Wow, what can i say, a magnum opus! Absolutely terrific writing, I love it. Brilliant dialogue, excellent characterization, of Xzar and Khalid in particular. Thank you so much for resuming this thread as I never would have seen it otherwise (or was the necromancy Xzar's work?). I can see how much effort and time you've put into this, so again, my sincere thanks for a cracking read and I look forward to reading more when you're able to post!
Wow, what can i say, a magnum opus! Absolutely terrific writing, I love it. Brilliant dialogue, excellent characterization, of Xzar and Khalid in particular. Thank you so much for resuming this thread as I never would have seen it otherwise (or was the necromancy Xzar's work?). I can see how much effort and time you've put into this, so again, my sincere thanks for a cracking read and I look forward to reading more when you're able to post!
Thank you! I know it's cheesy to say, but there's really no words to describe how happy it makes me to know that something I've created brought a smile to someone else.
We'll see how much more I write of this before I scurry back into the caves for November. After that, I'll dedicate more time to it. I have a bad habit of leaving projects unfinished, and it's about time I did something about that. *shakes her fist full of resolve*
I had a long day at work today, so I didn't get to post the latest chapter until I got home. Anyway, here it is.
Chapter 7 (Part I)
Early next morning, Feldepost’s Inn was alive with the buzz of chattering villagers. Markra caught the gossip of happy patrons sharing what happened with Marl the night before, and the more irritated complaints of forks breaking, made of brittle iron.
As soon as he joined his party at one of the furthest tables, Jaheira cut straight to business: she wanted to know everything about the assassination attempts. Markra sighed, still groggy and hungry, but he knew by her stern eyes that there would be no lying his way out this time. He told them everything he knew, all the way back to his flee from Candlekeep and Gorion’s death. He even showed them the mysterious letter from E and the wanted poster he’d kept in his pockets.
Upon seeing his price detailed on the wrinkled parchment paper, Imoen’s eyes grew wide.
“Marky!” she scolded. “Why didn’t ya tell us this sooner!?”
“I…” Markra began as he sheepishly rolled the poster back up. “I don’t know. I was scared, I guess, and I…I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Markra,” Jaheira said in a low, harsh voice, “this is serious. With a price on your head, many more will come hunting for you. Did you never once think of the danger you could put us in by keeping this a secret?” Markra gaped, and spoke much quieter this time. “No… I guess I didn’t.”
Montaron scoffed at his stutter. The halfling sat with his feet on the table, his short legs stretched all the way without tipping his chair. “Two-hundred gold fer a whelp like you? I wouldn’t believe it if I did no’ see it with me own eyes.”
“My partner is right, dear Markra,” Xzar cackled as she shot up from her seat. She practically threw herself at Markra and cupped his face in her hands, stroking his cheek. “Such an exquisite elf as you should be worth two-thousand gold at least!”
“Not what I meant,” Montaron muttered.
“B-B-But why would they go so far as to p-put a p-p-price on your head?” Khalid asked.
“I already told you,” Markra began, grimacing as he struggled to pry Xzar’s hands off his face. “I don’t know. I never set foot outside of Candlekeep before, not since I was a little kid. If anyone knew why these guys are after me, it would have been Gorion…and now he’s dead.”
“Oy,” Imoen said as she prodded Khalid’s arm with her fork. “You and Jaheira were Gorion’s friends, right? Don’t you know anything about this?”
“Gorion was a secretive sort I’m afraid,” Jaheira confessed, “even amongst his friends.”
“R-Regardless,” Khalid said with a smile, no doubt hoping to lighten the mood, “there is very little we can do about it, a-and we must get to Nashkel. Th-Thank you for telling us the truth, Markra. From now on, we shall s-strive to be a little more c-c-careful!”
“Aye,” Montaron whispered under his breath. “More careful indeed.”
Their food arrived by a pair of pretty waitresses and the tension slowly dissolved into incoherent munches. Markra ate the slowest of them all, however, sneaking glances at the halfling and his partner whenever he could. He remembered why he feared telling them about the poster—something in his gut twisted with nerves now that Montaron and Xzar knew his value. The halfling rogue had already proven his deadly skill with a blade. As for Xzar, while Markra silently hoped that her newly effeminate heart truly lusted after him as much as she insisted it did, he doubted it would be enough to stay a greedy hand.
***
After a quick shopping trip to replenish supplies, they set out for Nashkel. The air was hotter than yesterday, having traveled so far from the ocean breezes, and Markra’s armor took in more heat than he cared for. His head baked under his helmet, save for his ears, which pricked to life with every little rustle in the bushes, sway of the trees, tumble of pebbles Imoen kicked with her toes beside him. Even the tiniest sound out of place could signal an assassin’s approach, and he wouldn’t dare miss it.
They stopped for a midday meal along the road when the sun stood high in the air, just past noon. Jaheira volunteered to scout ahead, skulking under the shadows of trees, while the rest of them ate. Khalid would have gone with her if she hadn’t almost smacked him with her quarterstaff and ordered him to replenish his strength.
“Aw, poor Khalid,” Imoen giggled once Jaheira had disappeared. “Ya sure do take a lotta abuse from your pretty wife.”
“Th-That’s just her way of showing she c-cares,” Khalid insisted. “Sh-She’s always had a s-strong spine…”
“Ohhh?” Xzar laughed. “You’re certain she didn’t snatch it from your back late one night?”
Montaron snorted. He’d finished eating already, content at sharpening his shortsword with a rock. “Maybe that’s the stick she swings around.”
“E-Everyone, please,” Khalid stuttered with the wave of his hands. “I-I won’t tolerate an ill-word against my wife.”
“Would ya tolerate a blade slicin’ out your tongue?” Montaron growled. “Yer speech be drivin’ me mad.”
“I-If you don’t l-l-like it, you’re more th-than welcome to leave.” Khalid puffed out his chin ever so slightly. Where his voice failed to display his courage, his high head seemed to compensate him. Montaron’s beady eyes scanned the half-elf up and down, and after a few minutes, he seemed to simmer off, returning to his sword.
“Hey, you okay Marky?” Imoen asked with a nudge of his arm. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“Hm?” Markra looked up from his bread. He’d been tearing the tough dough apart with his fingers. Occasionally he’d tear a piece free and nibble on its soft contents, but otherwise, he’d hardly eaten. His eyes circled the group, suddenly aware of the many eyes staring at him.
“Oh, sorry.” Markra sheepishly put his food down. “I’m just not hungry.”
“Y-You would d-do well to nourish yourself, Markra,” Khalid advised him. “You may have a lot on your mind, b-but starving yourself will do you no favors.”
“I know, I know,” Markra sighed, but he frowned stubbornly at the dismay in his voice. Jaheira’s words cut deep into his core, still guilt-ridden after withholding the truth from her and everyone else, but Khalid was right. Fretting over every little mistake he made wouldn’t get him anywhere.
Sighing and fretting and starving myself because of it, he thought with distaste. That can’t be all that I’m good for. Not after Gorion gave up his life for mine.
So with a determined glare, he picked up the mutilated bread once again and stuffed it into his face. He did the same with the jerky and hard chunk of cheese. His teeth barely chewed through it all before he tried swallowing, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. A pound on his chest and a few gulps of water was enough to save himself from choking.
When his coughing fit ceased, he looked up and saw everyone else staring at him. Again.
“What?”
Imoen burst with laughter, clutching her gut. “Aw, Marky! Don’t ever change, ya got that? Ahahaha!”
“What?” Markra asked again, blush creeping over his cheeks. “What is so funny? You’re the one who wanted me to eat!”
“N-Nothing, Markra,” Khalid assured him with a smile. “Think nothing of it.”
It certainly was not nothing and Markra wasn’t done thinking of it, but before he could protest, the crack of twigs and rustle of bushes caught his ears. The party turned their heads as Jaheira reemerged from the thickets, wearing a grim expression.
“We have a problem. If you’re done eating, follow me, as quietly as you can.”
They shuffled at a slow pace through the patch of forest that hugged the bottom of the cliff. Markra stepped lightly on his elvish feet while Imoen and Montaron crept through the shadowy branches. Khalid and Xzar had a harder time: Khalid thanks to his heavy armor and clumsy shield, and Xzar due to her constant chuckling under her breath. Jaheira stopped and crouched behind a layer of bushes, beckoning everyone to do the same at the edge of the treeline.
Through the twigs and leaves, Markra saw a group of hobgoblins huddled around a campfire. Tall beings dressed in leather armors and horned helmets, with burnished orange skins in dozens of tones. The carcass of a dead animal sizzled over the fire while they chatted and drank. One of them made a joke, a guttural language that Markra couldn’t understand, and the other two erupted in laughter.
“How many are there altogether?” he asked Jaheira in a low voice.
“There were five of them,” she whispered back. “The archers have gone elsewhere.”
“P-Perhaps we could, uh… R-Reason with them?” Khalid suggested.
“Not if yer our diplomat,” Montaron scowled.
“I doubt it,” Jaheira answered her husband, pointedly ignoring the grumpy halfling. “They’re bandits, most likely, scrounging for every drop of iron they can. Iron that we have in great quantity…”
“Well c’mon, what’re we waitin’ for?” Imoen asked. “There’s three of them and six of us! We can take ‘em on!”
Jaheira’s brow creased, frowning. “No, there are five, child. Two with arrows, and we’ve no idea where they’ve gone. We must think about this carefully; I have no wish to see any one of us die from an arrow to the heart.”
“We could lure them to the woods,” Markra suggested. “Throw arrows and slings at them from the trees and get a few shots in.”
“Oh?” Jaheira scoffed. “And are you so confident that your aim can kill in one blow? Can you say the same for halfling stones and haste-conjured spells?” She glanced at Montaron and Xzar from the corners of her eyes, and shook her head. “No. The bandits will not fall and they will be upon us in seconds. Then they will have the upper-hand in this tangled wood.”
“Then we could split up. Hit them from all sides so they won’t know who to focus on.”
“No. These trees are sparse enough where we sit, even thinner along the edges. Confuse them maybe, but once that wears off, we will be easier pickings if isolated. Khalid could defend himself alone. With some luck, your armor could do the same for you. But the rest of us? Not so much.”
As she spoke, her voice drenched in that accent of hers, Markra’s brows drew tight into an irritated frown. It seemed it didn’t matter how smart or foolish his ideas really were—so long as they came out of his mouth, Jaheira would have none of it.
“All right. So what does the Almighty Leader have in mind?” he snapped.
“You’d best watch your tone, Markra,” Jaheira scolded him, with a tone as sharp as his. “You will gain nothing by being petty.” Then her lips pursed as she gazed back at the bandits. “I could cast a spell to inhibit their movement, while we take shelter in the trees. That should make it harder for them to engage us. Is everyone ready?”
You won’t even ask for our opinions? Markra thought begrudgingly, but no one else seemed to share his complaints. Imoen and Khalid had already drawn their bows, while Xzar’s bloody fingers fizzled with magic sparks. Montaron picked up a stone on the ground and fixed it in his sling, though he looked like he couldn’t care less what they decided on. Biting back a sigh, Markra nodded, and nocked an arrow in his bowstring.
“Praeses. Alia. Fero.” The words spilled from Jaheira’s lips as her hands danced to a tuneless rhythm. A bright green orb of magic gathered in her palms, and grew to melon-size before she threw it into the bandit camp. The hobgoblins stopped their chuckling as they watched it, until it flashed out of existence in a blinding light.
The earth howled beneath them. An abysmal scream from nowhere filled the camp as magic vines ruptured from the dirt. They writhed at the air like transparent snakes, coiling around orange limbs and slithering up shaken legs. The hobgoblins squirmed and swung their hooked swords at the vines, but the magic glimmered with an invulnerable aura, completely unfazed by the blades.
Markra pulled his arrow to his cheek and loosed. It flew between trunks and above bushes and plunged right into a bandit’s shoulder. Another pair of arrows followed his—one in a leg, and the other in a chest. Xzar cackled as she loosed a white orb of magic while Montaron chucked a stone into a hobgoblin eye. The bandit-turned-pincushion let out a despaired grunt before he lay limp in the vines’ embrace, tongue lulled out like a sleeping dog.
Upon watching their companion’s death, the other two bandits writhed in the roots and shouted warnings into the trees. Markra loosed another arrow and struck an arm, but the others were not as lucky this time around. Imoen’s second arrow only scuffed against a leg while Khalid missed altogether. Another of Montaron’s stones struck a bandit in the chest, but left little damage behind. Jaheira pulled out a sling of her own and threw a rock, only to watch it bounce off a metal helmet.
Then one of them pried himself free. With his jagged sword raised high over his head, the hobgoblin charged towards the trees. He stepped lightly over the coiling vines to keep from getting caught again. Xzar punished his efforts with another spell, just enough to stun him for one second too long, before the vines crept up on him again.
