do.
“Actually…” Dreppin began.
Well, at least I thought there was little else I could do, Markra thought in his head, for he already knew what was coming.
“What is it, Dreppin?”
“Well, I was just thinkin’, when you go to drop off Phlydia’s book, think you could nab me an antidote potion for Nessa? That ought to cheer her up a bit, or at least help her eat.”
Markra tried to ignore Gorion’s nagging voice in the back of his head that told him he had no time to spare fulfilling more favors than he needed to. But, thinking realistically, even after he somehow scrounged together five extra coins for the splint mail at Winthrop’s, he’d still need to buy some food and other supplies. He could at least look for Dreppin, and it shouldn’t bring him too far out of the way.
“Do you know where I could find one?” he asked.
Dreppin stroked his chin a moment as he thought.
“Hull’s probably got some lying around,” he answered after a few moments, “He stayed up drinking last night, so he’s gonna want some to ease the hangover during his morning shift. Serves the idiot right, if you ask me, but all the better for Nessa.”
“All right, I’ll be back with an antidote potion,” Markra replied, trying to bite back the begrudging tone in his voice. But with a wave goodbye, he headed back over to Phlydia.
“My book!” Phlydia exclaimed when she saw it, and leaped straight into the air with excitement, almost dropping her many other books in her arm. That earned a grin from Markra; Phlydia might have a knack for losing things, but the expressions on her face when she finally found them were always worth the trouble. She rubbed the book’s cover against her cheek, flipped through the pages just to make sure it wasn’t damaged, and held it tight to her chest in a big bear-hug.
“Why, I can’t thank you enough, child!” she squealed, shaking Markra’s hand enthusiastically.
“It’s no problem, Phlydia,” Markra assured her sheepishly, “Really. It wasn’t even that far away.”
“But what matters is you brought it back!” Phlydia went on, “Oh! You remind me so much of Gorion when you grin like that! Raising you has been hard on him, I know, but he always said it’s a toil of love, a toil of destiny even!”
“Oh, you’re just being dramatic again—”
“No, ‘tis true, I swear!” Phlydia laughed, but patted his shoulder with that warm, grandmotherly smile of hers. “You’re a very special child indeed to draw such praise from a man of his silent nature…”
A faint blush rose up into Markra’s cheeks, but before he had the chance to deny it, Phlydia broke out of her praises and dug into her coinpurse on her belt.
“Well! I’ve kept you long enough. Here, take this little gem of mine, as a token of thanks. Maybe Winthrop will give you a little something for it.”
“Oh, thank you.” She pressed the gem into the palm of his hand, a smooth, round stone of polished white that gleamed slightly in the sun’s rays. Markra brushed his thumb over its surface, and knew that it couldn’t be worth too much…but it was better than nothing.
He waved her goodbye, and watched her turn down the corner, dropping yet another book and continuing to walk on without realizing. With a sigh, Markra moved to call after her, but Phlydia wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, and quickly turned back around and picked it up after a few minutes.
I wonder if this is enough to get me that splint mail… Markra thought once she was out of sight, looking down at the gem again. It very well could be—he only needed five more pieces. But he took another favor for Dreppin, and that took priority over appraising some stone, what with the health of an animal at stake.
He could go track down Hull, like Dreppin suggested, but then again, there was the Priest Quarters right next to him… And the priests in Candlekeep were known for carrying various cures and healing potions.
I’ll save some time and ask the priests, Markra decided, I’m sure that once I explain the situation, they’ll cough up an antidote without a charge.
The door swung open with a light creak, to reveal a plainly decorated room with wood floor boards and walls. An extinguished stone hearth took up the center of the room while several bunk beds took up the corners of the room. A couple holy symbols of the priests’ favored god hung on the walls, Oghma.
But strangely enough, there weren’t any priests inside.
“Hello?” Markra called out as he shut the door behind him, “Anyone here?”
“Oh goodie goodie!”
A gruff, male voice answered him. Markra’s shoulders jumped as a stranger stepped out from behind the fireplace. He didn’t look like any of the priests of Oghma—he wore leather armor, and kept the upper half of his face covered with his hood’s shadow. He wore a lopsided grin that showed his teeth, and kept his hand on his hip as he stood slanted to one side.
“Looks like I’ve gone and found ye first! You’re the ward of Gorion, no doubt?” the stranger asked.
Markra unconsciously found his hand reaching for the hilt of his new sword.
“I don’t recognize you…” he said cautiously, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
The rogue barked a laugh. “Who I am is unimportant, but who you are is very much so. I apologize for this dirty bit of business, but I must seek your death.”
“What…?” Markra’s eyes grew wide as the stranger drew closer, and pulled a knife from a hidden sheath against his hip.
“Yeah, a pity, I know, but it seems your head’s worth an exceptional amount to me.” He smiled again, and his teeth seemed to share the gleam of his dagger. “I kill you myself, and I need not share the credit with anyone!”
“W-Wait a second—”
But Markra’s plea was cut off as the rogue leaped at him with his knife. Markra barely sidestepped, and heard the whizz of the knife slicing through the air next to his ear. He staggered back, struggling to put some distance between himself and his assailant, but the shank was fast. With the spin of his heel, he turned himself around and leaped at Markra again.
Another hissing sound bit the air as Markra pulled his sword out of its sheathe, followed by a light clang as he parried the shank’s blow. Markra may not have faced a real attacker like this, but he had plenty of practice under his belt. His body moved reactively before his brain even told him what to do, parrying and dodging the best he could. One time the shank drew especially close to him, and barely nicked his forehead as Markra backed up in a mid-dodge.
And with every new leap thrown at him, Markra took a step back, always kept on the defensive. He couldn’t get a hit in with the way his opponent twisted and turned, always just barely out of reach of Markra’s sword.
If I could just stun him, for one second…!
Suddenly, his back hit the wall, and he was trapped. He’d been so focused on keeping his distance from the attacker that he completely forgot to keep an eye on his surroundings. With a triumphant shout, the shank drew back his knife, right before he dealt the final blow…
Pink magic sparked to life on Markra’s fingertips, and a Magic Missile flew out of his hand. It was a simple spell, one Gorion had taught him years ago, but he knew it would do the job. A high-pitched crackling bounced off the walls of the house as it collided with the shank’s chest, and left a little char behind as it dissipated. He stumbled back a moment, startled by the magic, but that moment was all Markra needed—he plunged his sword straight through his enemy’s stomach.
The shank let out a soft grunt of pain before he fell to the ground with a “thud.” Markra pulled his sword out of the corpse, but upon seeing the crimson blood coating the blade, he suddenly felt very weak in the knees. His shoulders shook as he stared down aghast at the defeated body of his enemy.
I killed him… Markra’s barely recognized his own thoughts as they rippled on the very edge of his mind. I… I’ve really killed someone, haven’t I…?
He could already feel the guilt gnawing away at him deep in his gut. He’d taken someone’s life, someone who had friends and family of their own. To think that mortal life was so fragile, to watch it end in a matter of minutes, seconds… All done in by another person’s hand…
But… What else was I supposed to do? He would have killed me if I didn’t fight back!
Markra shook his head, as if that could dispel the guilty thoughts in his head. But that was just it—the rogue would have killed him. Who in the world would wish him dead? And for what reason? Markra hadn’t done a single bad thing in his life, and struggled to recount any childhood memories that had gotten him into trouble. Sure, there was the occasional mischief he and Imoen got into, but nothing that would warrant his own death… He’d like to hope, at least.
No matter the reason, Gorion’s right, Markra thought, Candlekeep isn’t safe anymore. Gods, I have to get out of here, before someone realizes…
He glanced down at the sword in his hand, and immediately began searching for something to dry it off. After a couple minutes of looking, he found a lone handkerchief in one of the drawers, and he wiped his blade clean. There was little he could do with the body, aside from grabbing one of the sheets from the priests’ beds to cover it, but he decided against it. No amount of covering was going to hide the corpse, and besides, no reason to ruin some man’s bedding.
Markra pounded at his own train of thought. Oh, sure. A man’s dead, and you’re worried about someone’s bedsheets. You’re just a wonderful person, aren’t you?
Once he checked himself over to make sure his clothes were clean, he sheathed his sword and headed back outside, making sure the door was locked on his way out. The sun was still shining high in the sky for the afternoon, though now its rays seemed to glare down at him mockingly. And despite the heat of the day, he felt very cold.
“Ah, Markra…”
Markra’s shoulders jumped when he heard Parda’s voice. His tutor came towards him, seemingly in the middle of running an errand, dressed in his yellow monk garb with a handful of scrolls in his arms.
“Oh… H-Hi Parda,” Markra greeted, trying to sound casual, “What brings you here?”
“Gorion asked me to check on you, as you’ve been taking quite some time,” Parda explained. He raised an eyebrow as he brought his hand closer to Markra’s head. “You seem to have cut yourself, Markra, just above the brow there—”
But his hand drew too close, and Markra instinctively flinched and backed away. Parda’s eyes widened at this.
“What is wrong, child? Something in your eyes tells me there is something very wrong indeed.”
Damn it… Markra swore silently, I completely forgot about that cut…
He eyed Parda a moment as he wiped some of the blood off his forehead with his sleeve. Just how much did Parda know? Did Gorion warn him too about the danger in Candlekeep? Or was he just an innocent bystander in all this?
If so, then he couldn’t possibly tell him about the attack.
“It’s…It’s nothing, Parda,” Markra assured him, “One of the cats didn’t like me petting it. I’m alright, really…”
He knew it was a pretty pathetic lie as the words left his mouth, and judging from the puzzled look on Parda’s face, he knew it too. But Parda was never the prodding type, and simply nodded his head slowly.
“Mm… Yes, well, get what you need from the inn then, for Gorion is desperate to see you off.”
“I will. Thanks, Parda.”
With a last wave goodbye, Parda went back to his errands, leaving Markra alone once more. His shoulders sagged, as if weighed down by the heavy events that had unfolded. But there was no way he could stay put, not with unnamed assassins crawling over Candlekeep waiting to do him in.
I did promise Dreppin that I’d get that antidote, but… He shook his head. I just can’t afford to help him right now. I gotta get out of here, before something else bad happens.
Without a second thought, he headed back to Winthrop’s, though now without the spring in his step.
Honest...
Me and ellipses just go...
...
*few minutes later*
Str: 15
Con: 14
Dex: 18
Int: 18
Wis: 9
Cha: 16
I'm probably under-playing him a little (because we all know someone with a Dex of 18 probably wouldn't drop books so easily...), but I always preferred displaying my protagonists' weaknesses rather than strengths. I think it helps them appear more human/relatable.
/run
Chapter 2
“Hmmm…” Winthrop let out a contemplative sigh as he examined the gem from Phlydia under a magnifying glass. Markra kept his eyes to the floor, tapping his finger against the desk impatiently. Every out-of-place noise in the inn made his shoulders jump, the occasional bump or hurried footsteps of servants carrying on with their duties. Images of the nameless shank in the priests’ quarters still plagued the back of his mind, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched. That at any moment, another rogue would burst through the door, and send a knife flying into his throat…
“A’right!” Winthrop’s voice brought him back to center, “It’s a fine lil’ stone. It’s not much, but I’ll give ya… Seven pieces for it!”
Markra nodded. “All yours then. Now about that splint mail…”
“Ah, right, right! I’ll be right back!”
Markra watched him go into one of the back rooms, shifting on his weight a few times nervously. When he finally came back, Winthrop was carrying a clothed bundle in his arms, and struggling a little with its weight. Markra rushed over to help him put it on the desk, and unfolded the cloth to reveal the steel glint of splint mail armor. The strands of metal lined themselves in vertical rows, rather than the horizontal ones Markra was so used to seeing. It shimmered a little in the flickering candlelight, casting a ghostly reflection of his face in the steel.
“Here ye are,” Winthrop began, showing off the armor with his arms spread wide, “A fine craft of splint for ya!”
“Thanks,” Markra replied, and picked up the armor pieces. It took him a few minutes to put it on, having never worn any armor in his life. It was heavy, and he found he couldn’t maneuver as easily as he would have liked while wearing it. But now at least his newfound enemies would have trouble striking a blow through the metal coating.
Winthrop nodded in his approval. “Looks rather good on ya, kiddo. It ain’t no elven chain, but it’ll serve ya awful finely!” He barked another barrel of laughter, earning a smile from Markra. “Anythin’ else ya need? How ‘bout a helmet to go with your new outfit?”
At the mention of a helmet, Markra uncertainly ran a finger along the edge of one of his long ears. A helmet would no doubt be a great help in protecting his head, but…
“I don’t know…” he answered, “Do you have any that would fit…um…comfortably?”
Winthrop gave him a cheeky smile and opened his mouth to speak. But he kept his mouth hanging open a few moments longer, and then it closed as he stroke his chin thoughtfully.
“Huh… Now that ya mention it…” he muttered, “It’s not like we get many elves comin’ into Candlekeep anyway…”
At Markra’s sheepish look, Winthrop recollected himself and put his hands on his hips defiantly.
“Well, all else fails, ye could always jus’ cut holes in it! Just sit tight a second!”
Another rush into the back room, only this time, Markra could hear some clanging and banging sounds from the other side, like Winthrop was tossing metal aside as he searched for the perfect helmet. Once there was the thump of an especially loud crashing noise, followed by Winthrop letting out a string of curses that earned Markra a few looks from suspicious spectators.
After several minutes, they heard Winthrop shout, “Ah-ha!” and he came back to the desk with a horned helmet in his hands. Conveniently, there was a small gap on both sides of the helmet to allow space for especially large ears.
“The one an’ probably only helmet in all o’ Candlekeep fit for an elf!” Winthrop laughed triumphantly, “I oughtta charge ya extra for that searchin’, but… Ah, what can I say? I’m a sucker for baby faces. One gold piece please!”
Markra bit back a comment about how he didn’t have a “baby face” anymore, but flipped Winthrop a coin anyway. He spent the very last bit of his money on some iron rations for the road and a waterskin full of fresh water. Now that he was fully equipped for adventure—and his wallet fully emptied—he’d do well not to waste any more time and meet with Gorion.
“Thanks for the help, Winthrop,” he said, “Really, I owe you one.”
“Hey, anytime, Markra,” Winthrop laughed, “Oh, an’ one more thing about that armor. Don’t be tryin’ to cast magic spells with it on! If ya do, you’re gonna have a hard time!”
“I know,” Markra reassured, “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
I’m better with a sword anyway… I only know a couple spells.
With one last wave goodbye, he was about to head out the door, when the mage Firebead Elvenhair called out to him.
“Oh, could you wait just a moment please?” the elderly scholar asked, “You’re Gorion’s ward, aren’t you? I have a small favor to ask.”
Markra literally had his hand wrapped around the doorhandle when he was stopped by the mage’s voice. The nagging voice in the back of his head told him he should just pretend he hadn’t heard him and continue out the door, but he was just too darn nice. With the slump of his shoulders, he turned back around, and headed over to the table where Firebead sat.
Firebead had earned his surname, Elvenhair, with his long, blond hair woven together in many smooth braids, though the strands had lost their golden sheen over the years, dulling into a faint yellow-gray. He sat hunched over the table, in the process of transcribing a magic scroll, dressed in a green wizard cloak with gold embroidery around the edges. Markra had become familiar with him over the years growing up in Candlekeep, as he often came to visit from his home in the nearby city Beregost.
“Hello Firebead,” Markra greeted, “Back in Candlekeep again, huh?”
“Ah, yes,” Firebead replied, “Though with this iron crisis upon us, the trip from Beregost was more hazardous than I care to relate…”
“There was trouble on the roads?” Markra asked, trying to hide his anxiety. Whatever hazards Firebead had encountered on his travels, he had hoped he and Gorion wouldn’t encounter the same.
“A few bandits, nothing more,” Firebead assured him, “Nothing I’m sure you couldn’t handle.” He looked up from his scroll and surveyed Markra up and down, taking in every detail of his new outfit. “My, you have come into your own, if you would permit an old man’s jealousy of youth to say so…”
“Thanks,” Markra ushered on, eager to move the topic to something that wasn’t about himself, “Now what was it you wanted of me?”
“Ah, yes,” Firebead began, “I left my Identify scroll with Tethtoril, in the inner grounds. He should be done examining it by now, and I need it to transcribe the last of this spell. If you could fetch it for me, I’d be very grateful.”
“The inner grounds…” Markra contemplated a moment. He meant the inner grounds of Candlekeep, surrounding the towering citadel, where Gorion was waiting for him. He’d have to do some back-tracking, but it wasn’t too horridly out of his way.
Just hope this is the last errand I’ll have to do, he told himself, Before another rogue jumps me with a knife…
“Sure, I’ll go grab it. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Giving a nod of thanks, he left Firebead and the Candlekeep Inn behind him.