“Nah-ah-ah, big boy!” Xzar laughed from the bushes, and wiggled her hips for good measure. “I do not do monsters, or magical vine-tentacles!”
“Ain’t that a shame,” Montaron snapped, just loudly enough so all of them heard him under Xzar’s shrill laughter.
Nobody paid attention to Xzar’s madness. Not until her laughing came to a dead stop, followed by a choking gasp for breath. Markra gazed between his party members and saw the necromancer suddenly leaning against a tree. Head low, breathing heavy, with an arrow piercing her right shoulder.
“Xzar!” Imoen shouted. “Are you okay!?”
But before she could aid her, another arrow flew into their hiding spot. It whizzed just past her nose and struck a tree trunk in front of her. Imoen jumped back with a yelp and quickly ducked into the bushes for cover. Another arrow flew straight over her head, just seconds too late.
“The archers are back,” Jaheira realized. “Everyone, take cover! I will tend to Xzar.”
Markra and the others did as she said while Jaheira crawled through the bushes towards the fallen mage. Markra hid behind a trunk and caught quick glimpses of the bandit camp over his shoulder. Sure enough, just beyond the opposite line of trees, a pair of orange figures had drawn their bows, aimed at his party. And all the while, the other two warriors struggled within the vines. Jaheira’s spell had started to lose its shine, fading faster with each passing second.
Markra peaked out the side of his trunk, but one of the archers found his hiding spot and launched another arrow his way. The bite of an arrowhead grazed his cheek as he shrunk back behind the tree.
Damn it, Markra thought. I can hardly even see those archers, let alone shoot them. And the other two are gonna get free if we don’t do something!
His fingers curled around the fletching of his own arrow, nocked but not drawn. Those archers would be the biggest problem until Jaheira’s spell wore off, but while Markra had confidence in his natural elven talent for bows, the druid’s scolding voice continued to berate him in his mind. “Are you so confident that your aim can kill in one blow?” Markra knew the answer, as much as it killed him to admit it—no, he was not. Not anymore.
The best he could do was pull back the bowstring and take aim at the warriors caught in the vines. A still and squirming target, especially up close, would always be more favorable than a free and moving one. He poked his head and arms out the left side of the tree, and fired. Then he fell back just seconds before another arrow hissed past his hiding spot, right where his head used to be. So he switched, and stuck out the right side this time. He kept up the pattern, sometimes even staying in one spot to keep from becoming predictable, always aimed at the tangled warriors.
Imoen must have noticed his plan, for she followed his lead. She was less graceful and missed more than him, but it was enough. The enemy archers ignored Montaron altogether, having buried himself in the foliage like a little bush monster. Only his arm was visible, throwing stones above the leaves. Between the three of them, and Jaheira’s inhibiting vines, the hobgoblin warriors didn’t stand a chance.
Then the vines wore off. They slunk into the ground and slithered away before slowly disappearing in a flash of green light. Without the vines holding them in place, the dead bandits dropped to the ground in misshapen heaps.
Stillness fell over the camp as both parties paused to catch their breaths. The fire popped and crackled as it cooked the spit, and cast its smoky scent into the air. The remaining archers looked at each other, bows drawn to their cheeks, and shifted on their feet anxiously.
Khalid surprised everyone by leaping from the bushes with a brave shout. The bandits shot at him, but their arrows flew wide, startled out of their aim. As they reached for another round, Khalid raised his shield and charged straight towards them. Another pair of arrows flew free, but they bounced off Khalid’s shield. He closed the gap far too quickly for a bowman’s range, but before either archer could drop their bows and draw their swords, Khalid stabbed one in the gut, and bashed his shield into the other’s head. Not dead, but dizzy and off-guard.
Jaheira took her chance—she threw a stone with her sling that struck the enemy’s back. The rest followed her lead in a shower of stones and arrows while Khalid raised his shield again to avoid getting shot. By the time they finished, a sparse forest of arrow fletching stuck out of the hobgoblin’s back. He fell to the ground with a groan, the last of his troupe.
Markra breathed a sigh of relief as he walked out from behind his tree. Khalid came to rejoin the group, shaking from head to toe with a sheepish smile on his face.
“Th-Th-Thank goodness…” he stammered. “I-I really didn’t think that would work…”
“Is everyone all right?” Markra asked, and took long glances at everyone else as they appeared out of the treeline. Imoen flashed him a couple thumbs-up signs while Montaron spat a flurry of leaves out of his mouth.
“Oh, Markra!” Xzar’s voice wailed from beyond the bushes, and instantly made Markra’s ears wilt. “My dear, precious elven boy! Help me! I’m dying, and only a true love’s kiss may save—”
Her plea ended in a yelp, however, as Jaheira reached into the brush and dragged her foot out of the green for everyone to see. “Stop your crying, necromancer,” the druid snapped. “Much to all of our displeasure, you are certainly not dying. Now pick yourself up off the ground and help us investigate the camp.”
The bush rustled a moment before a glaring Xzar tumbled out, leaves and twigs clinging to her clothes and hair. There wasn’t a trace left of the shoulder wound that almost killed her, not even the faintest stain of blood in her clothes.
Per Jaheira’s orders, the party split up and surveyed the bandit camp. Imoen and Montaron scoured the corpses for fresh arrows and valuables while Khalid put dirt on the fire. Xzar searched for magic scrolls, but had no luck. Markra and Jaheira explored the surrounding woods for any other signs of bandit activity, and perhaps any place they might have hidden the loot.
Markra pulled back another wall of brush and branches, and choked on a gasp. Surrounded in a nest of brambles and bushes was a pile of three bodies. A man, woman, and child, all dressed like commonfolk, with enough resemblance to show familial ties. Dried blood lay caked against their clothes, where their stomachs had been slashed open. Markra took one step closer, but had to cover his mouth and nose; the summer heat made the stench of blood even more poignant. Hot, sticky, and sick.
“What of you, Markra?” Jaheira’s voice asked as her footsteps snuck up on him. “What have you found?” But she stopped dead in her tracks as she peered over his shoulder. “By Silvanus…”
Markra said nothing as he walked into the circle. Slow, unsteady. Eyes unblinking, absorbing. A family. An entire family, a wife husband and child. Too weak to fight back, too slow to run away. Unarmed, and no one to protect them. Where was the mercenary? Where was the swashbuckling adventurer sent to guide them as they journeyed along the bandit-ridden roads?
Too late, Markra realized as he stared down at his metal-encased toes, at the hilt of his sword sheathed at his waist. He was too late. I should have been here. I could have done something to stop this, if I’d only been here…
Jaheira sighed as she brushed past him, and knelt before the corpses. She pulled out the stem of mistletoe before whispering the rites of the dead, in the spirit of her druid teachings.
“Silvanus, guide the light back to the source. These who were cut down amidst the woods. By Nature’s will, what was given is returned; what was turmoil is now peace.”
With a motion of her hands, and a faint flash of green light in her fingers, she finished the prayer and rose to her feet. Markra hadn’t taken his eyes off of them, still as a statue turned by a basilisk. She placed a steady hand on his shoulder to get his attention, though hardly flinched.
“There is nothing more we can do for them,” Jaheira gently explained. “All that is left is to let Nature take its course.”
Markra tilted his head just enough so he could look at her. “Why did they do this? This family, they… They were defenseless. What could they have had to take?”
“There is no way to know now, though I have my theories.” Jaheira gazed at the bodies again, carefully eyeing their every detail. “Their clothes are finer than most. Their skin is pale and soft, due to a lack of physical labor and harsh sunlight. If not iron, then they must have had wealth.”
Her lips pursed as she paused. “Come. We should regroup with the others and go.”
Markra gaped. “Can’t we at least bury them?”
“How so?” Jaheira asked. “We do not carry shovels, Markra, and your hands would find a better use around the hilt of your sword.”
She was right, of course. They’d had no way to bury Gorion either, nor the time. Still, the way she said it, in that cold voice that sought practicality in the wake of three deaths, made him angry. Markra pushed her hand off his shoulder and glared, fists curling at his sides.
“You’re right,” he snapped, “but my hands are my own, and I’ll use them however I see fit!” Then he turned his back and drew his sword. The blade was far too skinny to dig with, but there were plenty of branches and brambles about. He could at least cut them down to cover the bodies.
“If it’s that important, then go ahead without me,” Markra continued without looking at her. “I’ll catch up after I finish. It shouldn’t take long.”
Jaheira simply stared at him in silence, a glare so strong Markra could feel it digging into his back. After a few long, torturous minutes, she gave a long sigh, turned on her heel, and walked out of the thicket. Beyond the line of brambles, Markra heard her call for everyone’s attention. “We’ll leave shortly, once Markra finishes taking care…”
He didn’t listen to the rest, too absorbed in cutting down brush and gathering fallen branches. Once he had enough, he rearranged the bodies so all three of them huddled close together, but not on top of each other.
While he was moving the father, something metallic caught the light. Covered in a smear of blood and dirt was an amulet, dimly shimmering as it hung around the father’s neck. An ornate red gem connected by a chain of silver pearls, with but a single word engraved in the back: “Colquetle.” How the bandits might have missed the piece, Markra couldn’t begin to guess. Perhaps it hadn’t the value they were looking for. Perhaps the engraving would have turned off potential buyers.
Either way, Markra thought, this is no ordinary piece of jewelry. It’s all they have left.
He unhooked the clasp and hid the necklace inside his belt pouch. Someone, somewhere, had to know who this family was. Where they were from, why they had left, and who they were before they’d turned into yet more nameless victims of bandit slaughter. They would not disappear into the brush without their story being told, not if Markra had anything to say about it. And that locket was the only clue he had to go on.
When all was said and done, he reemerged from the thicket to see his party still waiting for him. Montaron sharpening his sword, Imoen cleaning her fingernails, Xzar humming some nonsensical tune, Khalid patiently keeping watch. Only Jaheira stood still, eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest, until the rustle of bushes drew her attention.
Imoen glanced up from her nails and leaped to her feet. “There ya are, Marky! What took ya so long?”
Before Markra could answer, Jaheira spoke first. “Finished now?” she asked, to which Markra nodded. “Good. Then let us go. We’ve lost enough time already.”
If the druid was angry with him, she tried hard not to show it. But she didn’t look at him as she passed, and she walked at a brisk pace. Khalid stumbled after her with a sheepish smile while Xzar and Montaron skulked behind without so much as batting an eyelash. It was Imoen who joined his side, as perceptive as ever, and dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Yikes,” Imoen whispered as she brought her lips to Markra’s ear. “What’d ya do to make her so mad all of a sudden?”
Despite himself, Markra couldn’t resist the slight grin tugging his lips. “I didn’t do what I was told.” And he bit his tongue to keep from adding “again” at the end.
The rest of the journey south was long and treacherous. Between the rolling hills and jagged cliffs, towering trees and trickling streams, bandits attacked them at almost every turn. They ran into a couple of human bands, armed with bows and plenty ammo, but more often than not, they encountered monsters. More hobgoblins, lumbering half-ogres, and gnolls with curled claws.
The sky had darkened by the time they reached Nashkel. The shadowy silhouette of the Temple of Helm pierced the starlit sky. A small river split the town in two parts, one for farming and one for housing. Candles flickered in the windows of the temple, the tavern, and the inn, but the rest were dark and closed for the night.
As the party crossed the bridge over the river—laggard, tired, and in sore need of a bath—a voice cut through the darkness.
“Halt!”
A man’s voice, and the metal clicks of weapons being raised. Markra and the group stopped dead in their tracks on the bridge as a small squadron of soldiers stood in their path. Dressed in red uniforms, covered in part by chainmail, and armed with longswords and bows. Everyone but Xzar and Montaron raised their hands above their heads. Montaron reached for his hidden shortsword while Xzar gnawed on her fingernails anxiously.
“Is there a p-p-problem, officer?” Khalid asked.
“I hope not,” the squad leader said, “but these are dangerous times, and you’re all armed to the teeth. Who are you that intrudes on Nashkel in the dead of night?”
“We’re adventurers,” Markra answered. “We came to see Mayor Ghastkill about the mines.”
“If I may, officer,” Jaheira spoke next, and took a leader’s stance in front of the group, “my husband and I were contacted by the mayor to investigate the town’s troubles. We have papers, if you wish to see them.” She calmly dug out a scroll from her pockets, though before she could hand it to the guard, Xzar let out a yelp and bumped into her. She shoved a scroll of her own into the officer’s face, crinkled along the edges.
“Me too, me too!” Xzar exclaimed. “My halfling minion and I had been called out as well! Xzar, the infamous necromancer, is here at your service.”
“Who’s he callin’ a minion?” Montaron grumbled.
Jaheira ignored them. The officer looked from one woman to the other as he read both scrolls, though his eyes lingered longer on the tipsy mage. After a minute or so, he handed both papers back to their owners. With a wave of his hand and an order over his shoulder, the rest of the squad also lowered their weapons.
“Well, everything seems to…be in order…” His voice trailed off, raising an eyebrow yet again at Xzar. “Although, it says you were supposed to be—”
“A man?” Xzar asked with the bat of her eyelashes. “Why? Don’t you think I’m prettier this way?”
“He was cursed,” Markra answered, and tugged on Xzar’s shoulder to keep her in place. “You wouldn’t happen to know of a way to cure him, would you?”
“Erm… Well…” The officer scratched his face while a couple of other soldiers snickered beneath their breaths. “That’s a question better left to the Temple of Helm. I’m sure they can help you. As for mayor Ghastkill, he’s turned in for the night, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait ‘til morning to talk to him. There’s an inn just past the bridge that’s still open; sorry for the inconvenience.”
With nothing left to do, it was high time the party retired for the night. They followed the soldier’s instructions and crossed the bridge, eager for a well-deserved rest. But before Markra could open the door to the inn, Jaheira grabbed his arm and held it still.
“Wait,” she whispered. “The last two times you were attacked, the assassins targeted you at the inns, correct?”
Markra froze, feeling a chill run down his spine. “Yeah… The one who snuck into my room, and the other guy… He’d waited for us outside the Arm’s entrance.”
“Then let us go first,” she explained. “For all we know, there could be another one inside already.”
Of all of the things Markra had been looking forward to at Nashkel’s local inn, another brawl with a nameless assassin was not one of them. Jaheira had spent all of her healing spells on the roadside battles, and even that hadn’t been enough to ease the ache in their bones, or sew the wounds they’d suffered in combat, at least not to one-hundred percent. To get caught in a fight now, when they were most vulnerable, would be crippling at its best and deadly at its worst.
But so long as my name’s out there on wanted posters, Markra reminded himself, I’m not allowed the luxuries of wishful thinking. He nodded to Jaheira and let go of the door knob, then took a step back so she and the others could take the lead.
Fire crackled and hissed in a hearth against the far wall. The inn looked mostly empty this time of night, with only a few drunkards huddling around a table, and the keeper washing glasses behind the bar. There were no stairs, no second-story. As Markra peered behind Khalid’s shoulder, he could count the number of bedrooms in the whole inn. Four down the main hallway, and one in the left corner. None of the rooms used doors to separate them, only arches of open air.
Markra held his breath as his gaze swept the interior. He saw nothing too out of the ordinary, but the nerves twisting in his gut told him to exercise caution and wait for Jaheira’s signal. They’d seen nothing unusual at Feldepost’s either, but that didn’t stop the robed killer from sneaking into his room in the dead of night. After a few, tense minutes though, Jaheira’s shoulders slumped and she walked further inside.
“It is safe,” she whispered over her shoulder. “For now, it seems.”
Both Markra and Imoen let out relieved sighs as the rest filed in. Khalid and Jaheira handled the innkeeper while everyone else gathered around a table and began ordering food. The only waitress on duty warned them it may take some time, considering how late it was, but no one seemed to care. They were too hungry to refuse, and too tired to argue. It was only after they’d had their meals and a round of drinks before them that the husband and wife decided to join them once again.
“Th-They have j-just enough rooms for everyone,” Khalid told them, “b-b-but some of us will have to sh-share.”
“Khalid and I will have a room to ourselves,” Jaheira continued. “That much should be obvious. Markra, I would also think it wise that you not sleep alone. Unlike Feldepost’s and the Friendly Arm, this inn only has one story; it would take little effort at all for an assassin to sneak in and target you.”
Markra had already been thinking about that, the moment he didn’t see any stairs. He looked to Imoen, who’d been taking a deep gulp of her beer.
“I guess that means we’re paired up,” he chuckled. “Can I count on you, partner?”
Imoen nearly choked on her gulp as she put the pint down. A mustache of mug foam lined her upper lip, and stretched as she smiled. “O’ course ya can, Marky! If any bad guy sneaks in uninvited, they won’t know what hit ‘em!”
“Aw!” Xzar moaned, and suddenly grabbed Markra’s arm and nuzzled her head against him. “But dearest Markra, what if I wanted to sleep with you?”
“Not on your life, Xzar…” Markra murmured.
Khalid coughed into his fist, and if Markra didn’t know any better, he could have sworn the half-elf was covering a laugh. “A-Anyway, it looks like we have everything s-sorted out. We’ll reunite back h-h-here tomorrow morning, a-and meet with mayor Ghastkill.”
Markra and Imoen nodded, but Xzar didn’t appear to have heard him, maniacally sobbing broken-hearted into Markra’s shoulder. With a growl, Montaron yanked his partner off of him, so hard that Xzar’s face hit the table.
“And be visitin’ the temple, at that,” the halfling grumbled. “Before I kill the damn woman.”
Xzar gasped as her head leaped from its stoop. “M-Montaron! Well I…I never loved you either!” And without another word, she ran away bawling down the hallway and into the first room on the left. Her crying echoed through the whole inn, and earned many sidelong stares from the owners and patrons at their little table.
Montaron picked himself up and started walking across the common room. “Well I ain’t sleepin’ with that all night…” he grumbled, just loud enough so they would hear, and he headed for the far bedroom in the corner.
“You know…” Markra began once the halfling was out of earshot. “Even though it feels wrong somehow…I do feel a little sorry for Xzar.”
“So do I,” Khalid confessed. “It must be h-hard to be a woman…” But he flinched as Jaheira shot him a scathing glare from the corners of her eyes. “I-I mean… F-For a man, that is…”
Imoen let out a loud yawn as she stretched her arms to the ceiling. When they came down, she tugged Markra’s sleeve, head lulling. “I’m sleepy, Marky…”
“Me too,” he agreed, and had to bite back a yawn of his own. “How about we get some rest?”
She nodded, and they stood to their feet. Since Montaron had already taken the farthest room from Xzar’s crying, they settled for the one in the far right corner of the inn. Xzar would stop eventually, after all. With only a queen bed and one end table, the room was humbly furnished and small. Imoen quickly collapsed on one side of the bed without even drawing the blankets over herself.
As Markra unstrapped his armor, he found the Colquetle amulet inside his belt pouch. He let it dangle from his grip in front of his face, the crimson gemstone glinting off the faint candlelight. Even after such a long walk from Beregost to Nashkel, he could not erase the slaughtered family’s corpses from his mind. No doubt there were plenty more along the Sword Coast—innocent people who could not fight back, and bloodthirsty bandits willing to kill for pretty coin.
But now we’ve made it to Nashkel, he thought. Tomorrow starts our investigation of the iron shortage. And if we solve that…maybe the bandit raids will stop.
He shook his head. It was a foolish and naïve dream to pursue. Iron shortage or no, Markra need only remember the tales from his childhood to know that evil did not just go away or back down in the face of a few adversaries. It was an omnipresent force that was always present, the shadow that loomed beneath every ray of light. Tragedies like the murdered Colquetles would never stop, iron shortage or no. Bandits have never needed many excuses to justify their unlawful actions.
But even in the grand scheme of things, if solving this case could help those who are suffering, or at least slow the bandits down…
Markra’s grip on the amulet’s chain hardened, until he could feel the pearls rolling against his palm’s bones. It didn’t matter how small of an impact he may or may not have—he never wanted to witness such killings ever again. If in some way his efforts could save a life, then gods damn him, he would act.
I need to get stronger. With his new conviction burning in his heart, Markra put the amulet away and blew out the candle. Then he crawled under the covers and stared into the darkness until exhaustion proved too much for him, and he closed his eyes.
It's like finding a new author you like and then discovering they've written an entire series. Marathon reading session! I've just reached Chapter 4 and it's a lot of fun so far. Thanks.
This is the best fan novelization I've ever seen. Your writing mechanics are impeccable. Almost every other effort I've read is peppered with inconsistent verb tenses, inconsistent points of view, punctuation errors, clumsy sentence constructions, and stylistic errors. There's none of that in your writing! Kudos. You write like a professional, and you would make any editor's job easy. (Perhaps you *are* a professional writer of some sort?)
I'm also loving your content and characterizations. Your action scenes are very detailed, have great temporal flow, and make me feel like I'm there with your characters during combat.
Very enjoyable. I look forward to future chapters.
This may be the last I update for a while. November's just around the corner, and in that time, I'll be writing an original piece. I'll definitely pick this up again some time after, but for now, here's chapter eight.
He was walking. He had no idea to where or for how long, but his shoulders sagged with exhaustion and his head hung low. His legs moved mechanically—detached, numb, yet always compelled to step forward, as if under something else's command. The cobblestone road blurred in his glazed eyes; he would need rest soon if he was to continue.
Upon that realization, the path came to an end. Markra blinked and lifted his head. Towering before him stood the walls of Candlekeep, its spiral citadel piercing the sky behind them. The gates were shut with a giant lock and chains criss-crossed over its center. Markra had never seen such a contraption on the gates before, and what was stranger, the whole outside was unguarded. Every torch sconce was unlit, every window dark…except for one. In the second-highest story, the left-hand side, a candle flickered in the night.
My old room… Markra thought. He reached out to his faraway home and took a step closer, but upon his doing so, the light flickered out. Wooden planks slammed into the window and boarded it shut. The ring of a thousand nails seemed to rain from the sky as every window in Candlekeep copied it.
With a sigh, Markra's outstretched arm fell to his side. He stared again at his toes as the yearning gnawed at his core…
"You cannot go back this way, child. You must go on."
But his shoulders jumped as he raised his eyes. That voice was Gorion's. The old sage shimmered before the Candlekeep gates, transparent and hollow and pale. Markra felt his breath catch in his throat—even as a phantom, it was the first time he'd seen his foster father since he'd cradled his corpse in the forest.
"F-Father…" Markra struggled to keep his voice steady. "Is it…is it really you? How can you be here? You're…"
Gorion simply smiled, and pointed at something behind Markra. Reluctantly, Markra turned his back on his father and gazed at the spot. The cobblestone road that he'd been following before was gone. Instead, his eyes traced two different paths—one nearly engulfed by a thick woods, and the other plainly paved beneath the open sky.
Markra surveyed both trails with the squint of his eyes. It was difficult to see anything beyond the mouth of the forested path. Even the trees seemed cloaked in shadow. He lingered longer on the smooth one—something drew him to it. Whether it was an outside force or a feeling all his own, Markra couldn't be sure. He felt it pull on his eyes, lean him sideways, gently touch his arm and guide him. Like a patron welcoming tired guests into his home, with sly promises of delicious meals and warm beds and easy solutions to whatever ailed them. Markra could not see the end of this path either; it stretched too far beyond the horizon line.
Just how far could it take him, away from the memories of Candlekeep and the grief that had sickened his heart?
No. Despite the lure, Markra shook his head. I have more than just grief, and it's these memories that have shaped me. I couldn't let go of them even if I tried.
But even if he couldn't let them go, that didn't mean he had to dwell on them. Gorion was right—with Candlekeep sealed in the past, Markra had no other choice but to press forward. He glanced back at his foster father one last time, and somehow, he knew that he understood. Gorion's smile widened with warmth, and he faded away.
A small smile of his own touched Markra's lips as he turned once again, and headed towards the woods. Though upon making his choice, a sharp pull almost yanked him off his chosen path and onto the paved one. Markra staggered once, caught off-guard, but the malevolent pull sparked a rebellion in him, and he stood his ground. Teeth grinding and fists curled, Markra pushed against the force as if walking against a river current. Only after the shelter of trees swallowed him did it finally let him go.
He paused to catch his breath and leaned on a tree trunk for comfort. He still couldn't see much within the straggly branches, but anything had to be better than the ghosts that'd tried to drag him away. Anxious to move on, Markra recollected himself and delved within the forest's embrace.
A breeze brushed his long ears, and carried with it a sinister whisper.
"You will learn…"
It was a voice Markra had never heard before, yet it left a chill in his bones that felt all too familiar.
***
Markra's eyes flew open. He could still hear the haunting voice, slithering in his ears like a snake's tongue, but it was distant now, only a memory. Blinking away the vision, he took a few minutes to remember where he was—Nashkel's inn. All was quiet save for Imoen's light breathing on his right, and someone's snoring in another room.
Just a dream, Markra assured himself. A vivid one, but still just a dream.
Judging from the darkness of the inn, it would be hours yet before the sun rose above the horizon. Outside of the eerie dream slowly fading from his mind, he sensed nothing amiss within his bedroom. But just to be safe, he leaned over the side of his bed to make sure his longsword was still within reach. One squeeze around the hilt told him it was safe.