Candlekeep’s inner grounds were a sight to behold as they basked in the sunlight. Upon passing under the gateway arch, Markra followed the encircling walkway lined with floral gardens and freshly cut grass. Bubbling fountains greeted his ears the further down the path he came, their ripples dancing brightly off the sun’s rays. He took in a deep breath of sweetened air as he walked, a familiar scent from his childhood days long ago. He and Imoen would pass a lot of time in the gardens, getting into all kinds of trouble catching frogs and clogging the fountains and digging through the dirt. But those days were long lost to the past.
As he scanned the garden grounds searching for Tethtoril, Markra passed by five of the chanters, practicing for their upcoming performance of Alaundo’s prophecy. He knew the words well, having studies Alaundo’s prophecies since he was small (among a hundred other different things), and he quiet sang along as he walked.
“When shadows descent upon the lands, our divine lords will walk alongside us as equals… So sayeth the wise Alaundo…”
“The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sown from their passage… So sayeth the wise Alaundo…”
“In the Year of the Turrets, a great host will come from the east like a plague of locusts. So sayeth the wise Alaundo.”
“When conflict sweeps across the Dales, the great lizards of the north shall descend with fire and fury… So sayeth the wise Alaundo…”
“The worm shall wander the earth, and such a pestilence will follow in his wake that all who know of his passing shall be struck down by the plague… So sayeth the wise Alaundo.”
What is it about prophecies that always foretell the impending doom to come? Can’t they think of anything happier that might happen instead? That, or Alaundo was just a depressing enough person…
Markra shook his head. He had no time to spare contemplating the mad words of a man who’s been long dead.
He spotted Tethtoril clad in his red monk robes, taking his time to sniff some of the flowers. He seemed to have been on his way somewhere when he looked up to see Markra approaching him. Tethtoril was always one of the more soft-spoken leaders of Candlekeep, the complete opposite of Ulraunt, the brash bookkeeper of the grounds.
“Here you are, Tethtoril,” Markra greeted, “Firebead sent me to—”
“I know why he sent you, Markra,” Tethtoril cut him off with the raise of his hand. Then, he dug into the inside of his cloak, and pulled up a scroll, bound up with red ribbon. “Here is the scroll… I was just on my way to return it.”
Markra looked a little surprised, but then again, Tethtoril often seemed to be one step ahead of almost everyone in the keep.
“I see,” he said, holding out his hand, “Well, that’s all right. I’ll take it back up there for you.”
Tethtoril eyed him for a moment before letting out a long sigh.
“Very well… Return this scroll to him, but then you must hurry and speak with Gorion.” He handed Markra the scroll, a scolding frown on his face. “He is waiting for you at the central steps of the library. I assure you, child, it is a matter of greatest urgency.”
“I know, I know,” Markra assured him, trying to hold back the irritation in his voice, “I’ll speak with him soon. Thanks, Tethtoril.”
Tethtoril simply gave a nod before he went back to his duties.
Odd that he seemed so distant… Markra realized as he walked back to Winthrop’s, It was as if he had his mind somewhere else. Did Gorion warn everybody in the keep about whatever danger plagues us, or am I just missing something here?
He headed inside Winthrop’s inn one last time, quickly before Winthrop could pull his leg with another 5,000 gold pieces joke. He’d spent more than enough time running errands than he cared to admit, especially when there could be more assassins skulking about through the keep.
“Firebead! I’m back. With your scroll.”
Upon looking up from his work, Firebead gave a grateful smile as he took the scroll.
“Ah, I am glad to see that age hasn’t hardened your heart towards an old man such as myself,” he chuckled as he rubbed his wrists and knuckles, bony and sore from writing for so long.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Markra reassured him, “You’ve got plenty more years left with us, Firebead; you still have a lot more work to do, right?”
“Indeed,” Firebead replied in kind, “That’s what’s unique about magic—you can spend your entire life delving into its secrets, and still discover new things.”
Markra nodded, and turned on his heel to leave.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I should really get going.”
“One moment more, Markra,” Firebead stopped him. Markra bit back an impatient frown, to which Firebead gave a wry smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you for much longer. Allow me to cast a little spell on you, for your kindness. It will protect you from any evil you might meet tonight.”
Intrigued, Markra nodded, and watched the wizard do his work. He moved his hands around, dancing a few complicated gestures that Markra had seen Gorion practice a few times in the past, before the white and green glow of magic flew out of his hands. The magic swirled around Markra, enveloping him in a warm embrace, before finally settling on him like an invisible mantle. Even as he stood perfectly still, he could still hear the humming vibrations of the protection spell on him.
“Thank you,” Markra told him, “I’ll see you around, Firebead.”
“Yes. Good luck on your travels, Markra.”
With another nod goodbye, Markra left the inn, and he didn’t expect to return again for a long time, if ever. He doubled back through the Candlekeep gardens. The chanters had gone, off to do the rest of their chores for the day. The vibrant colors of the flowers were aglow with the faint orange tint of oncoming sunset, signaling the first signs of twilight.
There was Gorion at the foot of the citadel, as promised, pacing and stroking his chin with ever-growing anxiety. Markra was about to round the corner, and head up the steps, when a familiar voice called out to him from behind:
“Heya! It’s me, Imoen!”
Markra turned around to see the chipper face of his childhood friend. Dressed in her childish pink and purple clothing, she skipped up to him with a smile, her short red hair bouncing with the motion of her body. The faint sunlight reflected back to him in her hazel eyes, as if illuminating the sparks of mischief hidden within her gaze.
Markra smiled, glad to see her. The two of them had become instant friends the day Gorion brought her home, though they became a little more distant as they grew older. While Markra stayed vigilant within Gorion’s studies, Imoen loved to sneak off, and found her place working alongside Winthrop. She even took up some of his carefree accent into her speech.
“Nice get-up ya got there, Marky,” Imoen chuckled with wide-eyed admiration, “You’re all shiny and stuff!”
“Thanks…I think,” Markra replied, “I haven’t seen you all day. Where have you been, Imoen?”
“Oh, ‘ere an’ there and all over the place,” she answered with a toothy grin, “I’m surprised that stuffy ol’ Gorion let you away from your studies and chores. That ol’ fiddle faddle.” She frowned at the thought of the old sage. “Now me? I snuck off too. Old Puffguts was looking for me, but I’ve got all day to do his chores.”
“All day? The daylight’s disappearing even as we speak.”
To that, Imoen just brushed off his scolding with the wave of her hand.
“And I’ve got all night too. He won’t miss me.” Her eyes lit up again and she inched closer to him like a puppy begging for dinner scraps. “You have time for a story today?”
Markra had inherited his foster-father’s gift for telling stories, and Imoen was his number one fan. But upon seeing his expression fall a little, the pleading look in her eyes dimmed away.
“No… I can tell you don’t. What have ya been up to, anyway?”
“I’m afraid I can’t talk much longer, kiddo,” Markra sighed, “Gorion wishes me to prepare for a journey, but he won’t say where…”
Imoen sulked. “‘Kiddo’? I’m not much younger than you, you know!”
She got right up in his face until they were just inches apart, but she was so small, she only came up to his chin. Standing on her tip-toes, she managed to stretch herself a little further, but only by another inch. Markra fought back a sneeze as her hair brushed against the tip of his nose.
She struggled a moment to keep her height, but at his cynical look, she plopped back down on her heels with a defeated sigh.
“Though you sure got tall fast… Relatively, anyway…”
Markra patted her on the head with a victorious smirk, to which Imoen sulked again and brushed his hand off her head. Then, all joking aside, she stroked her chin, eying him with a fierce curiosity.
“A journey, eh?” she asked absent-mindedly, “I never get to travel… Wish I could go with ya.”
She looked a little sad for a moment as she lowered her head and began twiddling her thumbs. But the illusion was destroyed the moment she glanced back up at Markra, as if expecting an answer. When he said nothing, she continued. “Yep, I really wish I could. Yessir. Really do.”
“All right all right, I take the hint,” Markra cut her off before she could continue pleading, “But… There’s just no way you can come. I already asked Gorion; he’d never allow it.”
Imoen let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, I know… Old stick-in-the-mud that he is, all worried about nothing, I’m sure. Better go now, cause you’ve got a long ways to travel…”
Markra’s brow furrowed. Something about the way she said that sent all his senses on high-alert. As if Imoen somehow knew where he was headed, even before Gorion had told him.
And she must have caught his suspicious look, because her eyes widened, and she stuttered.
“Not…Not that I would know,” she stumbled, “Especially since I didn’t peek at old Mr. G’s private letters. Hehe, no sir, not me!”
“You did what?”
“Oh, look at the time. Better go now. Bye-bye!”
“Imoen! Get back—”
But she was gone in a flash, dashing out of sight and using the shadows as her shelter. A talent she had come to master the older she grew, despite her bright clothes.
“—here…” Markra let out a sigh as he lowered his outstretched arm to his side. That was Imoen for you, always one-step ahead of the game, yet just as troublesome and mischievous as ever. She may have been a few years younger than him—almost eighteen—but she still acted like a child more than an adult.
As Markra ascended the steps to the Candlekeep citadel, Gorion finally stopped his pacing and let out a relieved breath of air at the sight of his foster-son.
“There you are,” he greeted, “This is very unnerving, I know, but you must trust me. Do you have everything you need?”
Markra nodded. “I think so…” There was nothing in his house that would do him any good on the outside, anyway.
Gorion scanned his outfit up and down, and gave an approving nod.
“Then let us hurry. There is no time to tarry!”
He headed down the steps, with Markra at his heels, and they took a long walk to the gate of Candlekeep.
“Father, please, could you tell me where we’re going?” Markra asked.
“Alas, I cannot, for I have not truly decided yet,” Gorion answered over his shoulder, “All that is certain is that we will be far safer on the move. Perhaps the woods might offer some secluded security, or perhaps the city of Baldur’s Gate would offer cover amidst its teeming throngs of people.”
“Shouldn’t we have discussed that before we head out?” Markra asked anxiously.
Gorion shook his head. “There simply wasn’t enough time. I do not know where we shall end up, but I assure you, I have a few friends here and there. For now, we must focus on getting as far away from Candlekeep as possible.”
When they reached the gate, Hull was there, with thick dark bags under his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Markra had to bite back a small laugh, remembering the favor Dreppin had asked of him. Hull was definitely hung-over, but Dreppin would just have to get the antidote from him on his own. After a brief discussion back and forth between Gorion and Hull, the guards opened the gate, cranking the large gears to lift up the gate.
“Now listen carefully,” Gorion began, turning back to Markra, “If we are ever to become separated, it is imperative that you make your way to the Friendly Arm Inn. There, you will meet Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends, and you can trust them.”
Markra really didn’t want to think about the possibility of becoming separated from Gorion, but he nodded anyway to keep his father happy. Gorion was, after all, a powerful mage. Surely it would take more than a common bandit skirmish to take him down, right? After all, Firebead made it here just fine…
With one final goodbye from the guards, he and Gorion passed under the arched gate of Candlekeep, and took their first steps outside of the city in many, many years. Markra took one look back at the gate, and watched it close behind him, cutting him off from a very large part of his life forever.
***
“Hurry child,” Gorion called back to Markra, “The night can only get worse, and we must find shelter soon.”
“I know…” Markra gave a weak reply as he struggled to keep up. He couldn’t remember having done so much walking in his entire life. He could feel the sweat inside his metal greaves turning his feet sticky and sore. How an elder like Gorion could manage traveling for so long, he couldn’t even begin to guess.
The sky had blackened to darkness around them in the time it took to leave Candlekeep and head into the woods. Large shapes that might have been trees or shrubs morphed and stretched in the darkness, and conjured fearful shades thought long lost from Markra’s childhood. He tried to stay calm, but the air was thick with a feeling of unease, despite the crispness of the evening. His ears twitched at every little sound he heard, whether it be a slight breeze rustling through the trees or a faint crack of a twig or an animal dashing under shrubs for cover.
Suddenly, there was another snap of wood, only this time, it was frighteningly close to them. Markra stopped dead in his tracks as Gorion lifted his hand in the air, scanning the darkness wearily.
“Wait…” Gorion whispered, and after a few silent minutes, Gorion began to make hand gestures at the air, and the light of magic came to his fingers. “We are not alone. We’re in an ambush.”
Markra gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at any moment. “You’re sure?”
But even as he asked, he knew deep in his gut that Gorion was right. There was another rustling sound in the bushes, and bodies seemed to meld out of the darkness before them.
There were a couple of ogres, gigantic humanoids wielding morningstars as large as Markra’s and Gorion’s heads combined. Flanking their sides were a few humans in leather armor, with their shortbows drawn back to their cheeks, waiting to shoot. A woman stood in the back, dressed in blue and red robes over armor.
And standing in the center of them all, the figure that drew all of Markra’s attention, was a tall warrior in large, spiked armor. He carried a broadsword in one hand, but otherwise, he couldn’t make out any of his features. The warrior was clad in metal armor from head to toe, and the only part of his face visible was his eyes, piercing the darkness with their burnished, yellow glow.
“You’re perceptive for an old man,” the armored figure laughed, with a deep, dark voice that echoed out from within his armored helmet, “You know why I’m here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist…it shall be a waste of your life.”
Me? Markra’s grip on his longsword tightened. So did he send the assassin in Candlekeep? What could he want with me of all people?
“You’re a fool if you believe I would trust your benevolence. Step aside, and you and your lackeys will be unhurt,” Gorion snapped back.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, old man…” the warrior cackled, and Markra could almost see the smile behind his words.
Then he raised his right arm, and his allies attacked. The archers launched their arrows, one aimed at Gorion, and one at Markra. Gorion managed a sidestep, but Markra was caught off-guard. The arrow landed its mark in his shoulder, but when it collided with his armor, a white and green flash of magic rippled in place of the spot, and the arrow fell useless on the ground. Firebead’s spell was as powerful as promised, to protect him from evil this late in the night.
The ogres were next, stomping towards them with their weapons waving over their heads. The rogues were already nocking another series of arrows in their bows. Meanwhile, the woman in the back was chanting, paired with hand gestures to show her casting a spell.
Gorion also let out a series of chants, and soon, four transparent copies of himself surrounded him. He glanced back at Markra, all five pairs of eyes staring at him.
“Get out of here, Markra!” he shouted.
Markra stared aghast at his father. “What? No! I’ll stay and fight with you!”
“Don’t be a fool, child!” Gorion shouted back with a glare, “You’re no match for them; if you stay and fight, you’ll only get yourself killed!”
“But—”
His plea was cut off by another arrow, whizzing just past his cheek. Hot needles stung across the side of his face as the arrowhead grazed his cheek. Gorion, in the meantime, shot off another spell, a bolt of flame that shot straight through one of the ogres, stunning it temporarily.
“Go, Markra,” Gorion ordered, “Run now, and never look back!”
The other ogre swung down his weapon, only to hit one of Gorion’s apparitions. It faded away out of existence while the spiked morningstar lay caught on the ground, digging too deep into the soil. Another couple of arrows flew past them, flying through another apparition and forcing its disappearance. Markra barely dodged the third arrow, aimed straight for his chest.
No… Markra shook his head. Don’t make me go. Don’t make me leave you alone to fight these monsters…
But the gnawing feeling in his stomach told him he had no choice. Gorion was right—he was too weak. He’d spent almost his whole life inside the sheltered walls of Candlekeep, playing at being a swordsman, but remaining ignorant of what it truly meant to fight for one’s survival. He’d only just killed his first enemy that very day, and he had been a mere thug with a knife. These were trained fighters, determined to kill him at any cost, with as much power as necessary to finish the job.
He didn’t stand a chance.
“All right…” Markra said, the words like acid in his mouth, “I’m sorry, Father…”
Despite being distracted by the fighting, Gorion still managed one last, warm smile at his foster-son. Biting back a flood of bitter tears, Markra turned on his heel, and ran into the night. The last he heard of the fighting was a large blast of fire, followed by the pained death cries of their enemies.
***
The Fireball had managed to kill the archers and the ogres. Gorion let out a relieved sigh—at least he didn’t have to worry about the rest of the party hunting Markra down. But the mage was still up, along with the man clad in armor, and his Mirror Image had all but dissipated. And he was running out of spells.
The armored figure marched up to him, with his large broadsword in both hands, ready to swing. Gorion barely stepped back, and could almost feel the blade slice through the air where he had been standing. He hasted another series of chants and hand gestures, and shot an Acid Arrow at the fiend. Acid didn’t seem to have much effect on him, however, with all of that armor protecting him.
“So, this is how it ends for the great sage Gorion,” the armored figure cackled, “He draws his final breath protecting a useless whelp that doesn’t even know the truth of his own power…”
Gorion glared, but kept his mouth shut, determined not to entertain his enemy. His hands sparked pink for a moment before a Magic Missile flew from his hands and struck the warrior. But he barely even flinched as he raised his sword again.