With a relieved sigh, he crawled back under the covers. He stared into the night until the exhaustion proved too much for him, and plunged into the darkness once more.
***
After a hearty breakfast and round-the-table morning hellos, the party headed outside for the new day. Farmers labored in the fields across the river, hoes raised high overhead that slammed into the earth with a mighty arc and spray of dirt. Soldiers marched to and fro in the same red uniforms as last night. Now basking in the daylight, Markra got a better look at their emblem—a blue shield with three gold boar's heads in the center.
Far to the south, the snowy Cloudpeak Mountains drew Markra's eyes. Like their namesake, their spiral heads gleamed white in the sun while several smaller green hills hugged the mountains' slopes. They formed a natural barrier between the Sword Coast and the southern Amn province, and though Nashkel was technically a part of Amn, their precarious position on the mountains' north side made them more of a border town than any official part of either region. As they passed a pair of soldiers, Markra caught a few snippets of their chatter thanks to his elven ears:
"Damn… This iron crisis is gettin' bad. You think the council back in Athkatla have taken notice yet?"
"Man, I hope not. You know that the second they learn our defenses are down, that's when Amn will strike. And you know the first place they're gonna hit? Right here at home."
"The Gate versus Amn on the farmlands of Nashkel… Ugh, I can see it now. We'd never get anything to grow after a bloodbath like that."
"I'm thinkin' you need to get out of town more and slay a kobold or somethin' if you're gonna be dreaming up a slaughter-fest while on-duty… Don't forget what happened to Capn' Brage."
"Yeah yeah, ya don't gotta remind me of that one."
High tensions with Amn of all places? Markra thought. But don't we have a treaty with them?
Though he bit his tongue and shook away the intrigue before it could take root in his mind. All he needed to do was crack open a history tome to know that not all treaties between powers would hold forever. Still, there was no use worrying about it now; better to let the prestigious high-borns play politics than a simple adventurer like him, especially one with a dozen troubles already piled on his back.
The first order of business was to sell the loot they'd earned off the many bandits who crossed their path. Common highway robbers usually didn't have much of value, but what few trinkets they found were easy to carry and worth a pretty coin. It was also prime time to stock up on supplies; along with the usual provisions, they needed more ammo. Markra and Imoen had both nearly emptied their quivers, and while any large stone would do for a sling, professionally polished bullets were cheap and plenty. When everyone had finished their shopping and Markra had the store to himself, he asked the merchant about the Colquetle amulet, but unfortunately, he didn't recognize it.
Next was the Temple of Helm. To avoid any confusion, Jaheira decided it would be best to confront Berrun after Xzar's curse was lifted. Rows of tombstones and pillars dotted the vibrantly green grass around the church, while a gravel path cut the graveyard in two halves. Helm's holy symbol—a palm with an eye in its center—hung over the entrance, always on vigilant watch for grave robbers and other miscreants.
Inside, they found a man dressed in plate armor with a mace hanging at his waist, standing behind an altar draped in red cloth. The same symbol outside was engraved on a wall behind him, with two bowls of standing water on either side of it. Markra marveled at the high, vaulted ceiling as their footsteps echoed across the tiled floor. Upon the party's entry, the armored priest looked up from a tome he'd been reading, and greeted them with a holy gesture over his heart.
"Ah, intrepid adventurers at our door," he said. "How might Nalin, servant of the Vigilant One, aid you this fine day?"
"We came hoping you're good with removing curses," Markra answered, and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at Xzar. "This one's been stuck as a woman for the past couple of days."
Nalin the priest blinked, and for a moment, his stoic demeanor wavered. His eyes narrowed on Xzar, eyeing her up and down, to which Xzar simply swung her hips and waved at him with the twirl of her nibbled fingers. Behind her, Montaron let his face fall into his hand.
"I…I see," Nalin said after a long minute. Markra could tell he didn't get requests like this very often. "Well, come here. Let's take a look at you."
"Oh, I'll give you more than just a look, big boy!" Xzar chuckled as she blew the priest a kiss. But one shove from Jaheira threw her off balance and put an end to her flirting.
"Behave yourself, necromancer," the druid snapped. "You have caused enough trouble as it is."
Xzar didn't apologize, instead flashing a toothy grin as she strode up to Nalin. Much to his dismay, she took a seat on the altar like a child-patient awaiting a doctor's examination, legs swinging over the edge. Markra could almost feel Khalid stiffen beside him as the half-elf glanced around, already anticipating the holy bolt that would surely strike them down for their companion's insolence.
"Hmm…" Nalin pondered, no doubt struggling to keep his visage in-check. "I sense a kind of magic emanating from the belt she's wearing. Have you not tried to remove it?"
"O' course we have, ya moronic priest," Montaron growled. "Do ye think we'd even be here if it were that easy?"
"Whenever we tried to pry it off him, the belt wouldn't budge," Markra explained.
"P-Please, Watcher Nolin," Khalid began, ever the wary diplomat, "s-surely you know of some way to b-b-break the enchantment, d-don't you?"
"The Vigilant One stands ready to mend thy ailments and so divert the unyielding gaze of the Great Guide…" Nolin reassured them. "…for a donation, of course. To remove a curse as strong as this, I will need five-hundred gold pieces. No more, no less."
Almost every set of eyes widened within the church. Xzar clasped her hands over her mouth in feign horror while Imoen outright gawked at the priest.
"Five-hundred pieces!?" Imoen yelped. "Just for gettin' some lousy belt off!?"
"That's more than what I'm worth…" Markra murmured.
"I-I would have to a-agree, Watcher…" Khalid sheepishly added. "The price is…a little steep."
"Indeed it is," Nalin said, "but such is the price for mishandling magical items. Shall I offer my services, or shall I not?"
"Wait." Jaheira held up her hand. "Give us a moment." And she urged the party to gather round with the wave of her hands. With their heads huddled together—all save for Xzar, who seemed content enough to squirm atop Helm's altar—they spoke in hushed voices so the priest couldn't eavesdrop.
"As much as I may despise Xzar's incessant antics in his womanly form," Jaheira muttered, "a price that high is problematic at best."
"What're you saying?" Markra asked. "We have the funds, don't we?"
"Barely," Jaheira answered, "though Xzar's transformation will cost us dearly if we find no way to lower Nalin's offer."
"B-But, money or no money," Imoen interrupted her, "we gotta do something, don't we? Ya don't mean to really leave him like that, do ya Jaheira?"
"Mm. Perhaps I would. But the decision is not mine alone to make, Imoen." Jaheira gazed hard at each of her companions. "I would rather not waste such funds on a condition that neither endangers his life nor compromises his combat capabilities… And what of the rest of you?"
The party exchanged glances around the circle.
"We know what you mean," Markra began, "but…I for one would really like him to stop throwing himself at me all the time…"
Montaron snorted. "An' what makes ye think he'll stop once he's normal again, eh?"
The blood drained from Markra's face. But before he could think of a retort, Khalid gave a loud cough and spoke over them.
"Wh-While it may cost a little extra to c-cure him," he stuttered, "I do think it would be a bit cruel to simply l-leave the curse on him, my love. A-And with the belt off, he might prove less…d-distracting."
"Yeah, I think so too," Imoen agreed. "I mean… Xzar's a weirdo, and I don't like him much, but I can't help thinkin' that if I'd put on that belt when I had the chance, I woulda ended up just like him. I don't think I could stand bein' changed into a guy all of a sudden…"
"Then it seems we've come to a majority," Jaheira sighed. And with that, she took out the party's bag of conjoined funds. "We will pay."
Before they could disband their huddle, however, Nalin's scathing voice bounced off the hallow halls of the temple.
"Wh-What do you think you're doing, mad woman!?"
Markra and the rest turned around. They saw Xzar leaning in her seat as far as she could without falling off of the altar, toward a very flustered Nalin. The priest had taken a huge step back and blush burned in his cheeks. Whether it had been born from embarrassment or anger, Markra couldn't guess. Perhaps both.
"But Watcher Nalin," Xzar began with a pair of big, puppy-dog eyes, "twas but a simple kiss to express my unending gratitude… I'd dared to hope we could even be friends."
"This is a holy site, woman!" Nalin exclaimed, having abandoned all that had made him stoic. "And I am a vigil servant of Helm! I know not what you intend to gain by seducing me, but you will keep your hands to yourself!"
Xzar's innocent face dipped into a scowl, and glared into a crumpled piece of parchment in her left fist, nearly hidden beside her hip. "Curse this useless scroll…! It was supposed to make him more compliant! Hmph! I guess I'm just not pretty enough!"
"You would dare cast magic upon a priest within his own home!?"
Xzar simply stuck out her tongue and crossed her arms over her chest, sulking. Jaheira pinched the bridge of her nose, and muttered an oath to Silvanus as she approached the offended priest.
"A thousand apologies for our companion's behavior, Watcher," she said. "We've come to a decision about your offer, and—"
"Oh?" Nalin scoffed. "So you still seek my services after this affront to Helm and His guardianship? Then fine, fine! I'll rid this fool of her curse—just get her out of here, and don't bring her back in!"
He turned back to Xzar, a blue-white glow in his hands, before Jaheira could hand him the bag. "Vita. Mortis. Careo." And the aura of light consumed Xzar, so brightly that no one could even see her beneath the flare. They heard a click, and the gender-bending belt hit the tiled floor with a clank. When the spell had all but dissipated, they saw a male Xzar sitting atop the altar.
The magic died in Nalin's hands as he made a holy gesture over his heart, and cleared his throat. "It is done. He is cursed no more."
Xzar hopped off the altar with a giddy smile and began checking himself over. He squeezed his chest where his breasts used to be, patted his hips as they rigidly swayed back and forth, and even grabbed his own butt. When he'd finally finished, he scooped up the belt—without putting it on this time—and gave a lopsided bow to Nalin with his hand held out for shaking.
"Many thanks, my friend Nalin," Xzar said, rather reasonably until a sly smile slid into his lips. "For the kiss and the cure!"
"Just get out of here," Nalin snarled without returning the handshake, "before my patience finally breaks, and I do something I cannot forgive."
Xzar outright threw back his head and cackled at the priest's threat. Then he tackled him in a quick hug, rubbing his cheek against the cold platemail. Nalin's eye twitched, but Xzar was off of him in seconds. The mad male necromancer ran out the door, hands flailing in the air.
Montaron rolled his eyes as he stalked after him, lest Xzar lose himself in his newfound freedom. Everyone else waited for Nalin to speak, too dumbfounded by Xzar's insane stunt to even form their own words. After a few minutes, Nalin seemed to blink out of a daze, and shot a glare at the rest of the party.
"Well? I thought I told all of you to leave," he snapped.
"But our payme—" Markra began. But the rest of his sentence ended in a grunt as Imoen dug her elbow into his arm. Jaheira, meanwhile, hid the bag of coins behind her back as she slowly retreated from her earlier advances. Once she stood beside Khalid again, she passed the bag off to him.
"Yes, of course," Jaheira complied, and bowed her head to Nalin. "A thousand apologies once again, Watcher Nalin. And thank you."
With that, Jaheira led everyone outside. Xzar and Montaron were still waiting in the midst of the graveyard. Xzar had his arms raised high above his head, basking in the sunlight like a joyous martyr who'd just had a spiritual awakening.
"Oh, Monty!" Xzar exclaimed, on the verge of inspirational tears. "It's as if I've been reborn anew! Oh… Everything looks so colorful—the world is glowing!"
"Mmhm," Montaron growled. His fingers strummed the hilt of his shortsword hidden against his hip. "I'm sure yer blood could make the world even more colorful…"
Xzar laughed and waved the halfling's threat away with his hand. "Ahaha! Such a charmer you are, Monty!" Then he fondled the belt in his hands, and an evil grin spread across his lips. "Now… What to do with this lovely treasure we've found?"
He spoke quieter that time, but not quite enough to avoid Markra's keen ears. Still lost in his madness, Xzar didn't hear the party's approach until too late—Markra snatched the belt right out of his grasp with a glare.
"You won't be doing anything," he snapped. "It's the party's treasure now, not just yours."
Xzar frowned and stomped his feet like a child throwing a tantrum. "Grr! Stupid Marky! Always taking away my favorite toys!"
"I-I wouldn't call it a t-toy," Khalid cut in sheepishly. "B-But we should decide what to d-do with it. We can't rightly j-just leave it around for someone to find, but I'd hate to s-s-sell it to an unsuspecting shop-keeper either."
"Ooh! I got an idea!" Imoen yelped with an enthusiastic jump. "Why don't we give it ta Marky? That way, we can confuse all the assassins!"
Markra immediately hid the belt behind his back to keep it out of her reach. "Imoen. No."
"Aw, c'mon!" Imoen laughed. "You'd make a perfect woman Marky! Yer all slender and pretty and you're an elf to-boot! The guys won't be able to take their eyes off ya!"