Gorion jumped back, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be. The tip of the sword slashed through his shoulder, releasing a burst of fresh blood. Gorion let out a grunt of pain as he gripped his bleeding shoulder, and struggled to make another gesture with his hands. If he could just heal his wound, even a little bit, he could have both hands available once more, and fight them off…
The mage far behind the warrior shot off another spell, and as it made contact with Gorion, he felt all of his previous protections dissolve into nothingness. Gorion let out a violent swear. Those protections, as minor as they were, were possibly the only things keeping him alive all this time. And now with one of his arms completely incapable of making gestures, there was little chance of him casting another series onto himself.
“How does it feel, old man?” the armored man asked, “Watching your blood as it leaves your body? Or having your strength abandon you, just as your ‘son’ had?”
“You’ll never find him,” Gorion spat at his feet, “He’ll be in more than capable hands. And given time… I know that he will stop you.”
“Do you?” He threw back his head and laughed as he raised the heavy sword high over him. “I’m not so sure even you think so. He is family, after all…”
The image of Markra’s mother flashed once more in Gorion’s mind. A woman he had once called friend, someone who had been dear to his heart even. She lay broken and bleeding in the snow, tears matted to her face, her wild, brown hair tossed in a mess of curls…
Don’t let him be like his father. If nothing else, Gorion would keep that promise to her.
The armored man swung down his broadsword, and Gorion shut his eyes tight just as the cold, sharp metal dug into the side of his frail body…
At the very least, this should be fun. We're out of Candlekeep, and that's when the branching and casting and exploring begins!
Chapter 3
“…Marky… Marky…!”
Markra’s eyes screwed themselves shut as his consciousness stirred in the darkness. He didn’t want to wake up. He could feel the soreness in his legs and feet, dull calluses forming around his ankles and toes. Pain burned in his lungs from his frantic run in the night, each breath like sandpaper against his raw throat. If he could just stay in the abyss for a while longer, so he wouldn’t have to face the trials of his beaten body…!
But the voice calling him overhead wouldn’t allow him the chance. Nor the sharp prodding poking him in the side. Slowly, his eyes squinted open, flinching at the morning sunlight before finally adjusting themselves.
Imoen sat hovering over him, a twig in her hand used to poke at him. Her big hazel eyes were at first wide with worry, until she realized that he was waking. Then she let out a huge, triumphant grin.
“There ya go!” she greeted, “Phew! For a second there, I thought you were dead!”
She tossed her twig over her shoulder, as if it had done its duty.
“Imoen…?” Markra asked in a hoarse voice, “What are you…doing here?”
“I followed ya,” Imoen answered with a grin, “You didn’t really think I was just gonna let ya leave Candlekeep without me, did ya? Those monks are such a bore, and they never have any decent coin in their pockets neither.”
“Followed me…?” He glanced around at his surroundings, and realized for the first time that he had absolutely no idea of where he was. Slowly, Markra pushed himself up off the ground, and twisted his head around so he could get a good look.
He lay in the middle of a grassy clearing, with small clusters of trees surrounding him. The sky was clear high above him, save for the few pockets of white clouds dotting the endless blue. A gravel road curved by them a little ways off, meandering like a dried up riverbed.
And he and Imoen were completely alone.
Something’s not right… Markra thought, fighting the faint throbbing in the front of his brain, Imoen shouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t be alone… Right…?
Suddenly, it all came flooding back to him. The attack in the night, Gorion desperately tossing every bit of magic he had at the foes, before telling him to run. Markra did as he was told, running through the dead of night long until his legs finally gave out, too exhausted to move.
“Father!” Markra yelped, “I left my father back… But then, he should be… Where…!?”
His head swiveled right and left, searching for the green of Gorion’s cloak, but the old sage was nowhere to be seen. Markra clamored to his feet, but as soon as he stood on his own, dizziness overtook him, and he swayed sideways. He would have fallen straight onto the ground again if not for Imoen to catch him.
“Whoa, easy!” she cried, “Don’t go getting up so quickly like that. We don’t want ya droppin’ dead after having run all that way.”
“But… My father…!” Markra protested as he shook his head to dispel the dizziness, “Where is Gorion!?”
He shouted so loud that a few birds flew scattered out of a nearby tree cluster, startled by the noise. Imoen cast her head down, a slightly quivering lip on her usual cheerful face.
“I…I’m so sorry, Markra…” she muttered, “I…I saw Gorion. And he…he didn’t make it.”
Markra paled as he stared at her. “You saw this?”
Imoen nodded. “Yeah. He was throwin’ everything he had at those guys, but the big one in armor was just too strong. I kinda figured something bad would happen to you out here, but…”
Markra struggled to just absorb her words. He could feel his heels weakening against his own body weight.
Gorion… My father’s dead…? He slowly shook his head. No way… That can’t be… Gorion… He was always so strong, so proud of his magic…!
“Take me there…” Markra whispered, “Take me to where you saw him fall.”
He and Imoen moved cautiously through the woods, taking cover around tree trunks and bushes whenever they heard something suspicious. The lands outside of Candlekeep’s sheltered walls were known for their share of wild animals and monsters. Besides that, there was no telling whether or not any remaining assassins may still be around, fervently searching for Markra’s life. After a few hours of grim, silent walking, the trees broke up a little, and opened up into a circular clearing. Markra could recognize some of the features, like the circles of stones and twigs set up in the ground, which he had taken great care to ignore when they came across it in the dark.
And there, in the center, were the corpses of last night’s raid. There was little left of the ambush group aside from a pile of ash and a few charred remains. Gorion’s body lay sprawled in a dried pool of his own blood, his torso sliced in half.
Markra felt his heart beat hard against his throat as he slowly approached him. Gorion’s eyes were closed shut, which only meant that he had anticipated his own death. Markra had never seen his skin look so pale, so deathly white against the dark red of his dried blood. As he came closer, his legs failed him, and he fell to his knees. He cradled his dead foster-father in his arms for a moment, biting back the hot, bitter tears that threatened to swell behind his eyes.
“F-Father…” he choked, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I thought I was strong, but in the end, I couldn’t protect anything… All I did was run…!”
Markra’s hands curled themselves into a pair of frustrated fists. He’d never felt so helpless in all his life. If only he hadn’t wasted all of his time inside Candlekeep, if only he had trained just a little more, if only he’d studied magic more diligently, he could have done something. Instead, he had to flee like the child he was, powerless to stop those monsters from killing his own father.
Even if I had… Markra thought bitterly, …they still managed to kill Gorion. Gorion, the great sage. Hell, if he couldn’t stop them, what hope did I ever have? Just how strong was that armored fiend?
He shook his head, and when he closed his eyes, he could still see him in his mind’s eye. The armored figure whose head remained trapped in the jaws of a monster’s skull, with sick, yellow eyes glowing from within the rows of teeth…
“I’ll find him…” Markra snarled under his breath, “I never want to feel that powerless ever again. Just you wait, Father… I promise, I’ll find whoever killed you, and make them pay!”
“Ya aren’t forgettin’ anyone, are ya?” Imoen’s voice popped up behind him. Markra turned his head and saw his friend staring down at him, her hand on his shoulder. “Gorion brought me to Candlekeep too. He may have always been a grumpy-guss, but he didn’t deserve to die like this.”
Her eyes sparkled to life as she pulled a strong smile.
“And I’m not gonna let you wander around all alone, neither. Never let a friend down, no sir! I’m stickin’ with you until you say otherwise, Marky! I will!”
Despite all that’s happened, Imoen never once failed to cheer Markra up when he was feeling down. Wiping the stray tears from his face with the back of his sleeve, Markra matched her smile with a faint grin of his own.
“Thanks, Imoen,” he said, “Really, I’m grateful to have you with me.” His brow furrowed a moment in thought. “But how did you know where we were going? Gorion didn’t even tell me.”
Imoen suddenly winced. “Well, I…accidentally…might have…readaletteronhisdesktheotherday.”
She coughed awkwardly, hoping that could cover up the hastily-muttered half of her sentence. But at Markra’s disapproving frown, she sighed in defeat.
“Ok, so I was sniffin’ around for magic scrolls, but I really did stumble on it by accident,” she explained, “Can’t remember exactly what it said, but it might still be…on his…his body…”
Their gazes shifted back to Gorion’s corpse in Markra’s arms. After a few long minutes of strained silence, Markra let out a slow stream of steady breath. Then, he opened up his foster-father’s blood-splattered robes, and started going through his pockets.
Gorion didn’t have much on him aside from a small bag of coins and a plain dagger hidden in his coat. But after a couple minutes of searching, they found a rolled-up piece of parchment paper, stained in the corner with a blotch of dried blood. Sharing a look with Imoen, Markra unrolled the paper, and read its contents:
“My friend Gorion,
“Please forgive the abruptness with which I now write, but time is short and there is much to be done. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner foretold, and certainly not in the proper time frame. As we both know, forecasting these events has proved increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. We have done what we can for those in thy care, but the time nears when we must step back and let matters take what course they will. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering to this point.
“Despite my desire to remain neutral in this matter, I could not, in good conscience, let events proceed without some measure of warning. The other side will move very soon, and I urge thee to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover. A fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point.
“Should anything go awry, do not hesitate to seek aid from travelers along the way. I do not need to remind thee that it is a dangerous land, even without our current concerns, and a party is stronger than an individual in all respects. Should additional assistance be required, I understand that Jaheira and Khalid are currently at the Friendly Arm Inn. They know little of what has passed, but they are ever thy friends and will no doubt help however they can.
“Luck be with us all.
“I’m getting too old for this.
“E.”
“E…” Markra stared at the last lonely letter of the note. “Who is E? I don’t remember any of Gorion’s friends starting with E…”
“I dunno,” Imoen answered, “I wondered that too when I saw it. Sounds like they’ve been plannin’ this for a while, whatever it is.”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Markra crinkled the edges of the letter in his hands.
“None of this makes any sense…” he groaned, “What ‘other side’ are they talking about, and what the hell do they want with me? If only Gorion hadn’t been so secretive all the time…”
“Won’t do any good to find out now,” Imoen told him, “We gotta get outta here, before the rest of the ‘other side’ comes back to finish the job.”
Markra nodded, and stuffed the letter inside his rucksack for safekeeping. He hated leaving Gorion’s body the way it was, but he simply didn’t have the time to tend to it, nor the tools necessary to dig him a proper grave. They scoured the corpses of the enemy ambushers, and found a couple of shortbows and spare arrows that had survived the fire. Imoen picked up the bow easily, and though Markra was better with longbows, its shorter counterpart would serve well for the time being.
“So, where to now?” Imoen asked.
Markra’s lips pursed for a moment. “We should try to find this ‘Friendly Arm Inn’. Gorion told me that if anything were to happen to him, I should seek out Khalid and Jaheira. The letter also mentions them.”
“Well, then what’re we waitin’ for?” Imoen grinned again. “Let’s go!”
I'm sorry that this update's taken so long. Truth be told, I don't have much of an excuse for it--first, Fire Emblem: Awakening was released and kidnapped me for at least two months. After that, life kept happening, and I also went to work on some of my own projects. However, I've gotten back into playing more Baldur's Gate, and I've got a long wait ahead of me before I hear back from some agencies and publishers for my original works. So! You might just see me updating a bit more frequently in the future!
Without further adieu, here's the rest of chapter 3. The whole story is also up on fanfiction.net for those interested. I hope you enjoy, and as always, I welcome feedback.
***
First order of business was to get back to the road. The ambush sight had led them astray from the main gravel path, and if they were to find the Friendly Arm Inn, they were going to have to backtrack without getting horridly lost. Imoen kept to the back, an arrow already nocked in her bow, while Markra took the lead a few steps ahead of her. They wandered for a ways, their eyes scanning the tree lines for any sign of the road…
“There it is!” Imoen practically jumped on her heels for joy and pointed through the trees at the sight. The outline of the gravel trail peeked between the trunks of trees, and earned the faintest grins out of the weary travelers.
They had barely taken a couple hurried steps towards the road when they heard a low growl in the trees. Markra’s ears twitched and his head swerved to the side, and glaring at them between the trees was a gray wolf baring its teeth.
“Imoen, wait!” Markra yelped as he grabbed her shoulder to keep her from running off, then raised his shortbow and drew back so the fletching touched his cheek.
Imoen frowned at first, but when she saw the wolf, she quickly followed his example.
“Think it’s hungry?” she asked, jesting to dispel her nerves.
“Most likely,” Markra answered with a gulp.
“Maybe… Maybe if we just back away, real slow like, then—”
She took one step to the side, and the wolf apparently didn’t like that. With another loud growl, it lunged towards them. Markra loosed his arrow, but the shot went wide, not used to dealing with a moving target. Imoen fired quickly after him, and although her aim was a little better, it too missed the wolf, grazing against the edge of its shoulders.
It was bloody fast, all four of its paws clawing up dirt from the ground as it ran. As if it knew which one was the better hit, the wolf headed for Imoen. Imoen struggled to nock another arrow, but just as the clip slid into place on the string, the wolf was already leaping at her. And unlike Markra, she would be much easier prey, what with that weak, brown leather she wore…
“Don’t you dare!” Markra shouted, and he shoved Imoen out of the way.
Just in time for the wolf’s teeth to catch in his shoulder, and dig through his armor. He bit back a scream as the cold metal stabbed against his skin, but he stood tall against the beast. The wolf shook its head, violently tearing at the flesh and steel, but Markra yanked free with a pained yell.
He stumbled back, and reached for his sword as he dropped his bow. The wolf leaped at him again, a newfound determination in its legs at the sight of a new prey. Markra barely dodged out of the way, using his sword like a whip as it lashed out at the wolf’s snout. But hot pain throbbed in his wounded shoulder, and he could feel the blood soaking into his clothes. It hindered his sword’s own movements, always just out of reach of the wolf’s agile body.
They circled each other for a few moments, with the wolf sneering through red teeth while Markra struggled just to keep his breath steady, panting hard. Suddenly, the wolf leaped forward once again, his jaw opened wide as he dived for his wounded arm.
Then a hiss bit the air as Imoen shot an arrow into the wolf from her newfound hiding spot among the trees. The wolf reared back and let out a howl as the iron head dug into its side. And in return, Markra raised his sword with both hands, and in the middle of its leap, he cleaved the beast straight across its chest. The wolf let out a soft whimper before falling to the ground, limp.
With a relieved sigh, Markra’s shoulders slumped and he sheathed his sword. But just that bit of movement was enough to irritate his wound, burning against the cold of his metal armor. He flinched and pressed his healthy palm against the bite, though it did little to soothe it.
“Golly…”
Markra looked up to see Imoen running over with a guilty look on her face.
“That one looked like it hurt…”
“I’m fine,” Markra insisted stubbornly.
“No ya won’t be, stupid,” Imoen argued with her hands on her hips, “A wound like that’s gotta be treated, or it’ll just get worse over time.”
She put down her bow for a moment so she could dig into her rucksack, and pulled out a small vial of blue liquid. Markra’s eyes widened, recognizing the potion. He’d seen it used multiple times by the priests of Oghma in Candlekeep.
“A healing potion!” he exclaimed, “Where did you get that?”
Imoen gave a toothy grin. “Well, ya gotta be prepared for trouble out in these parts. Especially knowing how reckless you can be.”
Markra frowned at her, but Imoen didn’t seem to care as she pressed the potion into his palm.
“Here ya go. Go ahead and drink it down. You’ll be good as new in a minute!”
But Markra looked unsure, eyeing the precious blue glow of the liquid as it swished inside the tiny bottle. “But what about you? Do you have any more of these?”
“O-Oh yeah! Tons of ‘em!”
“You’re lying.”
“I…I am not!”
“Yes you are. You always stutter when you lie.” With a sigh, Markra handed her the potion back before she had the chance to protest. “Look, these things are precious; we don’t want to just start using them willy-nilly whenever someone gets a little hurt, or else when it really matters, we won’t have any left. My shoulder… It hurts, but…” He suppressed a wince as he moved it around. “…I can still move it. So I’ll be all right. Ok?”
Imoen sulked, and gave him one last pleading look of puppy-dog eyes. But she knew all too well that Markra was just too stubborn. She put the potion back in her bag and picked up her bow.
“Alright alright…” she grumbled, “Just don’t over-do-it, or I swear, I’ll gut ya with a stick myself! Then, you’ll have to use it!”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Markra reassured her with the wave of his good hand, “Now, let’s get out of here.”
With an approving nod, he and Imoen continued toward the road. They walked a steady pace, scanning the tree lines for anything that might jump out at them, but aside from the occasional bird or rodent rustling in the bushes, they couldn’t spot anything unusual. After a couple hours of listening to the crunch and grind of pebbles underneath their feet, Markra’s stomach let out a low growl. Imoen barely got the chance to laugh before hers followed.
“You wouldn’t have happened to pack a lunch before ya left, would ya Marky?” she asked.
With a small grin, Markra lifted up his rucksack, and pulled out an apple.
“We can take a quick break to eat,” he said, “I’m famished.”
“My, what have we here?”
The voice was male, and a strange one to the ears. Imoen jumped and reached for a dagger hidden against her hip as Markra turned on his heel. Two strangers had snuck up on them, one human and one halfling.
The human man wore the green garbs of a mage, though he looked nothing like the many wise sages Markra knew from Candlekeep. Black tattoos stretched across his face, outlining his eyes and dotting his forehead, and his sandy-blond hair lay tossed about his shoulders in a greasy mess. His fingernails were very short and bleeding in some spots, as if they were bitten off one too many times, and his green gaze darted about restlessly as he surveyed them up and down.
The halfling was much calmer. Dressed entirely in leather, he only came up to the other man’s waist, and cast the two of them a sidelong glance that pierced like daggers. A few thin scars sliced their way up and down his face, from many battles fought long ago. His hair was brown as dirt, and cut short to show off his slightly-pointed ears. He rested one of his hands on top of the hilt of what looked like a shortsword pressed against his waist, with the fingers thrumming together in an unknown sequence.
“Two children, wandering the wilderness alone?” the human man continued, “Surely you must be none too bright to be traveling these roads.”
“And ye look a bit scuffed too. A fine pair of troubles all your own,” the halfling cut in, eyeing Markra’s wounded shoulder.
Oh no… Brigands already? Markra bit the inside of his lip hard just to keep calm as he reached for his longsword. No doubt they planned to rob him; with his wound, and Imoen armorless, they’d be easy pickings for an expert mage and cunning thief. Not that they had anything really worth stealing, but the fiends didn’t know that, and he doubted it would stop them from trying.
But to Markra’s surprise, they didn’t attack him. Instead, the mage pulled out a couple of very familiar blue vials of liquid.
“I can offer you these healing potions, if you wish, as a token of goodwill.”
He flashed a crooked smile, and before Markra could even protest, he pressed the potions into his hand, and closed his fingers around them. Markra struggled to suppress a shudder as the man’s bony joints enwrapped themselves around his own hand for a few moments.
“Nothing to fear from these simple potions,” the man went on, “As true and blue as they come! Go ahead, take a gulp, and watch that sore shoulder vanish!”
Markra glanced once at Imoen before taking a closer look at the potion. He shook it a few times, and sure enough, the blue liquid swashed around inside, perfectly normal. Then, afraid that they would take it away if he didn’t use it right then and there, Markra took a cautious sip.
The deep slashes in his shoulder fizzed against his armor as he swallowed. There was a brief flash of light that illuminated his whole body before concentrating on just his shoulder. Within just a few seconds, Markra’s wound disappeared altogether…though his armor was still quite trashed.
“Thank you,” he told the strangers, “That was…very kind of you.”
“Oh, twas but a humble offering from a pair of good souls,” the human man said with a slight bow, “After all, what decent person could possibly turn a blind eye to someone so obviously weak—I mean… Someone who so obviously needs some aid? Why, I’ll not even hold you in debt…though your conscience knows otherwise.”
The halfling nodded. “Just like all good people.”
“You’re sure?” Markra asked, “I’m afraid we don’t have much money, but—”
“Well since you mentioned it,” the mage cut him off, and almost instantly, his seemingly generous attitude dropped altogether as he eyed Markra and Imoen with a predatory gaze, “Perhaps as payment you would go with us to Nashkel. It is a troubled area, and we mean to investigate some disturbing rumors surrounding the local mines. Some…acquaintances are very concerned about the iron shortage. Specifically, where to lay blame in the matter. You would be useful, though I'll not hold you to it. We are to meet the mayor of the town, a man named Berrun Ghastkill, I believe.”
“Your conscience be your guide,” the Halfling added, and out of the corner of his eye, Markra couldn’t help but notice he had begun stroking the hilt of his shortsword. As if waiting to pull it out.
Imoen seemed to notice too as she cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered in his ear. “Hey, Marky… Is it just me, or are they kinda co-ercin’ us to go with them?”
“It sure looks like it…” Markra whispered back.
“No whispering!” the human suddenly shouted with his finger pointed high in the air, “I mean… Come, we are all honest men here. And…woman. There’s no need to keep hushed secrets among friends, is there?”
“And ye know what happens to men who be keepin’ secrets…” the halfling added in a lower voice. His hand still didn’t move off his sword hilt.
Imoen sulked with her hands crossed over her chest. And when she spoke, she took no care to hide her distaste, per their request. “I don’t like ‘em, Marky. They’re shifty and weird and the tall one’s givin’ us batty-eyes like there’s no tomorrow.”
The mage gasped as he thumped his fist against his heart and doubled over with fake hurt, while the halfling stood stoically glaring at the two of them.
“I don’t really like them either…” Markra agreed in a much quieter voice, “But…traveling could be difficult for just the two of us. These two look like they’ve done their fair share of fighting, and besides, they did give us a free healing potion…”
“Yeah, but all the way to Nashkel?” Imoen asked, “That’s far, Marky. Could take us days, weeks even! We don’t really wanna go all that far out of our way, do we?”
“No, no we don’t,” Markra concluded with a nod, then turned back to the strangers, “All right. I would join you, but I must meet someone first. Perhaps you could accompany us to the Friendly Arm Inn? It’s not so far from here, and we shouldn’t take too long.”
Once the mage picked himself up from his dramatic act, he and his companion huddled together, arguing in hushed voices. The pairing looked rather silly, with the mage having to squat down on his knees just to look at his partner at eye-level. But after a few minutes, they turned back around.
“We’ve precious little time,” the mage answered with a toothy grin, “but it’s always better to travel accompanied.”
The halfling nodded as well. “Aye, we’ll go wit’ ye. But ye owe us fer our time.”
“And now, for introductions!” the mage exclaimed, and then went on in a low voice, “I…am a mage of no small skill… The harbinger of death…destroyer of worlds…bringer of all doom! They call me… Xzar, the necromancer!”
He threw back his head and let out a high-pitched cackle as his hands seemed to claw at the air dramatically. The halfling just rolled his eyes and brushed past him, then offered his hand to Markra.
“I’m Montaron,” he said, “I’m good fer pickin’ locks and guttin’ bellies like fish.”
Markra shook it uncertainly. “And I’m Markra, and this is Imoen. A pleasure to meet you, Montaron…and Xzar…”
But he jerked forward when Montaron yanked his arm forward, so their faces were just inches from each other. Markra almost fell straight on top of him.
“Don’t mention it…” Montaron growled, “Really… Don’t.”
And he let go of him, and skulked back over to Xzar. The necromancer’s crazed laughter finally came to a dead halt when Montaron smacked him in the side with the brunt of his fist. Xzar glared at him, but finally seemed to recover his composure as he held his chin high in the air and fixed his collar.
“Now, onward, my newfound friends,” Xzar began as he cleared his throat, “The Friendly Arm Inn lies this way! Quickly, quickly! No dilly-dallying! Hehe… Dilly-dally…”
Markra and Imoen just stared after them as they marched down the gravel road.
“Markra…” Imoen began, “Just what have you gotten us into?”
“I hope we don’t have to find out…” Markra muttered back with a sigh, but they wouldn’t get to the Friendly Arm Inn by just standing around gawking at their newest companions. He and Imoen followed after them, keeping their hands on their weapons cautiously as they stared at their backs.
If I recall correctly, the reason I stopped updating this was because the chapters were getting too long to post within one sitting, and I hated having to break them up into different posts. Plus inputting all of the html formatting was getting troublesome (I use italics a lot). And I...well... There's no nice way to say it. I'm bad at updating. I'm lazy, forgetful, and easily distracted. I procrastinate if I find something too hard. And my confidence tends to drown itself in a toilet of self-torment.
But I'd like to think that when I do sit down and pour my heart onto the pages, something great emerges. Maybe not right away, but with enough hard work, little by little, I know I can create a good story.
There's more that I've written on Fanfic.net (link) that isn't here, but I realize that not everyone who frequents the forums has a fanfiction.net account. So, in the light of everyone's awesome stories (like here and here and here and here!), I thought I'd share my work with some of you guys who hadn't seen it before.
Feel free to critique or comment if you'd like either on ff.net or right here. Also, I LOVE FEEDBACK. I cannot stress that enough--I can't get better if people don't point out what I'm doing right and wrong.
So, here it is, more of my novelization attempt at Baldur's Gate.
The trees seemed to cluster together as the four of them traveled east, and the green of their leaves took on an amber hue as the sun slowly dipped from the sky. As Markra suspected, traveling in a party of four was a lot safer than when he was just with Imoen. What few wild animals and monsters they had run into were little match for their arrows, paired with Montaron’s shortsword and Xzar’s sling.
“My my, you are the impressive sort!” Xzar praised with the clap of his hands as Markra cleaned off the stray stains of blood from his sword. “Well, a little. Maybe. Not nearly as good as me though.”
“Um… Thanks?” Markra replied uncertainly. “I’ve done a lot of training while growing up, but I’m still kind of new to this…”
His eyes darted once to the drying blood stains on his armor, but managed to suppress a shudder. I’m an adventurer now… I have to get used to this.
Xzar’s head tilted to one side, and all of a sudden, his nose was just inches from Markra’s. Markra stood rigid at the necromancer’s wily grin.
“Ohhhh?” he said. “And where, perchance, would that have been? The place that you ‘grew up?’”
“Candlekeep…”
“Ah!” Xzar’s eyes seemed to light up as another giddy grin slid into his face, like a snake slipping through the tall waves of grass. “Candlekeep, the fortress of books and scrolls and spells! Especially spells. Special spells!” Then his gaze narrowed. “Tell me, are elves a common sight in Candlekeep?”
Why is he suddenly asking so many questions? Markra met his thin gaze with a steely one of his own. “I don’t know. Are halflings and crazy humans a common sight on the road?”
“Crazy?” Xzar sulked. “Is it really so crazy to bear an estranged curiosity for one’s traveling companions? Come, my friend, I only wish to know more about you.”
“Then why don’t you ask Imoen?” Markra asked, nudging his head in her direction. “She’s your ‘friend’ too, isn’t she?”
“Because she’s not nearly as pretty!”
On “pretty,” Xzar’s voice shot up high by at least two octaves, and then began biting his fingernails, as if to bite back the widening grin on his face. Imoen glared and shouted a protesting “Hey!” at him while Montaron held his head in his hand. Markra’s eye twitched, unsure whether Xzar was being serious or just acting crazy again, but he shook his head and started walking down the road again.
“Well, if you have to know…” Markra muttered, half-hoping Xzar wouldn’t hear him. “I grew up in Candlekeep because my adopted father lived there. I don’t have any idea where I came from before that. And now that I’ve grown up, I don’t think it really matters—I’m out of there now, and…and I won’t be going back.”
He was lying, of course. Markra had always loved Gorion as a child and was grateful for him raising him, even if his life was ridden with chores and boring studies. But there was always that nagging voice in the back of his head that couldn’t help but ask the same questions over and over again—where had he come from? Who were his real parents? Gorion hardly ever spoke of them, and even then, what few glimmers of knowledge that had passed his lips only spoke of his mother…and the gruesome fact that she had died giving birth to him.
What good does it matter, anyway? Markra thought bitterly. Gorion was my father, the only father that ever mattered to me, and now…now he’s gone. Even if I ever met my real father, it wouldn’t fill the void. In fact, I’d probably just grow angry.
His fists curled at his sides for a moment, but he shook the thought away just as it came. He glanced once back at Xzar, who was nodding several times as he held his chin with his finger and thumb, an oddly sage-like appearance so drastic from his normal insanity.
“I see, I see…” the necromancer sighed. “Such a sad tale, really, not knowing your real parents. My heart grieves for you, friend.”
For just a split second, Markra swore he saw some good in him. “Th-Thank you… So, um… What happened to your family? Or the place you grew up in?”
“I BURNED IT ALL TO THE GROUND WITH FIRE!” Then crazy Xzar came back as his bleeding fingers clawed at the air once more with a crackle of laughter, before he coughed and caught his breath. “Or at least… I think I did. Maybe. Or maybe that was the other guy. I can’t really remember. Oh well!”
He suddenly glanced back at Montaron. “Montaron! Pick up your stubbly little feet! You are slowing us down!”
“Me an’ my ‘stubbly feet’ will walk as slow or fast as we so damn be pleasin’,” Montaron growled under his breath. “An’ none of your cacklin’ will change that.”
Xzar flung back his head with a howl. “Ugh, Montaron! You are so aggravating!” And he continued his trek down the road, an angry stomp in his step.
Markra just watched him go for a few minutes before following after him with a sigh. He seems normal one moment, almost pleasant even, but then it changes in a heartbeat. There’s no way to tell what that man is thinking…if he’s even thinking at all.
“Ho there, wanderer. Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man.”
The voice seemed to echo through the trees as an elderly stranger suddenly approached them. The quartet stopped dead in their tracks and eyed the him wearily. His bright red robes and equally red pointy hat seemed to pop against the backdrop of emerald trees. He carried a wood walking stick that curled at the top in one hand, and held a smoking pipe to his lips with the other. Threads of old white hair hung from his chin, but their curls made them aloof, like the wisps of a mischievous phantom’s tail.
Where did he come from? Markra stared at the man with wide eyes, and his fingers twitched as they grasped the hilt of his longsword. But this stranger appeared no more dangerous than any other elder he’d ever met; surely there was no need to fear him…right?
The man simply smiled and carried on, completely oblivious to the heavy tension in the air.
“Forgive me,” he chuckled. “It’s been nigh unto a tenday since I’ve seen a soul walking this road, and I’ve been without decent conversation since.” He took another deep gulp of smoke, and stared at the party up and down, taking in their every detail in the blink of an eye. “Traveling nowadays appears to be the domain of either the desperate or the deranged. If thou wouldst pardon my intrusion, may I inquire which pertains to thee?”
Markra took a moment to decipher the formal speech. Then he frowned slightly, feeling a little insulted.
“Well not to imply anything, but how do you measure up to your own standards?” he asked. “Pestering strangers about their mental state doesn’t seem all that ‘well-adjusted’ to me.”
The elder stroked his chin for a moment before giving a nod and wry smile.
“Point well taken, and thou hast answered my query most adequately. I shall think of thee as determined instead.” Then he put his pipe back in his pockets, and gripped his walking stick with two hands. “I shall trouble thee no more, as thou art more than capable of the task at hand. North is the Friendly Arm Inn, where I am certain thou shalt find trustworthy friends awaiting. I have said too much and taken too much time from thee… Fare thee well.”
“What the—wait a minute!” Markra shouted after him, but despite his elderly age, the old man walked straight past him, and quickly disappeared amongst the trees.
Imoen stared after him with her hands on her hips. “Who the hey was that crazy old man? He sure did talk funny, huh Marky?” But her frown dipped away into a more concerned look as she met his gaze. “And is it just me, or…did he seem to know you?”
“I don’t know,” Markra answered. “I’ve never seen him before, but he knew we were going to the Friendly Arm…”
“Well, that’s not so unusual,” Xzar pointed out with the shrug of his skinny shoulders. “We are, after all, a party of adventurers lost in the woods with night-time vast approaching.” Then he eyed Markra with that predatory gaze again. “Unless of course, dear old Marky here has a friend of his he neglected to tell us about…”
“I just said I don’t know the guy!” Markra snapped. “And don’t call me Marky. Only Imoen gets to do that, and only because I’ve given up telling her not to.”
“Of course, dear Markra! Whatever you want!”
That time, Xzar let out a shrill, effeminate voice and hugged his torso like a swooning woman. Markra felt a chill run down his spine, but before he could take a step closer to the necromancer, Montaron unsheathed his shortsword and pointed it just inches from Markra’s stomach. Imoen also drew her shortsword, and stood by Markra’s side as the two of them glared down at the halfling. Birds cawed in the distant branches above them as they watched, and waited…
Until, finally, Montaron sheathed his sword. “It’s gettin’ dark. The Arm’s thataway. Better be gettin’ there by dusk before the bad things creep outta hidin’.”
Markra bit the inside of his mouth just to keep from voicing his thoughts. You and Xzar aren’t exactly in hiding, either.
But with a reassuring nod from Imoen, the pair of them sheathed their weapons and followed their bizarre companions forward. The sunset had begun to fade into dusk, turning the sky a faint purple, and the first flickers of distant stars had begun to gleam through the oncoming darkness. As much as he hated to admit it, Montaron was right; they needed to get moving.
As he walked, Markra stole one more glance over his shoulder, back at the spot where the old man had appeared. But there was no trace of him anywhere in sight.
***
Long after the sun had dipped below the horizon line and the shadows of night had overtaken the once-brilliant orange sky, the party finally spotted the wall. Passing under the entry arch and over the draw bridge, they saw the fortress’s tall silhouette, towering over the stables, temple, and other small buildings. Windows almost as thin as arrow slits glowed golden in the distance, piercing through the darkness like divine rays sent by the gods. They were built into old bricks of slate and clay, stained with age and cracked in a few places, like scars from a nameless battle fought long ago.