He cringed. "And that's exactly what I'm afraid of."
"Hm, come ta think of it…" Imoen didn't seem to hear, preoccupied by her own schemes as she stroked her chin. "We don't really need the belt to disguise ya, do we? Just some change of clothes, some make-up, and—"
"I said no, Imoen!"
"Oh, give that to me." Jaheira's sharp voice cut through their bickering as she took the belt from behind Markra. He and Imoen opened their mouths to protest, but before they could say a word, Jaheira tossed the belt through the air and into the river.
Silence fell around them. A silence so deathly quiet, they almost heard the faint plop as the belt submerged beneath the water.
"There." Jaheira dusted her hands with a satisfied smile, far too proud of herself. "We shall leave Nature to decide its fate."
"NOOOOOOO!" Xzar shrieked and reached after it. "Such a precious piece of myself—gone! Lost to the wild blue currents of despair! Oh, woe is me! Waaahhhh!"
Then he collapsed on his knees, one hand clutching his chest, and wept. Montaron gave an exasperated groan and muttered something about how no one gave a rat's arse about the necromancer's dramatics. Khalid gave a nervous chuckle under his breath while Imoen sulked, her shoulders slumped.
"Awww…" she mumbled. "And it feels like only yesterday when we took it from that smelly ogre, too."
"You mean when you took it," Markra reminded her with his arms crossed over his chest, "and good riddance, I say."
But although he acted brave and angry, he fought to suppress a shudder in his spine. That was way too close… he thought, and thanked every god he knew for Jaheira’s no-nonsense attitude.
"Hello there!"
A stranger's voice pulled the party from their antics. Markra turned around to see a man dressed in studded leather armor, with a long bow and matching quiver strapped to his back. Many long days spent outside had darkened his skin, while his black hair had started to fade gray at the tips. And yet, his face was young and his body fit, for he was an elf who'd likely seen many more years than his outward appearance cared to share. He approached the group with a hand in the air, waving hello.
"You must be the adventurers I was expecting," the elf began. He gave each pair an approving nod as his dark eyes traced their features. "Yes, you all seem to match the descriptions. Khalid and Jaheira, Xzar and Montaron, and…" He lingered on Markra and Imoen. "Two more whom I do not know. Who might you be?"
Markra hesitated once. He didn't doubt the elf's trustworthy manner, but he'd gone far too long without another attack, and his name had been printed on all of the wanted posters. However, the stranger said that he'd been expecting them, both Jaheira and Xzar's respective parties; it wasn't hard to guess who he was.
"I'm Markra," he answered, "and this is Imoen. We're friends of theirs."
The elf nodded with a smile. "Then you are friends of mine as well. Saesa omentien lle; it's not often I see a kindred spirit in these parts."
Markra didn't speak much elvish—having been raised in a very human settlement where most everyone spoke Common—but he could recognize it when he read or heard it. "Saesa omentien lle," or, "A pleasure to meet you." He inclined his head in respect, half-hoping it would hide the faint blush trying to creep into his cheeks. He'd not seen many other elves in Candlekeep either.
"I am Berrun Ghastkill, mayor of Nashkel," the man continued, "and I am happy to welcome you. I'm only sorry we had to meet under these circumstances."
"Good to meet you as well, mayor," Jaheira agreed. "What exactly is the trouble here?"
"I can't believe you haven't guessed," Berrun chuckled. But the good humor in his voice soon dimmed and turned serious. "Have you heard of the iron shortage? Well, Nashkel is in the thick of it. Our mines are all but shut down because the workers continually go missing, and what ore we do get is tainted somehow. I would send in the town guards, but we need them to protect our citizens from the bandits that raid our caravans. That's where you come in—we need you to find out what is wrong in the mines."
Then Berrun's smirk returned. "Do you think you are up to the task?"
Xzar suddenly scoffed as he rose to his feet. He'd stopped crying long ago, his torment already forgotten. "Do I think. I am Xzar, terror of death and most unholy of all necromancers! There is no darkness that I fear and no task that I dread!"
Before he was caught in another mad reverie, though, Montaron yanked on the wizard's sleeve, strong enough that Xzar doubled-over and dropped to the halfling's eye-level.
"What he means is," Montaron began with a chilling smile, "whatever ye need dead, we'll do yer toil."
"Th-That is n-not quite how I would have put it," Khalid stammered, "b-but yes, we'll do whatever we can."
"And for that, I thank you. You will be the toast of the town if you can help." Berrun pulled out a small map of Nashkel and its surrounding wilderness, and pointed at the mine's emblem drawn on the parchment. "You will find the mines southeast of here, past the carnival. Good luck, and may Helm guard you on your journey."
Thanks to Xzar's spectacle inside, I doubt Helm would cut us any breaks, Markra thought with a small grin. But angry god or no, what he didn't say out loud wouldn't hurt him. Or at least, he hoped so.
After waving Berrun goodbye one more time and gathering their things, the party pressed on to their mission at last, and left the tiny town behind them. For now.
The landscape changed dramatically as they traveled further east. Lush green grass turned to brown dirt and dust clouds. Forests were nonexistent—only clusters of spiny trees and shrubs, arid and skeletal without the moisture of the coast. The hot air itched Markra’s throat with every breath as he baked inside his armor. Though the party shared their waterskins liberally amongst themselves as they marched beneath the burning sun.
They brushed past a hulking boulder, about the size of a small house, when Markra stopped in his tracks. The rock was smiling at him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes once; perhaps it was just a desert trick, like one of those mirages he’d read about in Candlekeep. But when he looked again, the face was still there. A statue, carved out of the stone’s surface in a way that was only capable by man. Markra thought it was meant to be a woman, with its smooth lines and graceful arches, but the sculpture was only half-finished. A rickety, makeshift ladder had been nailed into the rock to reach its highest spots.
Noticing that he’d stopped, Imoen swerved back around and followed Markra’s gaze. “Whatcha lookin’ at, Marky?”
“It’s staring at me…” Markra murmured as he swayed his head back and forth. No matter his vantage, the sculpture’s empty eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went. Imoen quickly copied him, and gasped as she noticed the same thing.
“Yowza! The rock’s alive!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t be so foolish, both of you,” Jaheira’s scolding cut through their reverie, and earned a jump out of their shoulders. “This is nothing more than a madman defacing Nature.”
Khalid chuckled. “W-Wouldn’t it be more like…r-refacing, darling?”
“Khalid,” Jaheira began with a frown. But upon seeing his giddy expression, she heaved a defeated sigh. “I… Yes, I suppose so, dear.”
Markra’s brow furrowed. What madman is she talking about? So he walked around a little to get a better view of the statue, until he saw him. A disheveled young man dressed in blue, chiseling the stone ever so delicately. Clink-clack-clink-clack went the soft pound of his hammer, rounding every rough edge and polishing every flaw.
As the party approached, the clinking stopped. The artist gazed at his work with a longing sigh, as though lost in a dream.
“Ah, beauteous creature!” he cried. “Never should I have stolen those emeralds, but there was nothing else that would capture the majesty of thine eyes! I did what must be done, for I have left my shop, forgotten all my commissions, and spent all that I had. I must complete thee!”
“Did he just say ‘stolen emeralds’?” Imoen whispered.
Montaron reached for his shortsword as a greedy grin stretched across his face. “Aye. That he did, girlie.”
The artist gasped and jumped in place as he beheld his audience for the first time. “Wait, there is someone here!” He spread his arms wide before the statue, as if that could protect it. “Who are you? T’was that relentless Greywolf who sent you, wasn’t it!?”
Now that Markra saw him up close, he could see the spark of madness in the artist’s eyes. Not like Xzar’s madness that came and went on whims, but a relentless passion that had pushed the man to his limits. His once-noble blue clothes were tattered and ragged, covered in dust from head to toe. His hands were swollen and red around the fingers. And his face, so hollow and thin enough that Markra could see his cheekbones protruding, with dark bags sagging under his eyes. Malnourished and weary, perhaps from the many days and nights he’d spent diligently sculpting outside.
Markra immediately raised his hands away from his weapons. “Easy, friend. We’ve nothing to do with this Greywolf, whoever he is.”
The artist sighed and lowered his arms. “Thank Deneir, I thought I was done in. I am not cut out for a life on the run…”
“Y-Your face looks…f-familiar, good sir,” Khalid began. “A-And this sculpture… You wouldn’t happen t-to be the famed artist Prism, w-would you?”
“That I am,” the artist answered with a nod, “though what little fame I’ve garnered is but a drop in the sea next to her beloved eyes, perfect lips… Such glory is wasted on me should I fail to capture her exquisite beauty.”
“You don’t look to have failed at all,” Markra reassured him. “What you’ve done here is amazing.”
“I thank thee, friend.” Despite his exhaustion, Prism managed a slight bow. “I have been using potions of speed to aid my work, and have not slept for days.” Though the madness snuffed out his pride as he revered the sculpture once again. “She is beautiful, is she not? Tis a monument to my foolishness. I saw her but once, on the outskirts of Evereska, and said nothing. I let thee pass from mine eyes, and mine heart hath cursed me for it!”
“Regardless of whatever your inspiration,” Jaheira said in a cold voice, “you said yourself that you stole those emeralds. I would expect better from an artist of your esteem.”
Prism winced, shaken from his musings, and bowed his head in shame. “I had intended to return the gems after…but alas, I know not how long I have left, and she must be completed soon… She must!” He eyed the six of them, surveying their every feature, and especially the weapons strapped to their hips and backs. “Mayhaps…you could help a foolish sculptor finish his epiphany?”
“How so?” Markra asked. “I don’t think any of us can sculpt.” He glanced at his friends just to make sure. Imoen and Khalid shook their heads, and while Xzar giddily started off with a nod, a jab from Montaron switched him to a no.
“Please, guard this place,” Prism explained. “Surely Greywolf will come seeking the bounty on the gems, but I need them to complete her first. I will pay with my last possessions if you would do this one service for me.”
It didn’t seem like such a bad job. Prism may have stooped to thievery, but it wasn’t as if he’d stolen the emeralds out of greed. Whoever this woman was, Prism loved her enough to capture her in something eternal. Unlike a sketch or a painting that curled and faded as the paper aged, a sculpture would stand the test of time for many years, even in the harshest wind and rain—and Markra had a feeling rain didn’t find this region very often. It would be a shame if Prism’s work were left unfinished after so much love and dedication had been put into it, especially now that he was reaching the end.
And it wasn’t as if the Nashkel mines were much farther away, either.
“Sure,” he concluded. “If it is so important, then we’ll guard you the best we can.”
Prism brightened into a grateful smile, though while Imoen and Khalid seemed to take Markra’s side, the rest of his party didn’t shy away from showing their disapproval. Jaheira sighed and shook her head with her arms crossed over her torso, muttering something about needless distractions. Montaron rolled his eyes and took a seat on a rock much too large for him. Xzar didn’t seem to care either way, lost in his own quiet chuckling as he nibbled on his fingers.
“My thanks to thee, newfound friends,” Prism said with another lopsided bow. “Now I may return to my work in peace.”
With that, Prism pulled another slim potion from within his jacket. A vial of white liquid that shined in the sun like well-beaten egg whites. The cork popped as he opened the vial and shakily downed its contents in one swig. As Prism resumed his work, the rest of the party set up a perimeter around the sculpture to keep an eye out for Greywolf, or any more greedy bounty-hunters. Montaron on his rock, with Xzar wandering closeby. Khalid and Imoen on each west corners, and Jaheira and Markra on the east.
Hours passed. Tracing the sun’s path in the sky, Markra saw the glowing orb had passed its highest peak and dipped into the afternoon. And yet, still no sign of any mercenaries. Prism did not speak or pay any of them much attention, fervently chipping away at the rock. But as time went on, Markra saw that his hands could no longer lay still, wobbly and raw. Whenever Prism took out another oil of speed, his entire body shook with an enormous effort just to pull out the cork. Every now and then the artist would close his eyes, only for a moment or two, and he’d start to sway. Just before his eyes would pop back open with the shake of his head, and he’d persist.
Markra feared he would pass out at any second.
“Hey, Jaheira…” he began cautiously as he watched Prism from the corners of his eyes. “Is it safe for him to be drinking that many potions at once?”
“If he hasn’t given his body any other proper rest or nourishment between doses,” Jaheira answered just as quietly, “then no, I would say it is not.” She watched him too with narrowed eyes, tracing every detail of the artist’s haggard state. “With how many he’s taken, over the course of several days and nights, then I would guess… He’ll likely die within the hour.”
Markra’s eyes widened. “Die? Then we have to stop him!”
But before he could start walking toward Prism and confiscate any and all other potions he might have on his person, Jaheira touched his arm and held him in place.