Markra’s jaw dropped. “This is supposed to be an inn?”
“It’s…humongous!” Imoen gasped beside him.
“Oy! This yer first time at the Arm then, travelers?”
Markra and Imoen turned their heads to the guardsman patrolling the draw bridge, dressed in leather armor over a red tunic and leaning his weight on a longsword he stuck hilt-up in the ground. He flashed a toothy grin that seemed to wrinkle the small scar on his cheek.
“It actually used ta be a stronghold,” the guard explained. “An evil cleric took up residence ta practice dark magic and crap like that. But a long while back, a gnome named Bently Mirrorshade and his party took the guy out, and now they run the place!”
“That’s amazing…” Markra said, staring back up at the castle-like tower of the Arm. “This place is nothing like Winthrop’s inn… Bently must have been a really strong adventurer to conquer such a large fortress.”
Xzar openly scoffed right in his ear. “Bah! Such a foul creature would stand no match against I, the harbinger of death!”
“More like the harbinger of ye own death…” Montaron growled under his breath.
“Silence, impudent Montaron!”
Markra rolled his eyes as Xzar proceeded to kick Montaron in the shin, only to have the halfling sidestep out of the way and walk past him. Xzar stomped after him, comically shaking his fists at his sides. After bidding his thanks to the guardsman, Markra hurried after them before they could get in trouble, Imoen in-toe.
It took them a few minutes to find the entrance, as the stairs were blocked from their view thanks to the wide and weathered walls of the large inn. The grassy enclave within the protective walls was mostly empty at this time of night, aside from the guardsmen doing their hourly rounds and a couple of drunken fools stumbling about. Cows mooed quietly from within the stables as a servant hurried to feed their dinner and clean their dens.
Markra kept his ears sharp for any sound that might be out of the ordinary. It was only last night when he was still fleeing for his life through the woods, and he found the oddly calm and quiet evening within the keep unnerving.
When they reached the foot of the stairs, a welcome sigh escaped his lips. Despite his fears, at least he would sleep in a bed tonight.
But he’d only relaxed for a moment before a figure dressed in dark robes stepped out of the shadow of the doorway, and walked down to them.
“Ah, hello friend,” the stranger greeted them. “I’ve not seen you here before today. What brings you to the Friendly Arm?”
They stopped in their tracks.
“Oh, nothing much, really,” Markra answered. “Just road-worn travelers, looking for a place to rest.”
“I see, I see,” the stranger continued, nodding his head. “Pardon my being too forward, but you’ve the bearing of someone I’ve been looking for… About your height, same style of dress, or thereabouts. I daresay, you seem to be the spitting image of them. Might you have traveled from Candlekeep, by any chance?”
Markra’s eyes darted once to Imoen, and then to Xzar and Montaron over his shoulder. Hairs on the back of his neck pricked up as the nervous knots began to coil in his stomach.
“I may have visited there on occasion… What of it?”
The stranger shrugged. “Oh, nothing really. I’m just looking for someone from that region. Would your name be Markra, by any chance?”
Markra bit back a curse. “I’ve never heard that name before in my life. Sorry.”
But the stranger’s eyes seemed to light up in the dark, and Markra knew he’d given himself away. “Oh, but I would beg to differ. You fit the description, so I think it would be safe to assume you are the one I seek.”
The stranger lifted his quarterstaff, and pointed it at Markra with both hands.
“Don’t move. I have something for you.”
Shink! The hiss of three swords leaving their sheathes bit the crisp night air as Markra, Imoen, and Montaron all drew their weapons. With a giddy cackle, Xzar drew back and loaded his sling with a polished bullet, but before any of them had the chance to land a hit, the assassin’s hands and fingers danced to life with magical gestures. In just an instant, four transparent clones of the mage shimmered around him, each copy grinning as deviously as the original.
Markra raised his sword and swung it down in an arc, but as it passed through one of the copies, it flickered out of existence and sliced only air. Montaron was more so, sneaking behind the mage and stabbing him through the stomach. But the image evaporated out of thin air, earning a scowl from the halfling.
The mage’s hands began to dance again, a purple glow alighting his fingers with every gesture. Markra tried to swing at him again, but he only hit another copy. A golden orb flew from the mage’s hands, straight past the party before stopping in a little space in the center of them, and disappeared with a hum.
Suddenly, a sheer cold terror crept into Markra’s soul. He didn’t know why, but he was very afraid. Images flashed in and out of his mind—of Gorion and himself, butchered by the man in spiked armor. Panic gripped his heart with greedy claws, beating fast against his ribs.
I have to get away! Markra’s feet took on a life of their own as he turned his back and fled. He didn’t have any clear idea of where to go, but his legs kept pressing further, wandering as far from the mage as they could. He glanced about him and saw Montaron and Imoen doing the same thing—Imoen outright dropped her short sword and ran away while Montaron snuck down an alleyway.
With almost the entire party split up and utterly defenseless, the mage’s hands lit up again, this time with the spark of pink. Markra knew that spell, a Magic Missile, and knew how dangerous it could be when cast by a high-level mage. Magic Missile was the type of spell that only grew stronger with you, and very little can stop it. If the mage was after his life, then that missile would be headed straight for him.
The thought of the oncoming attack only seemed to inflame the powerful fear in Markra’s heart. He broke into a ran, dashing down an alleyway and encircling the square of a house before reemerging in the fray. A couple of guardsmen stopped in their tracks as he sped in front of their path, but they drew their swords upon seeing the commotion. Not that it would matter. They wouldn’t be able to reach the mage in time before he cast his spell.
But the attack never came. Instead, Xzar, the only one not affected by the Horror, gave a flurry of hand gestures all his own, and a white orb flew from his hands and landed straight into the mage’s torso. The pink sparks disappeared from his hands, and he winced as the spell struck him. He waited a couple moments more before he began chanting another spell, but Xzar was ahead of him. Xzar let out a giddy laugh as he cast another spell, a copy of the same he’d thrown before.
The assassin flinched and bent down on one knee. He reached into his rucksack lying against his hip and stuck his shaky hand inside. He may be out of spells, but he still had a couple of scrolls left that he could read off of.
Then he froze as Xzar ran up and sliced the last of his ethereal copies out of the air with his dagger. Without the copies to distract the adventurers, he’d be easy pickings for them. So he abandoned his search for his other scrolls and drew himself back to his feet. He gripped his quarterstaff with both hands, ready to defend himself.
Xzar was clumsy with his dagger, being that it was such a short blade. He lunged at the assassin with every attack, just to get in the extra range, but the assassin always stepped barely out of his reach. His quarterstaff gave him the advantage of range, yet every time he tried to take a whack at Xzar, the necromancer slipped and slithered out of his way, curving his body in obscure angles to dodge the attacks.
Finally, after whiffing a series of blows, the assassin got lucky and clonked Xzar right on the head with the flick of his staff. Xzar let out a loud “OW!” and rubbed his forehead comically. The assassin raised his staff one more time, preparing for the final blow—
But a cold metal blade stabbed into him. Choking on blood, the assassin looked down to see the bloody tip of a shortsword protruding from his chest, just millimeters away from his heart. From the corners of his eyes, he saw the silhouette of Montaron stepping out of the shadows and the yellow teeth of his thin grin. With a final grunt, the assassin’s knees buckled, and he dropped his quarterstaff. Montaron slid his body off of his shortsword with a rude kick, and didn’t even wipe the blade clean before returning it to its sheathe.
Markra and Imoen were just about to bump into each other when the Horror wore off. Markra skidded to a stop as Imoen doubled over and gasped for breath, having run circles around the Friendly Arm’s courtyard. Markra’s heart still pounded like rapid fire in his ribcage, but now it was driven by the exercise rather than the imaginative fear.
“Are you…okay…?” he asked Imoen between gulps of air.
“I think so…” Imoen answered.
“Oh, Markra darling!” Xzar called to them with the same fake feminine voice. “I think we’ve killed your friend.”
“He wasn’t my friend,” Markra grumbled as he and Imoen rejoined them.
“Hey! What’s going on over here!?”
All four of their heads looked up to see a couple of the Arm’s guardsmen approaching them, with their swords drawn.
“This man attacked us,” Markra answered, trying to stay calm. “We were only defending ourselves…”
The guards glanced at one another, and then at the party, scanning them up and down. Then, after a couple of minutes, they sheathed their weapons.
“If that’s true, then it’s just as well he’s dead,” one replied. “The Arm’s a shelter to any and all who come here, and anyone who draws steel won’t go unpunished. You four’d best remember that while you’re here, if you don’t want to meet his fate.”
“Hey, we ain’t the ones who started it!” Imoen snapped, but Markra raised his arm in front of her to cut her off.
“No need to worry about us,” he recovered, “but thank you for your concern.”
“Good… Now, it’s best that you finish your business quick with him and get inside. We’ll take care of the body for you.”
The other guard nodded. “Ol’ Mirrorshade wouldn’t want that lying on the steps. Bad for business, he’d say.”
“Pfft. Only business? A dead body’s bad for just about anything, but the gnome only seems to care about business.”
“Hey now, he’s still our boss. And a tough one too. Gotta keep your voice down…”
“And how’s he gonna hear us, eh? Did his ears get bigger or somethin’?”
As the guards’ voices degenerated into small talk, Markra turned his attention back on the assassin. Montaron hovered over him, as if waiting for the corpse to spring back to life, while Xzar giddily went through his pockets in search of loot.
At the sight of the necromancer pulling out a magic scroll from the dead body, Markra’s eyes widened and he shot out his arm to grab it.
“H-Hey!”
“Oh, what? Did you want one?” Xzar asked with his tongue sticking out. “That’s not very fair, you know. It’s not like you were much help during the fight.” Then he stuck his finger up in the air like a genius. “And the spoils always go to the victor! So they say…”
Markra couldn’t hide the spiteful sulk on his face, but as much as he hated to admit it, he was very useless during the fight, and he did very well owe his life to Xzar and Montaron.
“All right, all right,” he surrendered. “I guess you guys did just save our lives…”
“We could have just let ye die,” Montaron whispered. Markra suppressed a cringe, but Xzar smacked the halfling on his foot.
“Now now, Montaron! The brats—I mean, companions, are far more valuable alive than they are dead.”
Imoen stomped her heel into the ground. “Who’re you callin’ a brat, ya mongerin’ riff raff?”
“Companion! I said companion, little girl!”
“That’s not what I heard!”
“Aieee! Please don’t hurt me, little girl! Sweet girl, happy girl, honest girl!”
With Xzar distracted, Markra took the chance to dig into the mage’s pockets himself. He still needed to figure out who he was and why he chose to attack him. He could only think of the ambush that had killed Gorion last night—could this person be related to the armored figure? After all, he’d been sent here to wait for him, and even knew his name and features.
After a couple minutes of digging, Markra found another scroll. This one wasn’t as thick as the magical ones, so it had eluded Xzar’s search. Upon unclasping the seal and unrolling the parchment, the words “BOUNTY NOTICE” screamed back at him in bold, capital letters.
“Be it known to all those of evil intent that a bounty has been placed upon the head of Markra, the foster child of Gorion. Last seen in the area of Candlekeep, this person is to be killed in quick order. Those returning with proof of the deed shall receive no less than 200 coins of gold. As always, any that reveal these plans to the forces of law shall join the target in their fate.”
Markra felt the blood drain from his face.
I’m…wanted…? he thought. His own voice seemed to echo back to him inside his head as if lost across an empty abyss. But why? I haven’t even done anything wrong!
Then he read over the letter again, his eyes narrowing with every word. But…wait… Anyone who reports this bounty to the law will join the target…? Then this can’t be the work of the authorities. This…This could only have come from the same people who attacked me and Gorion.
“What have ye there?”
Markra’s shoulders jumped at Montaron’s voice, just inches from his ear. His eyes flew up from the page, and finally noticed all three of his party members staring at him. Or rather, in Montaron’s case, trying to stare over him to read the paper.
“Oh, nothing,” Markra stammered quickly as he crinkled the note. “Just a love letter of some kind. Garbage, more like.”
He flashed a joking smile, but Montaron returned it with the same dead stare.
“But he must have had a reason for killin’ ye,” he snapped. “What reason would that a been, Markra?”
Markra’s shoulders sagged and he let out a heavy sigh. “I wish I knew… But…hopefully the people we came here to meet will have some answers for us.”
“Yeah, really,” Imoen added. “Let’s hurry up and get inside before some other weirdo shows up!”
Despite their ever-growing suspicions, it seemed neither Montaron nor Xzar were up for another fight in the dead of night. That, and the guards had grown quiet again, frowning at the adventurers impatiently. With a series of agreeing nods, Xzar scooped up his bundle of magic scrolls, and all four of them disappeared into the Friendly Arm Inn.
The savory scents of a freshly cooked meal and the warmth of a crackling hearth enveloped them like a wave as they stepped inside and closed the door behind them. The inn buzzed with life as customers gossiped amongst themselves around dozens of round tables. A tiny troupe of minstrels had set themselves up on the far side of the room, blaring horns and jingling bells on their hips. Their music bounced off the walls of the huge space, about ten times larger than Winthrop’s humble inn. A few bright paintings popped with color against the deep blue of the walls, depicting rolling hills and castles and a couple fantastical creatures.
Markra and Imoen stood just as stunned as they were outside.
“Wow…” Markra gasped. “The inside sure didn’t disappoint.”
“And let’s hope the food don’t disappoint neither, cause I’m starved!” Imoen added with the clutch of her belly.
Markra felt his stomach rumble as he took a long whiff of the faint, meaty air-trails wafting through the room. “Me too…”
“And me three!” Xzar interjected. “And me four! And me five!”
“There’s only four of us, ye git,” Montaron growled.
Xzar groaned. “Montaron! I was talking about Me, Myself, and I!”
“Come on, you two.” Markra interrupted as he stood between them and pushed them away from each other with his hands. “Let’s just find a seat.”
Xzar’s mouth hung open while Montaron shot Markra a deadly glare that read, “When did you become the boss of me?” But the group’s growling stomachs silenced any kind of madness the necromancer had prepared to spew. One of the waitresses spotted the newcomers and shouted over the crowd that they could sit anywhere they liked. Once they found an open table, she swung by and handed out menus, before begrudgingly dashing off again to answer the male call, “I need some ale!” from the opposite side of the room.
First came the round of drinks: wine for Markra and Imoen, while Xzar ordered the menacing Shadowdark Ale and Montaron the Bitter Black Ale. The food took a while longer to prepare, and plenty of time for the four companions to kick back and relax.
While he was taking a sip of his wine, Markra’s ears perked up on a conversation behind him, at a table right next to them.
“Oy! Me fork broke again!” one of the male patrons shouted at a passing by waitress.
“Cripes, Jerry, that’s yer fourth one!” the waitress gasped as she took the fork. “How many times do I gotta tell you to stop slammin’ yer utensils on the table?”
“It ain’t my fault! I was just spoonin’ up a piece of meat when the bridge cracked! Why can’t you just find me a good fork!?”
“Good forks, bad forks, they all look the same to me! Go get yer own if you’re so worried!”
“Fine, I will! At my own house! C’mon, Hugh, let’s get outta here!”
“Hey! Your bill! You have to pay your bill!”
But Jerry and his friend ignored the hollering waitress and stomped out of the tavern. Another couple of men seated at the table next to theirs watched them go, one an older gentleman with a black beard and mustache while the other was younger with auburn hair.
“And there goes another one…” the older man grumbled. “Blast this iron shortage. First the roads get cut off, and now this…”
The younger man pounded the butt of his fist against the table surface with a frustrated frown.
“I can’t stan’ the way the way the roads are cut off these days!” he yelled. “Me uncle’s in Baldur’s Gate an’ I can’t get there to see ‘im.”
“You and plenty others, Jopi. You and plenty others…”
Markra leaned back a little in his chair and twisted his body around to face the pair of them.
“Why are the roads cut off?” he asked, honestly intrigued.
The two men stared up at him, eyes wide.
“Where you been the last few months?” the younger man, Jopi, asked. “The roads are crawling with brigands and bandits after every scrap o’ iron you got on ye. Surely you must have fled some on the trip here—I know we did.”
“Lest he came from the west road, that is,” the older one pointed out with a gulp of his beer.
We were attacked on the west road… Markra thought. But it wasn’t bandits, was it? Not those strong of foes.
“And why not the west road then?” he asked them again.
Jopi scoffed. “Well, if there’s ever a book shortage, that road to Candlekeep will be the most dangerous of them all, I assure you. But these folks are after metal, so they’re sticking mainly to the larger trade routes between Baldur’s Gate and Amn… An’ guess what? This here inn is smack dab in the middle o’ it all!”