“Do you think that you could?” she asked. “Look at Prism again.” So he did as Jaheira continued. “That man has poured everything that he has into that sculpture. He said himself he’s neglected his commissions and sold all of his possessions, save for what he now carries on his back. He even went so far as to steal valuable gems that any bandit or thug would kill him for. Now I ask again, Markra. Do you really think that you, or I, or any of us could stop him from ending his own life?”
He paused and averted his gaze. “No… But still—”
“This isn’t the slaughtered family we found in the woods.” Jaheira’s words cut into his core, and earned a flinch out of Markra. He hadn’t even realized he’d been thinking about them until the druid pointed it out. “Prism made this choice with his own power, and that deserves your respect as much as your concern. Tragic as it may be, he’s not going to change his mind now just because you tell him it’s dangerous. I suspect he knew the dangers the moment he arrived at this spot.”
Markra watched Prism again. The artist accidentally struck his own hand with his hammer. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he shook his hurt hand, as if to shake the pain out, but with a stubborn glare he tried again. Not just his motor skills and mobility, but even Prism’s vision was deteriorating too. Even if Markra somehow convinced Prism to put the chisel down and rest, he doubted it would be enough to save the doomed artist now.
Yet another person dying before his eyes that he could not save. However…this time he was not so powerless to stand by and watch. At the very least, he would finish the job Prism had asked of him.
“Yeah,” he told Jaheira after a while. “You’re right. All we can do now is honor his last request, and make sure he finishes in time.”
Jaheira nodded with a small, pleased smile. “Yes. And sometimes, that is all that we need do.”
“Ohhhh Maaar-kraaa!” Xzar’s voice suddenly sang out like a dramatic opera singer. Markra turned to see Xzar pointing down the slope with a giddy, malicious smile. Montaron was nowhere to be seen. “The big bad wolf is here!”
Sure enough, climbing the slope with a sword over his shoulder, was the rugged mercenary Greywolf. Fur taken from a gray wolf pelt lined the collar of his studded leather armor, and a crude, bronze medallion in the shape of a wolf print hung from his neck. His hair was greasy black with streaks of gray and his tanned body was laced in old scars. Greywolf smirked as he gazed past the wary adventurers and straight at Prism, like a real wolf eyeing its prey.
Prism started from his sculpting as his protectors took a defensive stance. Markra put a hand on his trusty longsword while Jaheira drew her quarterstaff. Behind them, Khalid came running with his shield raised and Imoen drew her bow.
“No!” the artist screamed. “Not yet! My work is nearly done! Please, I implore you!”
“Your sentiment is wasted on me, fool. You are but gold in my purse.” Greywolf flashed a toothy grin as he waved a hand at Markra’s party. “Do you make your situation worse by hiring help to protect you? Who are you fools?”
“Who we are is unimportant,” Jaheira answered. “You must be Greywolf.”
“And if I am?” Greywolf asked, but judging from the widening smile across his lips, he had no real intention of hiding his name.
“Prism has been out here for days crafting this sculpture,” Markra explained. “He only wishes to finish his masterwork. Why not let him? What harm could it do?”
“Ha!” Greywolf barked a laugh and spat on the ground between them. “You should be more worried ‘bout the harm I can do! Never have I taken a bounty and not delivered!” He then raised his sword and pointed it straight at Markra. “Now, stand aside that I might dispense with this fool and claim my prize. Or would you rather I go through you to get him? Consider well if he be worth your lives!”
Six against one. So Markra hoped as he glanced at his party members. Aside from the vanished Montaron and the frantic Prism, everyone was staring at him. Of course, this job had been his idea. He was responsible for whatever would come next if they spat with Greywolf. And as good as the odds looked, the mercenary must be either wrongfully arrogant or rightfully powerful to take them all on at once. Or, Markra realized uneasily, perhaps both.
He glanced back at Prism. At the tremor running up and down his limbs, so spent he could hardly stand. At his bloodshot eyes, his blemished hands. At the flawless sculpture he’d slaved over for hours, even days to complete, all for a nameless muse who’d stolen his heart. The nameless muse whom he would die for.
Gazing back at Greywolf, Markra at last drew his sword.
“You can’t have him,” he said. “I promised I’d protect him, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Greywolf’s smile bent into a frown, and he scoffed. “Fine. If that’s your wish, then I’ll just have to cut you down too!”
And with another battle cry, he lunged. Metal-on-metal clashed and grated against one another as Markra blocked the first—the second—the third blow, one after another after another. Greywolf’s swings were relentless, savage, and fast. Blocking the first few was easy, but with each collision, Markra lost inches to Greywolf, and his confidence.
Jaheira tried to get in with her quarterstaff, but he was too slippery, nor did he seem to care when or where Jaheira struck at him. Markra sensed it in his ruthless gaze and harsh swipes—it was the elf, the baby-faced elf who’d dared to get between him and his mark… He pissed him off the most. An arrow flew past them both, just a breadth away from hitting Markra. From Imoen, though her friend and her enemy were too close together to land a clear shot.
White sparks lit Xzar’s fingers as his hands danced, and the familiar pale orb flew out of his palms and struck Greywolf. The mercenary staggered, and gave Markra but a moment’s relief. The elf thrust forward, aimed straight for Greywolf’s heart. But he recovered too fast, and with a snide grin, Greywolf swung and blocked yet again.
This time was different. As their swords collided, a chilling breeze blew into their faces. Shards of glittering ice grew out of nothing and crept along their blades like living crystal. Frost bit into Markra’s fingers as he fought Greywolf’s weight, but the ice didn’t harm Greywolf. With another loud yell, Greywolf shoved him off and the flower of ice shattered—along with Markra’s sword.
Icicle shards cut into Markra’s exposed hands and face, as deadly and fragile as glass. As Markra faltered, trying to shield his face with his free arm, Greywolf swung a kick into his gut, hard enough to throw Markra rolling down the short hill.
In a victorious yell, Greywolf raised his sword again, but Khalid and Jaheira stood between him and Markra. The magic sword banged against Khalid’s shield and left a bloom of ice behind. Jaheira struck him in the shoulder with the butt of her staff, but Greywolf whacked his blade against it and threw her off her aim. Another stray arrow shot too wide, almost hitting Prism as he clambered to finish his sculpture amidst the chaos.
Once he’d hit the bottom and the rolling slowed to a stop, Markra scrambled to get back on his feet. But as he reached for the hilt, one look at his sword dashed his hopes. Cracked in the middle and splintered, as though a beast had bitten it in half. Flecks of frost lined the edges where it’d broken in two, and somewhere far away, old Winthrop’s words echoed in Markra’s mind. “A fine choice, lad! Crafted with Iron Throne metal an’ all!” Metal of the Iron Crisis, brittle and dull.
A thousand panicked thoughts swam through Markra’s head as he watched the fight continue above him. At last, Montaron reappeared. The halfling melted out of the shadows behind his new favorite rock, and thrust his shortsword into Greywolf’s lower back. But Greywolf sidestepped at the last moment and threw him off his aim; the shortsword just barely sliced the corner of his tunic. A red line etched into Greywolf’s side where the clothes had been torn open by the blade, but it was only a surface cut. A wound that would bleed, yet damaged nothing of import.
Letting out a yell, Greywolf turned his vengeful eyes on Montaron. His sword slashed through the air, seemingly whiffing, before another burst of ice crystals flew out of the blade. Jagged icicles buried themselves into Montaron’s right shoulder, and the halfling fell to his knees.
Though with Greywolf’s back turned, one of Imoen’s arrows finally found its mark: his upper back. Greywolf loosed another angry howl as he swerved around and raised his magic sword with both hands. This time, at Jaheira. Khalid leaned close to Jaheira as he raised his shield, covering them both. But it was a clumsy stance, hastily put together, and now they were trapped behind it and Greywolf’s relentless barrage of swings.
Khalid seemed to shrink beneath every strike, knees bent and arms dipping. Not because he was tiring already, but with each collision, Greywolf’s sword left sheets of ice on his shield. Layer upon gleaming layer gathered in its center, one on top of the other, and burdened the shield with crippling weight that Khalid was not used to. It was taking all of Khalid’s energy just to hold his defense, let alone look for the chance to strike back. A chance that Greywolf was not about to give.
Broken sword or not, Markra had to do something. He threw the useless weapon away and reached for the bow strapped to his back. How long had it been, he wondered, since Greywolf had tossed him over the hill and out of sight? Not very; mere seconds, minutes at most, yet it seemed that the mercenary had already forgotten him, thirsty for new blood. And while Greywolf may be a famous man with a shiny sword, in the end, he was still just one man with only one set of eyes.
This should surprise him, Markra thought as the fletching touched his cheek. While aiming, Jaheira’s eyes met his, an unspoken question as she grasped her quarterstaff with white knuckles. Markra answered her with a nod, and she poised to strike. And that’s all I need to do.
The arrow flew. It dug into Greywolf’s exposed side, right where Montaron’s sword almost stabbed into him. For the first time since Xzar’s magic trick, Greywolf faltered, hand instinctively reaching for the red splotch in his waist.
That moment was all Jaheira needed. With a final warcry, she leaped out from behind Khalid’s shield, spun her quarterstaff above her head in a fluid dance, and—crack! The brunt of the stick whacked Greywolf’s skull, and he dropped to the ground like a pot from a high window.
A silent wind brushed through Markra’s hair as he slowly climbed back up the hill. Khalid fell on his butt, breathing heavily, and at last dropped the frozen shield. He even began rubbing his hands together, as though to keep them warm.
“Alright, we did it!” Imoen was the first to cheer, punching the air victoriously as she hopped to her friends. She even gave Jaheira a loving clap on the shoulder, beaming. “Take that, ya greedy mongrel! And oh boy, what a hit ya gave him, Auntie! That was great!”
“Thank you, Imoen,” Jaheira replied, though her brow furrowed an instant later. “But did you just call me—”
“Ohhh!” Xzar popped out from behind the rock with a spring in his step, and a goofy, almost drunken tune in his voice. “Fi-fo, thy brute is dead! That’s what I said, the one thou wed! Fi-fo, thy brute is dead, but now I shall take thine spot in bed!”
And a drunken rhythm in his steps, as Xzar practically tripped over his own toes and fell on his knees. He hovered just above Greywolf’s corpse, a slimy smile tugging his lips. “And take thine shiny pretties too…”
Before one of Xzar’s slippery hands could cut Greywolf’s purse from his waist, however, Montaron grabbed his shoulder and yanked him off. Only with one arm too, but even as his strength returned and the ice in his shoulder started to melt, he shot Jaheira a haggard glare as he struggled for breath.
“Quit yer yowling before I cut out ye throat,” he growled at Xzar. “You did no’ do nothin’ to earn a pretty coin in that fight. Me, on the other hand…could be usin’ a certain woman’s touch?”
A scowl etched into Jaheira’s sharp features, but she wordlessly sat beside Montaron and began to heal him with magic. Within minutes, the ice vanished, and all that remained of the hole in his flesh was a red stain in his clothes and some bruising. When she had finished, Montaron scooped up the pouch of gold for himself, and began counting the pieces inside.
Markra had no interest in Greywolf’s gold though. His hands wandered instead to the hilt of the sword lying abandoned beside its old master. Even without Greywolf’s icicle attacks, Markra could have known just by looking at it—at the sheen in the blade, the design of the hilt, the magic that resonated in the air around it like the quiet thrum of hummingbird wings… This was no ordinary sword.
“H-Hey, hey!” Khalid’s voice pulled him back to the real world. The half-elf gently put his hand on the sword and lowered it back to the ground. “C-Careful with it, Markra. We don’t know wh-what kind of s-s-spells are in it.”
Yes, Markra knew full well the dangers that came with mishandling magical items, especially when he may not know the extent of its abilities. Gorion had made well sure that those lessons had gotten drilled into his very soul back in Candlekeep, let alone his mind. But—
“All it does is make ice,” Markra reassured him. “I don’t think it’s too dangerous, so long as you don’t point it at the wrong person.”
Everyone’s eyes fell to him and to the sword in his lap, some more wonderstruck than others. Imoen peered at it over his shoulder and gave a breath of awe in his ear. “It sure is pretty, Marky,” she gasped. “Real pretty, kinda like it was made for you.”
“It would be more efficient in Khalid’s hands,” Jaheira bluntly pointed out. But right as Markra opened his mouth to protest, Khalid raised his hands up and shook his head.
“O-Oh no! Not me, dear,” he insisted. “I-I’m much more comfortable with a plain sword… And the cold m-makes me itchy.” Then he gazed at Markra, a wry smile in his lips. “B-Besides… Your sword is broken now, is it n-not?”
“Yeah…” Markra sighed out his nose as he gazed at Greywolf’s sword. Even with the masterwork resting in his hands, the snap of his old sword still echoed in his ears. It was sad, in a way; that was the sword he’d bought from Winthrop, the sword he’d carried with him from Candlekeep. A companion of sorts who’d been with him when Gorion was killed, when he’d fled through the woods until his legs collapsed in the dark. A guardian who’d protected him from wolves, ogres, assassins, and much more.
Thanks for staying together for me, even though you were made from tainted iron, Markra thought. Silly, thinking to a sword as if it were sentient, yet the prayer gave him some small comfort. I’ll keep doing my best with this new partner.
He would need to Identify it later. A small bit of magic, something he’d watched his father practice many times whenever he found something strange. Nothing difficult, but it had its preparations. Until then, Markra strapped the sword’s scabbard onto his belt, with a pair of approving nods from Imoen and Khalid.
“Ah… At last…”
Prism’s voice drew back their attention, and they all turned toward the artist and his sculpture. He gazed upon the stone even more loving than before, as if a sky full of stars were sparkling in his eyes. But his body was torn, strung together by thin tissue and muscles clinging to bones. Prism collapsed on his knees, yet he continued to stare into the sculpture, a horrid bend in his undoubtedly sore neck.
Markra could not look away either, nor many of his friends. Even Montaron let out an impressed whistle. Every line of the sculpture: smooth, undeterred, graceful and elegant. She looked as though she could come to life at any second and speak to them. Prism had used the emeralds in her eyes, a royal green that glowed in the golden sunlight. Now that she was finished, Markra noticed the high curves of her ears, the sharpness of her eyebrows, the fine features in her cheeks—an elven face not unlike his own, yet he dared not compare himself to such a beautiful creature if she were real. At the bottom of the sculpture lay a collection of empty potion vials. Dozens of them, scattered amidst Prism’s sculpting tools.
Upon seeing the pile, a chill ran down Markra’s spine that chased away the awe in his heart.
“Prism…” he murmured, but did not know really what to say. Nor did it much matter; Prism may as well have been in a whole other world, an aura of love and relief embracing him all around.
“Alas, she is complete,” Prism spoke absently. “Take what you will of my possessions, but leave the sparkle in her eyes. Oh sweet creature, my effigy to thee is done. Perhaps our paths shall cross in distant realms, and I shall find the courage to call thy name: Ellesime!”
A tremor wracked through all of Prism’s body as he reached out his hand, and touched her smooth, stone face, much like a caress. Even after his legs failed him and he fell to the ground in dead stillness, the pleased smile stayed on his lips.
Markra lowered his gaze as Imoen gasped beside him, and buried her head in his shoulder. Khalid took off his helmet and held it to his chest as he bowed his head. No one said a word as Jaheira knelt beside Prism’s body and put two fingers against his neck. After waiting a minute or so, she closed his eyelids.
“He’s dead,” she confirmed, and bowed her head in prayer as she whispered the rites. “Silvanus, guide the light back to the source…”
As she spoke beneath her breath, however, Xzar let out a loud groan and gripped his head, as if he were suffering from a giant headache.
“Yes, yes, it’s all very tragic and sad!” he scowled. “But what of our payment? What of our just reward for fulfilling this utterly pointless—I mean… Purely righteous request?”
“H-Have you no compassion?” Khalid asked. “The poor man is…d-d-dead.”
“Lotsa people die all around,” Montaron cut in. “Don’t mean we gotta starve for our efforts. Oy, druid! What’s the fool got on him, eh?”
Markra gripped the hilt of his new sword as he turned his steely green eyes on Montaron and Xzar. “Prism has just died, and you already want to rifle through his possessions?”
“He hasn’t much, I’m afraid,” Jaheira answered. “His clothes are all but rags, and his pouch is empty of gold.”
“Jaheira!” Markra scolded, but the druid simply shrugged as she pushed herself to her feet.
“They asked; I answered,” she told him. “And as tasteless as it is, the artist did promise us payment in whatever was left on his person. The only thing of any value that he owned were the two emeralds in the sculpture. The same emeralds he’d stolen.”
A twinkle lit up Imoen’s eyes as she jabbed Markra’s arm with a smirk. “I’m bettin’ those emeralds would sell for a nice price, huh Marky?” Though at his warning glare, her smile dipped. “I-I mean… If they weren’t stolen, that is.”
“I-It might do us good to hold onto them,” Khalid suggested. “Whoever lost them m-must be searching for them as we s-s-speak.”
“An’ what’re we, some delivery service fer lost goods?” Montaron grimaced. “No, not fer stones like those. Ya know how the words go: finder’s keepers, loser’s weepers. And finder’s richers too.”
But to everyone’s surprise, Xzar was the first to scold his partner, patting him on the shoulder in a tut-tut voice, like a parent to a child. “Now now, Montaron. The goodly ones do have a point.”
The tears swelled almost spontaneously as he went on. Xzar even produced a dirty handkerchief from the inside of his robe to dab his eyes.
“Those poor, baby emeralds… Spirited from their homes one night by a mad artist, and now, out in a cold, harsh world all by themselves with no one to protect them…! Oh, just think of the Mama and Papa emeralds! They must be worried sick!”
Xzar blew his nose as loud as a blare of trumpets, much to Montaron’s disgust. But as he wiped his eyes dry and feigned his grief, his voice dropped and spoke out of the corners of his mouth, just loud enough for all to hear. “Now think about how much Mama and Papa would pay to see their children returned, safe and sound.”
Montaron seemed to take Xzar’s advice, for he did not protest again. He instead simmered off a bit, crossing his arms over his chest grudgingly.
“Then are we decided?” Jaheira asked one more time, just to be sure. “Shall we take the gems or not?”
Markra didn’t much like the idea of taking the emeralds, even if it was to return them to their rightful owner. Prism had begged with his dying breath that they “leave the sparkle in her eyes,” and looking at the stone Ellesime now, he didn’t want to remove them. It was the curves of the stone, their glint against the sun—the emeralds just seemed to fit. What a shame it would be if they were taken away now, before anyone else had the chance to look upon her in wonder.
But a much wiser, more cynical part of him knew that it wouldn’t last. Someone, some time, would eventually stumble upon Prism’s statue, and that person may or may not be an admirer. More likely, a bandit or a thief who would sooner take the jewels for himself and sell them away, to some place where the original owner would surely never see them again. Prism had completed his statue; she was the last he saw before the light faded from his eyes, and she would be etched into his memory for eternity.
And besides, Markra assured himself as he gazed again at the sculpture, she’s plenty beautiful without the emeralds.
“Let’s take them down,” he answered at last. “It’s not like they’re hard to carry.”
Jaheira nodded, and with Imoen’s help, they dislodged the sparkling gems from Ellesime’s eyes and placed them into a safe pouch. As the rest of the party gathered their bearings, though, Markra continued to stare at Prism. At his content smile, as unmoving as the statue that hovered over him.
“We must hurry to the Nashkel Mines,” Jaheira’s voice cut through his remorse like a knife through ice. “They won’t be much further now, and we need to at least begin our investigation before the day comes to an end.”
He knew that. Of course Markra knew that. But that didn’t stop him from at least trying to ask:
“We’re just going to leave him like that?”
Jaheira sighed, but instead of breaking out into yet another lecture—one that Markra had already begun preparing a plethora of comebacks for—she put a hand on his shoulder, and her gaze softened.
“Let us ask the miners when we arrive,” she suggested gently. “As I said, they are not far, and there are many people in this region who loved Prism’s art. I am certain we can find someone willing to take care of him.”
Markra’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, unsure of what to say at first. “J-Jaheira, I… Th-Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it, Markra. But you should try to not stutter so much. We wouldn’t want you turning into my husband, now would we?”
She smiled to show she was joking. And Markra smiled back, because Jaheira was actually joking. “No ma’am,” he laughed. And with Ellesime’s eternal gaze at their backs, the band of adventurers continued on, passing through the amber glow of early twilight.
I enjoyed how you worked the sword's cold powers into the fight. Very nicely done.
And, I got a good chuckle from this:
“Those poor, baby emeralds… Spirited from their homes one night by a mad artist, and now, out in a cold, harsh world all by themselves with no one to protect them…! Oh, just think of the Mama and Papa emeralds! They must be worried sick!”
Quick question, did something get left out here? It seems like a sentence or two might be missing:
A disheveled young man dressed in blue, chiseling the stone ever so delicately. Clink-clack-clink-clackDie? Then we have to stop him!”
Quick question, did something get left out here? It seems like a sentence or two might be missing:
A disheveled young man dressed in blue, chiseling the stone ever so delicately. Clink-clack-clink-clackDie? Then we have to stop him!”
Oh. Poop. How did I miss that.
Lemme go fix that riiiiight noooow...
Edit: Ah-ha. I accidentally typed in the wrong bracket when I was adding the italics, so it skipped a huge chunk of it even though the text is written in the post. Might want to go back and read it again now that everything makes sense again... Sorry about that. ^_^;;
I'm just gonna drop this here... Don't mind meee... *whistles*
Chapter 10 (Part I)
After wandering just a little ways north, the adventurers arrived at the Nashkel Mines. A giant hole carved out of the earth by dozens upon dozens of straggly laborers. Thin, disheveled men in rags, climbing up and down ladders, steering wheelbarrows full of rocks, and chugging gourds of water as though it was their lifeblood. Soldiers in Nashkel militia uniforms supervised the mine with swords on their hips and shortbows on their backs. No doubt, there were many bandit groups starved of iron on the roads, and some were more than mad enough to attempt a raid on the source.
As Markra and the others climbed down the hole, they heard angry shouting at its center. A man in leather with bright orange hair and freckled skin was barking orders to the miners. “Put your backs into it, slouts, before we lose the last o’ daylight! Don’t carry those rocks by yourself, get some help ya gods-damn idiot! Remmy! If I catch you takin’ another drink on the job, I’m dockin’ your pay until next year!!” And so on, along with a string of profanities that even made Imoen blush as they approached.
Markra caught the shirt of a miner running up the steps, and pointed to the redhead below with his other hand. “Hey, is that the man in charge?”
Upon steering his head around to follow Markra’s point, the miner scoffed and spit. “Emerson, yeah. Unfortunately.”
“W-Well…” Khalid coughed as he forced a reassuring smile. “H-He seems…assertive.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” the miner replied. “You got business with him? Take my advice: don’t do business with him. You’ll have better luck talkin’ to a wall, and your ears will thank you for it.”
“Clovis!!” Emerson’s voice shouted over the hustle and bustle, earning a flinch out of the miner. “If ya got the time to sit and chit-chat, ya got the time to fetch that water I told you to! Now move it!!”
The miner sighed with the roll of his eyes, and resumed his jog up the hill. “Good luck,” he muttered to Markra right before he left.
“Hey!!” Emerson’s shouting grew louder. And to Markra’s dismay, now it was aimed at his party. “Who the devil are you sorry lot!? If you’re not here to work, then piss off! You’re blockin’ my men!!”
Jaheira, completely unfazed, ignored Emerson’s banshee screams and approached the taskmaster as she would any other authority figure—chin high, shoulders straight, walk steady. Khalid sheepishly followed after her with his head low, while Xzar practically doubled-over as he tried to hide behind Montaron. Markra and Imoen shared a look, one of many they’d exchanged during their childhood in Candlekeep. The classic I’ll-go-if-you-go silent promise. It was enough, at least, to steel each other’s resolve, and follow everyone else.
“Wait a minute…” Emerson’s yelling quieted for a moment as his eyes squinted at them, surveying their every detail up and down. “By the looks of you, you’re…adventurers!”
A rigid snarl set into Emerson’s features as he stomped toward them, meeting Jaheira halfway. “Oh, I don’t know what you’re here for, but the answer is no! I don’t be needin’ adventuring fools wandering about me mines, especially ones that think they can tromp about with nary a thought about askin’ permission!!”
“Rest assured, Emerson, we are not fools,” Jaheira told him, with an obvious effort to keep her voice and expression totally neutral. “And we have permission. Barrun Ghastkill has sent us to investigate the troubles of the mine.”
Emerson’s eyes went wide as Jaheira pulled out the documents. “Barrun? Gods, gimme those.” Just before he snatched them out of her hands and practically ripped them open. He mumbled the legal words under his breath as he read, barely coherent, but even as he processed it all, his frown only creased deeper. Once he finished, he shoved the papers back into Jaheira’s arms.
“Hmph,” he growled, and lifted his finger. “Fine! You’ve got one day. If I see you after that, I’ll have a new shaft dug for each of ya! Got that!?” They nodded. “Good!”
And with the wave of his hand, Emerson turned his back on the adventurers and returned to his belligerent shouting. Jaheira shut her eyes, as if to block a pesky bug from flying into them, as she rolled up the papers and returned them to her coat pocket.
“I’ve had more eloquent conversations with bears,” the druid grumbled, then let out a sigh. “But, he was simple enough. At least we’re in.”