At that point, the food arrived for both tables, and the men went back to their own business. Markra steered his full attention on the glazed ham and collard greens on his plate, and took all of his willpower just to keep from stuffing his face like the rest of his party. True, he may have grown up in Candlekeep, but he still had some elven pride.
As they ate, Markra looked up between bites to scan the tavern, just in case something awry would catch his eye. They wouldn’t want their meal time interrupted by another battle, after all. On the farthest end of the tavern was the welcoming desk. It seemed to function more like a bar than a desk, with giant wine casks mounted on top and bar stools sitting under the rims. And on the other side, the round head of a gnome poked just above the rim, the owner Bentley Mirrorshade. Markra stifled a chuckle, lest he choke on his food.
But standing a little ways away from the desk were a couple of strangers he hadn’t noticed before. They looked really out of place, being the only other armed individuals in the room, and even from this distance, Markra could notice their ears. They weren’t as long as his, but he recognized the slight elvish tips at the ends. Half-elves, one man and one woman. The man shifted on his weight back and forth uncomfortably, dressed in some kind of metal armor, while the woman stood rather stoically with her hands crossed over her torso and a quarterstaff strapped to her back.
His eyes wandered back to his own table. Imoen let out a quick curse as her knife suddenly broke in half as she struggled to cut through her steak. Markra poked her arm with his fork to get her attention.
“Gah! What?” she asked.
“See those guys next to the bar?”
Imoen gave him a frown, but she turned around in her chair to see what he was looking at. After a few moments, she spun back around.
“The armored guys?” she asked. “Yeah, I see ‘em now. Wait… Are they elves?”
“Half-elves,” Markra corrected. “I think, anyway. Kinda hard to see from here.”
“They’re the only ones in this whole place with weapons…” Imoen’s eyes widened. “You think they’re the ones Gorion talked about?”
“I’m willing to bet on it.” Markra stood to his feet, his chair skidding across the hard wood floor with a loud grate. “I’ll go talk to them. You stay here, and…try to keep those two out of trouble.”
He muttered the last part just to keep Montaron and Xzar from hearing over their own chewing noises. Imoen gave a mock-salute with a cheeky grin.
“Aye aye, Cap’n Marky! You go get ‘em!”
Markra just rolled his eyes with a hopeless smile as he left the table and crossed the room. As he moved closer, he could make out each of the half-elves features in clearer detail. The man was clad almost entirely in splintmail armor that gleamed faintly orange against the candlelight of the tavern, while the woman dressed in leather. She had long, light-brown hair, partially drawn back by dozens of thin braids, and stern, brown eyes. The man’s hair was covered by the steel of his helmet, though Markra swore he saw a couple tufts of red sneaking out of the edges. A sheathed longsword hung from his hip.
“Um, excuse me,” Markra began.
His timid greeting was met with backlash as the male half-elf practically leaped from his spot, his whole body wracked with nerves.
“HOOGALA BOOGALA WHATTALA—” Then he saw Markra, and almost instantly recovered his less-skittish stance with an awkward cough. “I mean… Yes?”
Markra felt his eye twitch. Oh no… Right when I thought I’d found someone sane…
“Sorry to have startled you…” he continued, trying to regain his shaken confidence. “I was told I’d meet some friends here… Are you Khalid and Jaheira?”
The woman seemed to come out of her thoughts as she directed her attention on the two men. The man blinked, glanced once at his companion, and then nodded.
“Wh-Why y-yes, that’s us,” he stuttered. “I-I’m Khalid… And this is my wife, Jaheira.”
“Greetings,” Jaheira cut in. Her voice was drenched in a thick accent Markra had never heard before. “You… You look familiar, though it is not your looks. Are you Gorion’s child?”
“Yeah. I’m Markra.” Then he tilted his head. “You both knew my father?”
“We are old friends of Gorion,” Jaheira explained, though she looked past him, as if searching for something. “Hmm… He is not with you? Then I must assume the worst. He would not permit his only child to wander without his accompaniment.”
For an old friend of Gorion, you sure don’t sound depressed that he’s gone, Markra thought a little angrily. His emotions must have shown, because Khalid caught his changed expression and gaped at his wife.
“Jaheira! M-Mind your m-m-manners!” he exclaimed, and then gave Markra a pitying stare. “If…If he has passed, we share your loss.”
And though he was still a little irritated, Markra’s face softened a little. He has a bad stutter, but at least he seems to have a heart.
“Gorion told me that if anything were to happen to him, I should go to you guys,” he explained.
Jaheira nodded. “Understandable. Gorion often said that he worried for your safety, even at the expense of his own. He also wished that Khalid and I would become your guardians, if he should ever meet an untimely end.” She analyzed him up and down out of the corners of her eyes. “However, you are much older now, and the choice of your companions should be your own.”
“W-We could t-travel with you,” Khalid suggested. “Until you get settled, at least. H-Help you find your l-lot in life, and all.”
“It would be a fitting last service to Gorion,” Jaheira agreed, as if she were in her own little world thinking aloud. “Though we should go to Nashkel. Khalid and I look into local concerns, and there are rumors of strange things happening at the mines there.” She glanced at Markra again. “No doubt you’ve heard of the iron shortage? You would do well to help us. It affects everyone, including you.”
Markra wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of Jaheira putting him to work almost a day after losing his one and only father, but she had a point. He’d already seen evidence of the shortage in the very inn—utensils breaking at the slightest pressure, and then the stories of the bandits scouring the east trade routes, attacking anyone who might have iron. It was troublesome, certainly strange, and if there was any chance of Markra “finding his lot in life,” he doubted he’d ever find a better start than Nashkel.
And, of course, there were a couple of other miscreants he happened to know who were also interested in the mines…
“It’s funny you should mention that, actually,” Markra began. “I’m already going to Nashkel. A couple of my current companions wish to visit there as well.”
Jaheira raised her eyebrows, a little impressed by this.
“Indeed? Interesting…” Then her eyes narrowed back into their stern brown slants. “Well in that case, we should definitely travel as one. You can never be too careful about the dangers of the open road. Wherever they may spring from.”
The words of the bounty note stuffed inside his pocket flashed behind Markra’s eyes. And then he remembered the Horror spell, the pure terror that had gripped his heart and turned him useless in battle. Then Gorion’s blood-stained robes as he held him in his arms, tears spilling out too much to stop…
“Yes… I’m learning that very quickly…”
“W-Well then,” Khalid stuttered again with a shy smile. “Perhaps you could sh-show us to your t-table? Best we all eat to-to-together.”
“Oh, yes.” Markra’s shoulders jumped slightly as he was pulled from his memories. “We’re over here. The girl’s a childhood friend of mine, Imoen, and the other two are…well, weird, to be honest. But they’re the ones interested in Nashkel.”
He guided them back over to his table, and took a turn at introductions around the table. Imoen greeted the half-elves with as wide a smile as ever, but as soon as Xzar and Montaron locked eyes with Khalid and Jaheira, the air about them thickened with tension. Their greetings were pleasant enough, but Markra could already tell that the pairs were immediately suspicious of each other. But then again, Xzar and Montaron seemed suspicious of almost anyone and everyone.
***
With a belly full of warm food and drink, Markra paid for their rooms at the counter and retreated to bed. Upon seeing the welcoming blankets spread across his mattress, Markra collapsed onto the bed, burying his face into his pillow. His bones and muscles ached in places he didn’t know he had, and the restrictive splint mail pressed against him in awkward angles. He wanted nothing more but to take it off, but there would be little point; he’d just have to put it back on the next day.
I can at least live without this damn helmet, he realized, and almost instantly yanked the helmet off his head. He let out a long sigh as his head sunk into the feather-soft pillow. When he closed his eyes, he could almost see his old room back in Candlekeep, with books strewn about the floors and walls, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the birds chirping their morning choruses…
Markra shook his head. Enough. You can’t go back there, and daydreaming about it isn’t going to solve anything. This is your life now—get used to it!
But he was so tired, and he felt as though his journey had just began. How could he ever possibly make it to Nashkel, and just how would solving some town’s mining problem help him avenge Gorion?
At least you have Imoen, and Jaheira and Khalid should prove useful too, he reminded himself. All you can do now is…rest… Just sleep… You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.
He stubbornly shut his eyes and laid his body deathly still. But he wouldn’t sleep for a long time yet. His mind was still wide awake, fit with worry and uncertainty towards the future. And when he finally did sleep, he was haunted by the nameless assassins seeking his bounty, chasing his heels as they rained down a storm of swords, arrows, and magic all around him.
By the next morning, Markra was the last one out of bed. He met his party overlooking a map of the Sword Coast around one of the tables sharing drinks and conversing travel strategy to Nashkel. Or at least, Imoen and Khalid were “conversing.” Jaheira’s voice was more like a scowl as she eyed Xzar and Montaron, while Montaron sat as stone-faced as ever against Xzar’s quiet cackling.
“S-S-So I think we could a-at l-l-least make it to B-Beregost b-b-by tonight, if we try,” Khalid explained timidly. His stutter wracked Markra’s ears as he approached, both tips slightly wilting on either side of his face.
“Beregost?” he asked. At the sound of his voice, the rest of the party looked up from the table.
“Heya, Marky!” Imoen greeted with a wave. “Ya sleep okay after that wild run last night?”
“More or less,” he said. “Now what’re the travel plans?”
Khalid opened his mouth to explain again, but Jaheira stepped in front of him and took the map off the table. Judging from the slight slump of Montaron’s shoulders, Markra wasn’t the only one grateful to be spared of the stammers.
“Nashkel is far to the south, along the Amn border,” the half-elf woman explained. “It will take us a few days to get there regardless of stops, so we think it best to stay a night in Beregost on the way. It is a simple town, but it has accommodations.”
“We can’t take a carriage or something to get to Nashkel faster?” Markra asked.
But Montaron shook his head. “Ain’t no sense usin’ those in bandit-ridden roads. May as well paint a huge sign on yer armor screamin’ ‘Hey, I got iron, attack me.’”
“Carriages and horses also make combat a hindrance,” Jaheira added. “We do not need one more thing to watch in the midst of a skirmish other than our own lives. We walk.”
Markra’s shoulders sagged, all too visibly to hide from Jaheira’s steely glare. But Imoen just laughed and patted his back.
“Don’tcha worry, Marky,” she whispered. “It’s not like we’re gonna be runnin’ the whole time!”
Indeed, running all the way from the Friendly Arm Inn would be a tiresome quest. Markra’s feet were still sore from the flee of his life two nights ago. But regardless, not even Imoen’s good-natured humor could dispel the wanted poster from his mind. The poster with his name and bounty on it, dispersed by the foes who so viciously hunted him and Gorion.
I sure hope she’s right, he thought, Running would grow tiring…very fast.
After grabbing a bite to eat, they packed up their few belongings and bought a few supplies from Bentley Mirrorshade. Out the doors they went, down through the courtyard, and under the stone arch of the inn’s sheltering walls.
***
Markra took a deep breath of the fresh air as he walked, and took the opportune moment to stretch his arms and shoulders. It was a nice change of pace, simply walking down the gravel road without fearing for his life so much. Sure, there were fights on their way to Beregost, but none of them nearly so dangerous as the unnamed assassins chasing his bounty. And out of the six of them, whatever wild animals or monsters that charged from the bushes hardly lasted long.
“Wh-Why yes,” Khalid stuttered as he walked beside him. “I-I would fancy d-doing that m-m-myself, with the s-sun shining high.”
“I’m just glad for the safer company,” Markra confessed. “You and Jaheira know how to fight, Khalid, far better than I do… You don’t have to act so nervous all the time.”
“N-N-Nervous?” Khalid pulled a sheepish smile. “Wh-Whatever do you m-mean? This is simply h-h-how I al-always am.”
“Right…” Markra simply nodded as his eyes wandered to Jaheira’s backside. She’d taken the lead between battles, marching with a confident strut and her quarterstaff bobbing on her back with every step. Between the two of them, the half-elf woman was Khalid’s every opposite—collected, calm, and battle-ready at any time. The fact that she could tolerate Khalid’s constant stuttering amazed him, especially when she gave no quarter to Markra’s “childish” concerns.
“So, how long have you and Jaheira been married?” Markra asked.
“O-Oh! Quite a few years,” Khalid answered. “I m-met her after I left Calimsham, and c-c-completed my military training.”
“Military training?”
Khalid laughed. “Does that surprise you? You don’t acquire much skill in fighting without it!”
“Well, no, course not…” Markra flushed a little, slightly embarrassed for the foolish question. “But it’s just… You don’t seem like the type of person who would join the military.”
“And what would make you think that, Markra?” Jaheira’s sharp voice suddenly cut in. Markra and Khalid stopped in their tracks as she turned around and met their stares with a fierce glare. “Khalid is a brave man, braver than any I’d ever known. I’ll not hear a word ill-spoken of him.”
Xzar chuckled behind them, while Montaron coughed suspiciously. That earned them an equally deadly glare, but Khalid put a hand on her shoulder before she could whack them with her staff.
“Please, J-Jaheira,” he stumbled, “you needn’t be so—”
His wife gave a wry smile at the sound of his voice. “Beautiful?”
“Ye—No! No, s-stay beautiful, despite yourself…”
She laughed, and stroked the side of his face. An oddly affection gesture that made Markra’s eyes widen a little. “Oh, Khalid, my dear, t’would take a sailor to untie that tongue. Perhaps you meant… Insufferable?”
Khalid heaved an exasperated sigh. “Yes. That is definitely it.”
Then her stroke turned into a light slap, and with the shake of her head, she retook the lead once more. Khalid rubbed the stinging spot on his cheek, but couldn’t resist the hopeless smile tugging each end of his lips.
“Lovely, isn’t she?” he whispered to Markra.
“I’m happy for you, friend,” Markra said as he patted his back. “I really am.”
And happy for myself, to not be married.
“Hey, Marky!”
Imoen’s voice pulled them from their private conversations. She had scampered off toward the trees, pointing into the woods with a giddy grin plastered to her face. Markra frowned when he saw her, and made a scolding march towards her.
“Imoen, I told you to stay on the trail!” he snapped. “You’re going to get into trouble if you keep doing that!”
“But Marky, look! I found a secret stash o’ belts!”
Imoen raised her arms for him to see, and as Markra grew closer, he could see a couple of belts slung over her shoulders, one on each. One was plainly ornate, skinny and worn, while the other was larger and studded with gleaming polished silver.
“Ooooh!” Xzar was far more impressed by Imoen’s treasure-hunting as he gaggle-eyed the loot, and clawed at the air with his mutilated fingers. “Quite the shiny things you’ve found there, dear girl. Perhaps she’d like to share…?”
“Get your own, creeper-pants!” Imoen snapped with her tongue sticking out. “You try sneakin’ past a smelly ogre and stickin’ your hand in a hole full o’ bugs, and then we’ll talk!”
Xzar sulked, and comically wept like a child who had his favorite toy taken away from his parents, before they’d even given it to him. But Jaheira stepped forward with narrowed eyes, and brandished her quarterstaff with both hands.
“What did you just say, child?” she asked.
“Huh? A hole full o’ bugs?”
“Before that.”
“Sneakin’ past a smelly—”
She didn’t need to finish. Dozens of bushes crunched behind them, followed by the rustle of tree branches slapped out of the way. Just behind Imoen, an ogre emerged from the green, dressed in raggedy leather armor and carrying a humongous morningstar in one hand. He towered over the petite, pink thief, his ears burning red with rage, as he raised his weapon.
“Thief!!” he shouted, his voice guttural and loud. “Me will crush you! Crush you to goo!!!”
The steel head of his morningstar blocked out the sun and cast a deathly shadow over Imoen. Imoen marveled at the sheer height, rooted by fear in her spot, and she dropped the belts to the ground.
“Move!!” Jaheira ordered as she charged forward, and shoved Imoen out of the way. She jammed her quarterstaff straight for the ogre’s head and struck his jaw, but the flail still came crashing down. Khalid ran in next and raised his shield to catch the blow. He crippled under the ogre’s weight, the shield visibly quaking on his arm, but he still stood on bent knees.
With the ogre distracted, Markra grabbed Imoen’s shoulders and dragged her to her feet. She scrambled for her shortbow and slid an arrow in place as Markra drew his longsword. Xzar stood back and flew bullets at the ogre’s head with his sling, but most of his shots went wide, and vanished somewhere into the brush. Montaron was nowhere to be seen, and Markra could only guess that he’d slunk into the shadows at the first sign of trouble.
“Now, what have we learned, Imoen!?” Markra shouted.
“Less talking, more fighting!” she snapped back, and aimed her bow for the ogre’s shoulder. The bowstring slapped her arm with a crack as the arrow flew high, and grazed the ogre’s skin. But the beast was hardly fazed as he raised his weapon again. It dived for the ground, right where Khalid had been standing, and a spray of dirt and dust flew into the air. Khalid had guessed the blow and dodged to the left, but he did not anticipate the ogre’s strength. He easily pried it free of the earth, with both hands, and swung again. This time, at Jaheira.
Jaheira backed away, but not far enough. The spikes of the morningstar dug into her stomach and flung her to the ground.
“Jaheira!!!” Khalid screamed.
He struck at the ogre’s arm, first a slash with his sword and a bash with his shield. But his skin was too tough. The ogre threw back its head and laughed, though it was cut off by a sharp grunt. Behind the ogre, Montaron melted out of the shadows and stabbed his shortsword into the back of his leg. The halfling let a toothy smile slide into his lips, but it didn’t last long as the ogre turned around. Annoyed, but not severely hurt.
“Thief!” the ogre screamed. “Crush thief and his knife!!!”
Montaron winced as the ogre slapped him away, like an unwanted insect that dared to suck his blood with a needle-like snout. Montaron’s shortsword didn’t follow, still wedged deep and tight in the ogre’s leg. Xzar let out a girlish shriek and nibbled his fingers at the sight of his partner falling into the bushes…but only a moment before his fingers sparked to life with magic.
The familiar white orb flew from Xzar’s hands and struck the ogre in the head. The monster wobbled in place, as if he’d had too much to drink, but he blinked away his dizziness after another arrow dug into his arm, courtesy of Imoen. His angry green eyes focused on the pink thief, and howled again as he remembered—she’d stolen his precious belts, the rotten little human. Her bones he would crush, her flesh he would eat.
“N-No!” Khalid shouted, and ran into the ogre’s path to Imoen. He banged his shield with the hilt of his sword, the metal-on-metal clang grating the ears. “Look at me, f-foul beast! It is I you’ll be f-f-fighting!”
The ogre winced under the loud drumming of sword and shield, and rubbed his head with one hand. Khalid almost regretted his choice as the ogre fixed his eyes on him next, and raised his weapon yet again.
“Quiet!! Too loud!!” he boomed, just before his steel came crashing down.
This time, Markra joined Khalid, pounding the ogre’s sword arm with graceful thrusts and slashes. Markra’s heritage shone its brightest next to the half-elf, even with his lack of real experience. But where Markra lacked polish, Khalid’s moves were solid and precise, seasoned from dozens of years of training and bloodshed. As the ogre tried desperately to smack Markra out of his range, the elf almost danced out of the way, while Khalid landed strict hits along his hamstrings.
With a loud moan, the ogre grabbed his bleeding arm and dropped his morningstar. Red and swollen scratches zig-zagged up and down the flesh, as far as Markra and Khalid could reach. Markra almost pitied the creature as he watched it rear back its ugly head, and weep like a baby.
“C-Can you handle him, Markra?” Khalid stuttered. “P-Please, I need to ch-check on Jaheira.”
“I got him,” Markra answered, and gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands. “Go to her.”
Khalid nodded his thanks, and ran to where his wife had fallen. Though right when he heard his sprinting footsteps, the ogre pulled out of his weeping and roared again. He didn’t grab for the morningstar—he flung a wide punch for Khalid instead, with his healthy arm. Khalid barely dashed out of the way as Markra ran behind him, and blocked the blow with the brunt blade of his sword.
“Give me belts!!” the ogre snarled.
“If we give them back, will you stop trying to crush us?” Markra asked.
The ogre just howled as it drew back his arm for another punch.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.”
His punch went wide as Markra spun out of the way, and drove his sword straight up the length of the ogre’s arm. But while he was able to spin circles around one blow, he completely forgot about the monster’s other arm—the one that was supposedly too injured to move. The ogre used its entire body weight to swing his dead arm into Markra’s path, right when he least expected. Heavy, tough flesh thudded against Markra’s back, and threw him off his feet.
Markra rolled across the ground, shaken but unhurt. But before he had the chance to get up, the ogre charged him, and this time used his feet as his weapons. He stomped straight on Markra’s good sword arm, digging his grody heel into the metal bracers. Markra screamed as his bones crunched beneath the weight of the ogre. The monster couldn’t help but chuckle through a heaving grunt of pain, and bent down so he could breathe his rancid mouth in Markra’s wincing face.
“Been long time since I had elf,” he laughed. “You make fine jelly to spread on thief!”
“Not today, ugly!” Imoen shouted from far off. The whizz of a loose arrow flew over their heads, and dug straight into the ogre’s neck. He howled, and bent further over Markra as he clawed at the spot. Just close enough for Markra to grab his sword with his free arm, and swing the tip of his blade straight across the ogre’s stomach. With one last whimper, the ogre shut his eyes and fell over, as a spill of blood and the bulges of organs threatened to slide free from his gut.
Markra heaved a relieved sigh as he struggled to push off the ground, only to flinch and fall back down on his dead arm.
“Marky!” Imoen cried as she ran to him, and helped roll him over. “Hey, Marky, c’mon! Look at me, Marky! How many fingers do I got?”
She held up four fingers in his face. Markra glared with a pained groan.
“More than what you’re gonna keep when I’m done with you…!” he growled. Though his threat diminished into another wince as he held his crushed arm. A large dent in his armor showed the spot where the ogre’s foot had squashed him, another expense added in the back of Markra’s mind.
“Back away from him, Imoen,” Jaheira ordered. “Give the boy some room.”
So Imoen did, as Jaheira and her husband rejoined them. Jaheira hardly looked hurt, spare a few bruises where she’d hit her head. Far better than someone who’d just had her stomach torn out by the spikes of a morningstar. She knelt next to Markra with the same stern brown eyes as she examined him. It didn’t hurt him to just touch his arm, but as soon as she squeezed, he groaned.
“Well,” she said, “luckily for you, it’s not broken. Just badly bruised. Hold still now.”
And to Markra’s surprise, Jaheira’s hands came to life with a bright, white and blue glow. Cool magic flowed into his flesh, a bubbly sensation that numbed the pain and calmed his nerves.
“Vita. Mortis. Careo.”
She spoke the foreign words as she closed her eyes and danced her hands to a pattern of magical gestures. The flares of light licking the ends of her fingers suddenly burst apart in a flash, and encircled Markra’s entire body in a soothing embrace. The same coolness swept over him and soaked into his skin, and fizzed through the veins of his wounded arm. As if the magic burned the pain out of his body, and replaced it with the flow of fresh water. To invigorate, and refresh.
When the light finally dissipated, Markra flexed his arm and fingers. They didn’t hurt anymore, and moved however he willed them with as much ease as before.
“Divine magic…” he whispered, and gawked at Jaheira, “You’re a cleric?”
“Not quite.” Jaheira allowed a thin smile as she reached inside her tunic. A small, leather pouch lay in her hands, attached by a rope around her neck. Inside was a leafy stem of mistletoe. “A druid.”
“S-Sorry we didn’t tell you earlier, M-Markra,” Khalid told him. “Th-There hadn’t been much n-n-need for it. B-But, Jaheira’s magic has saved many lives over our adventuring careers, a-along with your father’s, Gorion.”
“No, it’s all right,” Markra assured him with the shake of his head. “I’m just glad to have a healer with us…”
Montaron crawled out of the bushes with a haggard breath, and slumped next to the ogre’s leg. After a few hard tugs, he pried his shortsword free and flicked the blood off the blade.
“Maybe ye could spare a shiny spell for me ribs an’ limbs?” he asked.
Jaheira frowned, but cast the spell again. His shoulders shook as the magic passed through him, and he flexed his fingers a few times just to make sure they worked.
While none of them were looking, however, Xzar crept over to the abandoned stack of belts in the grass. He chewed on his fingers to bite back a giddy laugh as he plucked one, and rigged it around his waist…
“HYAAAAAAAHHH!”
They all turned their heads at the sound of a maiden scream. They saw a woman dressed in green robes with tattoos all over her face. Her fingers were gnawed and bleeding as she squeezed her own breasts and traced her own hips, a wild look on her face.
“What has it done to me!?” she screamed. She pried at a large belt strapped on her waist, but despite her strength, it would not come undone. A string of curses and mournful cries spilled from her lips as she squirmed in place.
Markra could hardly believe his eyes, but something about her clothes and the tattoos, her gnawed fingernails, her over-dramatic mannerisms…
“Xzar?” he asked. “Is that… Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me you nincompoop!” Xzar shrieked. “Montaron! I need you, Monty! Get it off me, get it off me!!!”
Montaron could only scowl. “O’ course. A woman finally screams she ‘needs’ me, an’ it’s my bloody partner…”
“But it is pretty funny, don’tcha think?” Imoen laughed. “But uh… How’d that happen, anyway?”
“Strange…” Jaheira pondered as she stroked her chin. “A magic item that’s cursed to change the wearer’s gender, and can’t be removed by normal means…”
“Wh-What should be d-d-done, my love?” Khalid asked.
Jaheira was quiet, her brow knitted in thought. “I’ve little experience in removing curses. We’ll have to bring him to a temple along the way.” She glanced back at the crying Xzar, a wry smile tugging her lips. “In the meantime, the curse does not appear to hinder his combat abilities, and there is little harm in being a woman. We continue to Nashkel.”
This seemed very reasonable to Jaheira, but Xzar paled at the very thought.
“Y-You cannot leave me like this!” he…she screamed. “I am but a poor damsel in distress! Oh, where is my knight in shining armor when I need him?” Then she turned her beady eyes onto Markra, and practically ran into his arms. “Oh, my dearest Markra! Please make the curse go away! I’ll give you whatever you want, all of my feminine gifts!”
Xzar leaned in for a big slobbery kiss, but woman or not, Markra had no desire to lock lips with the crazed necromancer—he slapped Xzar across the face and pushed her off of him. Xzar yelped and held her cheek, before she pouted pathetically and tears swelled in her eyes.
“H-He hit me…” she sniffed. “Oh, woe is me! My beloved Markra doesn’t love me no mores!”
Markra winced and reached out his hand. “I-I’m sorry, that was—”
But Xzar’s tears quickly vanished as she wagged her finger in his face with a scathing glare.
“How dare you, Marky! How dare you hit a lady! You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“You ain’t no lady!” Imoen came to his rescue, stepping between them. “Now you be leavin’ him alone, ya batty witch!”
“No lady?” Xzar spat a laugh and groped her breasts. “But am I not, little girl? I’m more woman than you are!”
“What’d you say!?”
Amidst the chaos, Jaheira and Khalid began walking off, looking over the map to Beregost and scanning the trees for the road. Markra, not wanting to be left behind, skulked after them with his fingers in his ears. Maybe if he didn’t hear them, or didn’t see them, he could block out the evils happening behind him. As for Imoen, he needn’t worry about her long—she’d catch up eventually.
Night had fallen by the time they’d reached Beregost. Between the long walks and the all-too-frequent skirmishes on the road, the trip had taken longer than they’d thought. All the wiser, perhaps, to sleep under the roof of an inn for the night.
The streets were quiet, save for the stray animal or courtesan. Thin wisps of smoke rose out of chimneys while candles flickered in windows for light. Once in a while a bar would open up and spill its golden light over the cobblestone streets, before a stumbling drunk fell out. It was a small place, no larger than Candlekeep, but far busier than the scholarly refuge on the coast. Even at night.
Xzar walked the shadowy streets with a saunter in her step, a sway in her hips. She chatted up a few of the courtesans on the corner, but most of them slapped her away, too skittish to even do business. Other times, Montaron simply dragged her away, pulling on her belt to be sure she had to follow. It was a wonder the whole town didn’t wake from Xzar’s protests, screaming that she was being woman-handled by a scoundrel halfling.
“Is it just me,” Markra whispered to Imoen, “or is he enjoying his sex-change a little too much?”
“It’s not just you,” Imoen muttered back. Though not quietly enough to sneak past Jaheira’s ears.
“I find him rather tame compared to other tricks I’ve seen,” she said with a shrug. “Mind him not. We just have to find an inn.”
“Exactly what other tricks have you seen?” Markra asked with a raised eyebrow.
“W-Well,” Khalid began, “th-there was this one time, i-in the Druid Grove—”
“Khalid.” Jaheira laid a hand on his shoulder. And if Markra didn’t know any better, he could have sworn she was embarrassed. “Perhaps another time.”
“O-Oh. Yes, of course, dear.”
They passed a line of houses down the center street. Tiled roofs, stone walls, windows dark. Save for one, with candles lit in the windows and a crackling hearth inside. A man in mage robes sat on a large chair next to the flames, reading a book. Markra almost passed it by without a second thought, but the man’s features caught his eye. On a double-take, he recognized Firebead Elvenhair from Candlekeep.
“Hey.” Markra tugged on Imoen’s sleeve, and the rest of the party stopped in their tracks at the sound of his voice. “I’m gonna check something out real fast. I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay?”
“It would be unwise to split the group, Markra,” Jaheira argued. “Even a small town like Beregost does not come without its dangers.”
“I just want to see an old friend, that’s all,” he insisted, and pointed at Firebead’s house over his shoulder. “It’ll only take a minute.”
Jaheira looked once to Imoen, as if she knew who this “old friend” could be. Imoen just shrugged, to which Jaheira sighed.
“Very well,” she said. “We will be staying at Feldepost’s Inn down the way. You may meet us there when you have finished your business.”
Markra nodded his thanks and watched their backs walk down the street before he knocked on Firebead’s door. From the corner of the window, he watched the old man close the book and stand. Within the minute, he heard the soft footsteps of slippers against wood floors before Firebead opened the door. A small smile spread across his weary lips.
“Ah, Gorion’s ward, Markra was it?” he began. “This is a surprise.”
“I was surprised to see you too,” Markra agreed. “You’ve already made it here from Candlekeep?”
“A merchant band was kind enough to offer me passage, although with the many bandits, I hope they had arrived safely… Well, what are you doing, standing there for? Come in, come in!”
And he quickly ushered Markra inside and closed the door. The husky scent of brewing tea drifted through the living room under the hearth’s warmth, and eased Markra’s tired bones. Firebead disappeared momentarily into the kitchen to fetch the hot water before pouring both of them cups of brew.
“I offer you my deepest condolences, Markra,” Firebead said as he took a sip of his tea. “I heard what happened to Gorion. A good man, he was.”
“It’s…fine,” Markra mumbled, and took a quick swig of tea. Perhaps his burning tongue could occupy his thoughts before grief had the chance. “I actually wanted to ask… On the road between here and Candlekeep, did you happen to see an armored figure? He wore this helmet with rows of teeth around his eyes, and he was huge.”
Firebead stroked his chin, eyes squinting in thought. “Hmmm… I would remember if I saw something like that. I’m afraid I do not.”
Markra’s shoulders sagged, though he was not sure why. On the one hand, it seemed he had little to fear of the armored man hunting for his life. On the other, Gorion needed to be avenged, and he had no idea where his adversary was. Much less who he was, for that matter.
“Am I to guess,” Firebead began again, “that this armored figure is the one who—”
“Yes,” Markra answered. “He was the one who killed Gorion. And who nearly killed me.” His fists curled just thinking about it.
Firebead simply nodded, and put his cup down on the coffee table. The shadows of the fireplace seemed to carve into his age lines, hollow his face. “I see… Then I suppose I have no right to tell you not to go after him. He’s killed your father, and you are angry.”
He glanced once at Markra’s fists on the edge of the armchair. Markra’s shoulders jumped a little as he felt, for the first time, the sharp ridges of his nails digging into his palms. Reluctantly, his fingers relaxed again.
“I simply hope,” Firebead continued, “that you do not forget the love of books Gorion gave you, even as you hunt for his killer. Vengeance is a dark path, Markra, but books… Sometimes, they can shed a light and clear the way for you.”
Markra averted his gaze to the fireplace. His eyes stung around the edges, and he swore he saw Gorion’s smiling face in the dancing flames. Of course, Firebead had run many errands and jobs for the great sage, as one of the official book gatherers. They’d known each other well, perhaps enough to be friends. And Firebead knew the way Gorion spoke, precisely the words he would use to get under Markra’s skin. He did it now, as if he channeled Gorion’s ghost through the night. And, as kind as his advice was, it pierced through Markra’s heart like the shaft of a spear through his back.
“Ah,” Firebead stuttered as he rose from his seat. “Wait one moment. I have something for you.”
Markra watched him scramble behind the chair and fade into the shadows of the opposite wall. The grooves and spines of a bookshelf melted out of the darkness as Firebead ran his finger along the lines of books. Until he pulled one from the shelf and returned to his seat. He handed it to Markra, face up so he could read the title.
“History of the Dead Three…” Markra read aloud.
“The story of Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul,” Firebead explained. “Gods of hate, corruption, and death. It is a…darker tale, but I get a sense you may enjoy it nonetheless.”
He winked, to which Markra nodded as he took the book. “Yeah, I might. Thanks.”
“And one more thing.” This time, Firebead reached under his chair, and pulled out a cylindrical case, complete with a leather lid and a strap. “This is a scroll case, made especially for magic. I know Gorion’s taught you a few things, and magic scrolls are plenty in the adventuring world; use this to keep them safe.”
Markra’s eyes lit up a little as he took the case, a tad more eager than he did the book. But Firebead hardly noticed, nodding sagely as he sipped his tea and gazed at the hearth.
“It must be hard, without Gorion…” he murmured. “I wish you all the best luck in the world.”
“I’m getting better,” Markra urged him. Though he ignored the little voice in his head that whimpered like a child that longed to hide behind his foster father’s leg. “Thanks, Firebead. I have to meet my friends, but really, thanks for this.”
With the scroll case on his back and the book in-hand, Markra rose to leave. Firebead waved him goodbye with a warm smile, just before cracking open his own book once again.
***
Feldepost’s Inn was just down the street and easy to spot by the large sign with a djinn bottle scrawled on it. It was a warm, elegant inside, with pale tiles draped with red and gold rugs. The dining hall was alive with chatter as customers ate at crimson tables adorned with potted plants. A wooden staircase took up the center and split the room into two halves—one the bar and service desk, the rest full of dining tables.
Markra barely opened the front door before his head bumped into Xzar’s back. The necromancer shuddered with disgust and hugged her torso with a scowl.
“Watch where you’re touching, Markra!” she snapped. “I won’t resist to defend myself from lecherous elves!”
“Since when does bumping into your ba—oh, never mind…” Markra scowled as he squeezed past Xzar and brushed up against Imoen. “What’s going on? Why’re you crowded around the door?”
“Some drunk’s givin’ us a hard time,” she whispered. “Jaheira and Khalid are tryin’ to talk him down.”
“N-N-Now s-sir,” Khalid stammered as he waved his arms in front of his face. “I-I know you must b-be upset, b-but you’ve taken a bit to drink, a-and we are just as welcome here as you—”
The drunk was a human man, with tossled brown hair in a greasy mess and white cheeks that were tinted pink with booze. He shook his finger at Khalid’s face, and nearly jabbed his nail straight into his nose.
“I said get out!” he snapped with a slur to his voice. “I don’t like yer type in here!”
Another man from the far table barked a laugh and raised his glass. “Ha! You tell ‘em, Marl!”
Montaron growled under his breath as he reached for the shortsword hidden inside his coat. “Gimme one reason why we ain’t killin’ him yet…”
But Markra put a hand on his shoulder and held him in place before he could move. “He’s impaired. You can’t judge a man when he’s drowned himself in alcohol.”
“Ain’t stopped me before…”
“Hey!” Marl shouted again. This time, he noticed the newest entry to the group, and pointed a quaking finger at Markra. “I told you to get lost! Ain’t no room for ye troublemakin’ strangers!”
Markra pushed past Imoen and Montaron so he could stand beside Khalid. “There’s no need to get all bent out of shape. There’s plenty of bar for us all.”
“Hey, I take whatever shape I want!” Marl jabbed his finger just inches from Markra’s nose, and his breath stunk of wine and ale. “I’m sick of you freakish adventurers going out, consorting with gods know what, and dragging your trouble back into my hometown! What do you say to that!?”
“I just try to do what I think is right,” Markra answered honestly. “We solve a lot more trouble than we cause.”
Imoen snickered under her breath. “Well, very nearly anyway. Hehe.”
Not low enough to go unnoticed by Marl. He turned his bloodshot eyes on the prankster.
“Oh, you think it’s funny, do you!? You mess up the local economy with your treasure, you upset the balance of nature, you flash your magic around, and because of it somebody’s son thinks it’s fun and goes out and gets himself killed! It’s a bad example, and somebody oughtta kick your ass for it!”
Markra had never really thought of it like that before. Memories of his boyhood days in Candlekeep flashed behind his eyes, and all of the stories Gorion had told him at bedtime. The thrill of adventuring: the glitter of gold, the rush of battle, and the pride that swelled knowing how much good your travels would bring. Those dreamy days were long gone now, but it was more than enough for Markra to realize… This was more than just the burn of alcohol in a man’s brain.
Marl raised his arm as Imoen flinched, but Markra stood between them. “Now hold on! Whatever happened to that boy, it was his choice to do it. You can’t hold us responsible for what the Fates deal!”
“He was a good boy till your kind came through town!” Marl screamed. “Filled his head with nonsense they did, and because of it he’s dead! Now why shouldn’t I take that out of your hide!?”
“If you knew him the way you think,” Jaheira cut in, “then you should ask yourself if he wouldn’t have gone anyway. It is a calling you are born with. No one gives it to you.”
“Tain’t true!” Marl whirled on Jaheira with those same angry eyes. “He was going to take over the farm and settle down. Maybe apprentice with Thunderhammer during the winter. He never wanted to adventure!”
“That was what you wanted, Marl!” This time, the other man at the table added in. “Fun’s fun, but ye’re blaming these folks for what couldn’t be helped. That boy was a firebrand if ever there was.”
“No! He was settling down!” Marl insisted. But even as he screamed, the glimmer of tears stung the edges of his eyes, and his words lost their confidence. “He wanted… He wanted…”
“That new plow ye bought last year, he got the gold by helping clear kobolds near Ulgoth’s Beard,” the man continued. “He wanted to make a difference, make the realms a bit safer. Just like these folks most likely.”
Marl lowered his head. His fists shook to their sides, and Markra could see the outlines of his bones popping out of his skin.
“By Chauntea…” he scowled. “Why couldn’t he just stay home!?”
Listening to him, Markra couldn’t help but think back to Gorion. Of his fresh corpse in the empty valley, littered with the charred remains of the assassins. Their flight from Candlekeep was not some calling of adventure, some heroic inspiration to do good in the world, but a means to escape death. And even then, only one of them came out alive.
If things had been any different… Markra thought. If I had gone on my own, and been killed on the road somewhere instead… Could Gorion have suffered the same way as Marl?
Tears choked Marl’s throat as he quivered in place, desperately fighting to hold them back. But he stood still once Jaheira placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“The realms call, and you go,” she said gently. “He sounds a fine lad taken too soon, but doing what he was meant.”
“I-If it would b-be all right with you, sir,” Khalid began. “I-I’d be willing to buy a r-round, and toast his memory with you.”
Marl was quiet a moment, before he nodded. “Twould be fitting, I suppose.” Then he slumped from beneath Jaheira’s hand and lumbered towards the table where his friends sat. He raised a foamy mug of beer to the ceiling. “To Kennair Nethalin! Rest ye well!”
The entire tavern echoed his words back to him as they, too, raised their drinks, and gulped them down. Markra didn’t have much to toast with, spare for the waterskin on his belt, but he raised it all the same. Once Marl had downed his beer, he slammed the empty mug back on the table.
“I…I would be alone awhile…” he muttered, and stumbled towards the back rooms.
“Well,” the man at the table began, watching Marl’s back, “tis the calmest I done seen him in a week. Still, best you move along. Marl ain’t known for his steady moods.”
“About damn time,” Montaron growled under his breath. He pushed between the legs of his taller party members and made for the counter. Xzar followed close behind, winking at a couple of drunks that whistled at her saunter. Jaheira and Khalid exchanged a look, and once Montaron skulked upstairs, they promptly took charge of ordering the rooms.
For the first time since he entered, Imoen glanced at the book in Markra’s arm.
“Where’d ya get that?” she asked.
“Firebead,” he answered. “You know, one of Gorion’s book hunters. I guess I’ll be in for a little reading tonight.”
To that, Imoen just laughed and rolled her eyes. “You and your books, Marky. You’re more like Gorion than ya think.”
“Maybe so…” Markra sighed. Firebead had said the same, as if a piece of Gorion still lived within his ward, and had no want to see it snuffed out. A foolish notion, but as he ascended the stairs of the lavish inn, it warmed Markra’s heart a little just to think of it. Perhaps, in a way, his foster-father hadn’t died after all.
***
Once everyone else had gone to bed, Markra disappeared into his own room. He took off his armor; no way was he going to wear that atrocity to bed a second time. His back and shoulders yawned in relief as he stretched. With the flicker of a candle by his bedside, he opened the History of the Dead Three, pillows propped against back.
“In ages past there was but one god of strife, death, and the dead, and he was known as Jergal, Lord of the End of Everything.”
This story was not about Jergal. Not really. Markra remembered as he read, for he’d heard the story before. It was the Dead Three, Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul, powerful mortals who lusted after Jergal’s powers. They traveled all over Faerun, discovered magic both lost and powerful, and even went so far as to slay one of the Seven Lost Gods. They drew the god’s divine essence into themselves, and ascended into godhood.
They attacked Jergal’s throne, but before the battle could even begin, Jergal raised his hand and proclaimed how tired he was of ruling. He was the great god, king of the realm of death, the dead, and strife, and there was little to challenge him. They could have his throne; he’d grown tired of ultimate power.
But, of course, there could only be one ruler of the Bone Throne. They bickered and quarreled over which one of them would be king, for each of them wanted it for themselves. In the end, it was luck that decided—Jergal broke off three skeletal fingers. With them, Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul played a game of knucklebones.
Bane, the winner, was glee with triumph as he shouted across the wastes:
“As winner, I choose to rule for all eternity as the ultimate tyrant. I can induce hatred and strife at my whim, and all will bow down before me while in my kingdom.”
Myrkul won second, but he was not so dismayed.
“I choose the dead, and by doing so I truly win, because all you are lord over, Bane, will eventually be mine. All things must die—even gods.”
Bhaal was last. Bhaal, Markra knew, who became the Lord of Murder.
“I choose death,” he’d said, “and it is by my hand that all that you rule Lord Bane will eventually pass to Lord Myrkul. Both of you must pay honor to me and obey my wishes, since I can destroy your kingdom, Bane, by murdering your subjects, and I can starve your kingdom, Myrkul, by staying my hand.”
The power it took to murder another. Markra could almost hear the pleasure in Bhaal’s voice, the low laughter of he who’d gotten the last yet greatest prize. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the terror gripping his heart back in Candlekeep. The day he’d killed for the first time, when all this madness began. The stranger had been after his life, and he’d done all he could to defend himself. There was no harm in that.
And yet… There’d been a rush. Kneeling over the dead body, wondering what to do with it, feeling the warmth leak away from the slick, red blood on his hands… Thinking back, he’d been triumphant. He’d foiled the assassin’s plot. He’d slain someone weaker than him, and it felt…
What am I doing? Markra shuddered as he quickly closed the book. As if some evil had leaped from its pages to claw his throat. Why would I think that? Killing is wrong, under any circumstances. There’s nothing good about it…
There was a knock on his door. Markra nearly leaped out of his skin, but once his eyes hit the door, he breathed a relieved sigh. Any sort of distraction would be welcome at this point, anything to divert his mind from its gruesome thoughts.
“Coming,” he said. There came another knock as he climbed off his bed and walked to the door. “I said I’m coming! Gods…”
He expected Imoen with how persistent it was. Or perhaps Xzar, come to harass him again.
But once he opened the door, he saw neither of them. No one he knew. A figure cloaked all in black, half of his face covered by a mask. Strands of fair hair fell over his eyes, but aside from that, Markra couldn’t see any of his features. He couldn’t even tell the gender.
“Um, hello…” The hairs on his neck pricked straight up. “Can I help—”
The glint of steel flashed in his eyes. A dagger flew out of the stranger’s sleeve, aimed straight for his gut. Markra barely swerved out of the way, but not without a stinging slash across his side. He staggered, his hip hit the dresser, as the assassin slashed again. The dagger’s point glowed orange in the low light, a fiery blade aimed for his heart.
Pink sparks crackled between Markra’s fingers. With a yell, he loosed a Magic Missile. Two flares flew from his hand, and struck the assassin in the head. He let out a muffled grunt as he stumbled, stunned in the doorway. With his assailant distracted, Markra reached for his sword, lying propped against the far wall in the corner.
With the hiss of metal against the air, Markra unsheathed his sword. But when he looked again to the doorway, the assassin was gone. He scanned every inch of his room, eyes darting along every wall, but there was only a candle to light the place. Shadows stretched and moaned where light danced and laughed at him on all sides. His enemy must have known that too.
Although he couldn’t see, Markra’s long ears could not betray him. He heard every little sound within the screaming silence: faint laughter in another room, the creaking footsteps of workers downstairs, the occasional thump of an animal in the rafters… He took a deep breath, and held it inside as he shut his eyes closed.
Then he heard it. The flick of a knife set free from its sheathe. The slight flap of a cloak as the assassin’s arm moved, and took aim. Both coming from his right. Markra’s eyes shot open, and didn’t even wait to see if he guessed right. With another cry, he plunged the sword straight between the assassin’s ribs. The squelch of pierced flesh hit its mark as the assassin melted out of the shadows. His head lulled while his body slumped against Markra’s. His dagger hit the floor with a clatter.
Markra struggled to pull his sword free, wedged deep in the assassin’s chest. Rivers of blood slid down his blade and slithered between the cracks in his fists as he gripped the hilt. They were still warm, inviting. Like the caress of a lover’s hand against his own. The thought made him shudder, though whether it was a shudder of fear or pleasure, he wasn’t entirely sure. And he didn’t want to find out.
“Markra!” Jaheira’s voice shouted down the hallway, followed by the flurry of stomping footsteps. She appeared in the doorway seconds later, followed by a flustered Khalid, a startled Imoen, and a giddy Xzar.
With another grunt, Markra tossed the body to the floor, and finally yanked his sword out. The others stared aghast, except for Imoen, who rushed into the room and ran to his side.
“Marky!” she yelped. “You okay?”
He wasn’t okay. The gash in his side burned against the air. A wave of exhaustion swept over him, and he nearly collapsed into Imoen’s arms.
“I’m fine…” he insisted. “It’s…just a scratch…”
Jaheira strode into the room and stepped over the body to reach him. She gazed sternly at his wound, touching as gently as she could. Then she saw the dagger on the floor and picked it up.
“There was poison on the blade,” she said, and turned to Khalid. “Get him an antidote. I’ve not memorized my neutralizing spells.”
Khalid nodded and sprinted back down the hallway. With Imoen and Jaheira’s help, Markra sat back on his bed, breathing heavy. The air was hotter all of a sudden, drenching his forehead with sweat, and a throbbing ache pounded in the back of his skull.
“My my,” Xzar began as she sauntered into the room, and stared at the bleeding body on the floor. “And what have we here, dear Markra? Another of your lovely friends?”
“No…” Markra answered. “I don’t know him, he just… He tried to kill me.”
Xzar gasped with fake shock. “Goodness! A rather reoccurring theme among your friends, my darling. What ever did you do to earn their wrath?”
“How the hell should I know?” Markra snapped.
“Reoccurring?” Jaheira asked. “You mean this has happened before?”
Imoen nodded while Markra turned his nose to the ground. “Back at the Friendly Arm,” she said. “There was this mage-guy that attacked us. Said he was lookin’ for Marky.”
Jaheira’s lips pursed, but before she could say much else, Khalid ran back in. He carried a vial of green liquid in one hand, swirling with an alien glow. With a pop, he uncorked the lid and offered it to Markra. The elf, in turn, nearly ripped it from his hands and gulped it down. Almost instantly his headache dissipated, and his fever fell away.
“We will discuss this in the morning,” Jaheira decided. “I want you to tell me everything about your encounters with these…assassins. Xzar, perhaps… You and your colleague could dispose of this corpse? I imagine you must be rather familiar with such work.”
Xzar huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why, I never! You would dare to think that just because I am a necromancer, my dear Monty and I know a thing or two about bodies!?” But the anger died away as a giddy smile spread across her face. “Please, woman. We never leave bodies behind!”
She shouted Montaron’s name as she left the room, no doubt waking the entire inn along with him. Markra let out a relieved sigh as Jaheira went to healing his wound, before leaving with Khalid. Once everything was taken care of, Markra and Imoen were left alone in the room.
“You sure you’re gonna be all right, Marky?” she asked.
“I’m sure…” Markra answered quietly. “You should get some rest, Imoen. You’re going to need it for the trip to Nashkel tomorrow.”
“Only if ya promise to take your own advice,” she sulked. “Ya look awful, Marky.”
“I know… I will.”
She didn’t believe him, and he knew it too. He could tell by the suspicious edge in her eyes, the persistent glare that scolded a thousand silent words. But, with a sigh, she rose from her seat and left him in peace.
Once the door closed behind her, Markra fell to his bed. A dark spot on the floor stared at him in the dark, where the assassin’s blood had stained the floor boards.
How do they keep finding me? he thought, and what do they want?
He reached over to blow out the candle. The darkness swallowed him and seeped into every pore. In his ears, his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his lungs… Gods know the evils that could be done from within a world of shadow. Bane could foster hatred into unsuspecting mortals, playing with their vices in the dark. Myrkul’s worms would eat at the bodies buried beneath the soil, away from the sun. And Bhaal, not unlike the assassin, could snuff out a life when least expected.
But Markra simply shut his eyes and laid his head without fear. He was too tired to imagine it now, or to care.