“M-Monty?” Xzar asked in a too-loud whisper all of them could hear. “Is it safe to come out now?”
Montaron scoffed as he reached behind his head, held Xzar’s jaw, and pushed it up as far as his stubby arms could reach. Xzar nearly lost his balance as he half-stood, half-leaned over his partner.
“You were never in a hidin’ to start with, ye git,” the rogue snapped. And gave Xzar one last slap on the thigh as he turned around and began walking toward the mine’s entrance. Xzar pouted as he rubbed his leg, and walked with a hunch as he sheepishly followed Montaron.
The rest marched after them, reunited just short of the cave’s dark, yawning mouth. A pair of soldiers on either side had blocked the passage earlier, their spears criss-crossed over the hole, but now that Emerson had given his permission, they left it open.
“I wish you guys luck in there,” one of the guards told Markra as they passed by. “Whatever’s been causing all the trouble isn’t something I’d wanna run into.”
As they crossed the threshold and the darkness swallowed them, Markra couldn’t help but think the same thing. Gripping the hilt of Greywolf’s sword, he gulped down his dread and pressed on.
***
Imoen broke into a coughing fit once they’d delved into the mine’s first floor. Markra managed to stifle a choke, even as his lungs screamed at him to cast out the toxic air he took in. Dust drifted in clouds of orange lantern light, dry and thick and rusty. The pounding of hammers echoed off the cavern walls mechanically, almost like a chorus of practiced musicians who’d over-rehearsed their routine. Clack. Clack. Clack. An empty, hollow sound not unlike the miners who struck it.
Markra saw a pair of them as they entered. Pale, scrawny men who looked to have not seen the sun in days. One of them sat hunched in a corner, coughing violently as the other kept a steady hand on his back. Dark liquid spewed out of his mouth—too dark to be blood, but could be nothing else. Tar, Markra suspected, corrosively burning through his veins and collecting in his lungs.
Hearing their footsteps, the comforter of the two looked over his shoulder and gave them a grim nod. “Hmm, more adventurers, eh? I’d leave while you still can, if I were you. I’ve heard awful stories about what’s been happening to those that go deeper into the mines.”
More adventurers. So, we’re not the first ones to try, Markra realized.
“Is that so?” Jaheira asked gently, perhaps out of respect for the other suffering. “Why? What have you heard?”
“Well, my friend Ruffie barely escaped with his life, he did. Little demons jumped out of the very walls and chased him down.”
He paused as his friend heaved another fit, and rubbed his back with a hand caked in dirt. Markra’s ears began to wilt at the tips; the poor fool may as well have been coughing up his heart.
“He woulda died if not for the guards that came running,” the miner continued softly once his friend’s fit had eased itself. “Course, them guards are dead now. Chit-chat with some of the miners round here, and they’ll tell ya what they saw.”
“Th-Thank you,” Khalid replied with a nod, and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. He walked to the miners and offered it to them with a shy smile. “H-Here, take this.”
At last, the afflicted miner raised his head. Blood slathered his lips and chin, while dark snot and tears matted his face. His ratty, mangled sleeves were already stained with dirt and gods know what else; Khalid’s handkerchief glowed like an angel’s robe in comparison. For a moment, at least, before the miner took it in his hands and used it to wipe his face. Not clean, but better than it was.
“Gods bless ya, sir,” was all the miner said, voice hoarse from all the hacking.
“We should follow their advice,” Jaheira concluded, ever the undeterred one, “and speak with other miners on what they’ve heard or experienced. It would be wise of us to gather more information before we press forward.”
“Yeah, I agree,” Imoen said between coughs. Though despite her difficult breathing, she cracked a goofy grin. “Wouldn’t want us wanderin’ round in the dark on the whole thing, eh? Eh?”
No one laughed, not even Xzar. Her shoulders slumped. “Aw, c’mon. Too soon?”
“Make another cave pun,” Montaron growled with his finger pointed at her, “and I clobber ya. Don’t think I can’t neither, just cause yer taller than me.”
“No one is clobbering anyone,” Markra snapped as he stood between them and raised his hands. “We have a job to do, so let’s do it.”
They plunged into the dark tunnels in search of miners to interview. They found plenty, but few wanted to speak, or even had the ability to. Plenty more crouched on the floor, leaned on their shovels, and spewed their lungs out in fits and spasms. The ones who did speak to them told much of the same things: miners disappearing in the lower levels, the scarcity of iron ore, and whatever iron that they did haul out crumbling almost as soon as it’d been cast.
Other rumors bridged between fear and insanity. They met one miner who shook with a fever and murmured curses to his employers, about the high wages they’d promised and tight spaces too small to breathe in. Another claimed the mines were haunted by the souls of all those who’d perished before them—and seeing the conditions the workers lived in, Markra almost believed it to be true. More repeated the claim that demons had been appearing out of the walls. One fellow even believed a dragon dwelled in the depths of the mines.
“Dragons!” Xzar perked up with a wild gleam in his eyes. “Oh, I’ve seen dragons with feet like rabbits. Tis true, I swear!”
The miner nodded his head like he’d just told him that the walls were made of rock. “Oh yes, yes. Haven’t actually seen him, but what else could kill all those miners? He must be mad about us mining his hill. Poor thing.”
Somehow, only Xzar believed him. They did not speak with that one for very long.
They spent almost an hour just asking questions and compiling answers, and Markra hated it. The poisoned air he had to choke down, the mournful looks of the bone-skinny miners, the low ceiling and cramped tunnels… Nothing about the place felt right—so dark and musty and brown, far from the vibrant forests and clear skies above. Every fiber of his body twitched with an anxiety he rarely felt. Elves were not meant to crawl through the earth; that belonged to the dwarves, and the drow taken by the wicked spider goddess, Lloth. And though Markra may have been raised in Candlekeep his whole life, he was still an elf through and through.
Once we’re done with this venture, he thought, I never want to see another mine again.
“Let us rest a moment,” Jaheira said, and the party came to a stop. “Khalid, what have we gathered so far?”
Khalid pulled out the notes he’d been taking and listed off what they already learned so far. “The only real c-consistencies a-are this talk of demons, the faulty iron, a-and the holes in the walls. B-But some have also said th-that it gets worse f-f-further down.”
“Auntie…” Imoen began, looking at Jaheira. “You don’t…really think these mines are possessed by some sorta demons or ghosts, do ya?”
“Certainly not, child,” Jaheira assured her. “But I do think those miners saw something, and whatever that something is has to be behind the disappearances. Perhaps even the corrupted ore as well.”
“Hmmm…” Xzar pondered as he stroked his chin, a rare moment of lucidity. “Whenever someone mentions these ‘demons,’ they always say they saw them jump out of the walls.” Then his eyes lit up and he gasped, the madness returning. “Walls mean nothing to ghosts! They can walk straight through them! Which means… The mines truly are haunted after all!”
Imoen gasped and covered her mouth; she’d never been fond of ghost stories, despite her taste for mischief. But Montaron rolled his eyes and elbowed Xzar’s waist, knocking him out of his insanity. “If that was true, we’d be hearin’ more talk o’ ghosts than demons, ya blabberin’ moron. It ain’t nothin’ supernatural, I can tell ye that.”
“The holes,” Markra said suddenly, and waited until he had everyone’s attention. “The miners keep saying these ‘demons’ are popping out of the walls, but what if they’re just using the holes? Like…they’re all connected somehow, like a secret network of tunnels?”
All five pairs of eyes widened a smidge as the idea clicked in their heads. Khalid jotted down another scribble of notes while Xzar took in another gasp, and threw his arms around Markra.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” the mad wizard exclaimed. “Oh dear Markra, you’re a beautiful genius!”
“Would you please let go of me?” Markra grumbled as he tried to push him off.
“Then whatever these ‘demons’ are, they must be small enough to climb through the holes undetected,” Jaheira contemplated aloud. “Not to mention, strong enough to carry the bodies of the missing miners somewhere unseen.” Her brow furrowed in thought for a moment before she shook her head, sigh quietly. “But that still doesn’t narrow it down enough. We should move on from here; perhaps we’ll find more clues on the second floor.”
With another series of nods—and an especially hard shove from Markra, at last freeing himself from Xzar’s loving clutches—the party gathered itself once more, and moved further down the tunnels.
Ironically, despite diving deeper into the earth and further from the surface, the air was better in the second level. Far away, Markra heard the caverns drip with water and yawn with a nice, cool draft. The dust was still thick, but a more tolerable poison than what suffocated the miners above. Imoen still coughed every now and then, but her fits came and went more quietly than before.
Markra put a hand on her shoulder as they walked. “Feeling better?”
“I think so,” she answered with a nod. “It’s not so bad down here. Still can’t believe what they have to put up with above us though. I mean, how can they work at all when they’re coughin’ up blood?”
“I know what you mean. It’s wrong. It doesn’t matter how much they’re getting paid; this place, and being forced to work here, it’s killing them, with or without these ‘demons.’”
“Wrong or not,” Jaheira’s voice cut in, earning a jump out of their shoulders, “remember that these miners are here of their own free will. Let us focus on the evil lurking through the caves and put a stop to the abductions before we try any liberation for the workers. Shall we?”
“Yes ma’am…” both Markra and Imoen sighed simultaneously. Though they shared a small smile when they heard each other’s voices.
A scream suddenly erupted from the darkness, and the party halted once again. A man’s voice, coarse and gravelly like the other miners, along with the frantic thud of fast footsteps. As it drew closer, they saw the pale silhouette of a miner running toward them. But he couldn’t run very far or very fast, not with the tar in his lungs and the ache in his limbs from working all day. Once he noticed the band of adventurers, he slowed to a stop and heaved for breath.
“H-Help!” he cried again. “They’re coming—the yipping demons, they’re everywhere! Save me!”
“Calm down,” Jaheira began cautiously. “What demons? Where are they?”
Something skittered in the dark. The rest of his party didn’t seem to notice, but Markra heard it. And a higher-pitched growling, like a small dog’s. At first he reached for the bow on his back, but he didn’t trust his own aim in the low light.
The miner looked over his shoulder, and pointed a trembling finger into the darkness. “Th-there! They’re already here! They—”
He never finished. A hiss bit the air before the miner choked, staggered, and fell to the ground with an arrow in his back.
The swarming yips grew louder and bounced off the walls as everyone else drew their weapons. More arrows flew at them, but as Khalid led the charge, most of them hit his shield and harmlessly dropped to the ground. The party ran straight into the dark, and once they were close enough, Markra finally saw them: small, almost dog-like heads atop scaly, rust-colored bodies, tails wagging and tongues lulling excitedly. Three of them, all using bows, but as the adventuring party came upon them, the monsters quickly put their ranged weapons away and drew short swords from their waists.
Dangerous from afar, but puny up-close. Each “demon” stood barely three feet tall. Ivory horns grew out of their heads, but they were small and curled, more ornamental than deadly. They dressed in cheap leather armor and went without helmets. Markra thought it strange that creatures with scales for skin would even need extra protection, but he soon saw why.
One of them tried to gnaw through Jaheira’s quarterstaff as it swung its shortsword wildly at her torso. With a sharp shove, Jaheira threw the beast off of her. It went flying against the wall, and a crack echoed off the cavern as it slumped to the ground, limp and lifeless. Khalid bashed his shield into another’s head; the runt staggered, dazed, just before Khalid slashed his sword across its chest. It gave a pained whine as it fell, like a dying dog.
The last leaped for Markra, and although it did get a cut on his sleeve thanks to its bold charge, it could not compare with Markra’s magical blade. One flash of steel, and Markra ran his sword through the critter’s gut. Ice grew like crystal from the wound, and when Markra pulled it out, the so-called demon had become a frozen corpse.
Markra sighed as he sheathed his sword. “Is everyone all right?”
His party answered him with a half-dozen different ways of saying “yes.” Khalid had knelt beside the fallen miner, checking his pulse, but he soon stood up again with the grim shake of his head. Jaheira hunched beside one of the dead monsters, analyzing it in the dark. The others crept closer once they realized it was safe to approach, which Montaron took as the chance to scan bodies for loot.
“What are they, Auntie?” Imoen asked Jaheira.
“Kobolds,” the druid answered. “I had suspected that they were the cause of all this, and although there are only three here, it seems my thoughts were not misplaced.”
“They weren’t very strong,” Markra began, brow furrowing. “You really think they’re the ones behind the disappearances?”
Montaron scoffed as he jiggled a small pouch of coins found off a corpse and added them to his purse. “Ye do best not to underestimate the lil’ ones, elf-boy. Kobolds be like insects—puny an’ weak when all by their lonesome, but smart an’ deadly in a swarm.” He flashed Markra a toothy grin. “An’ then there’s me, smart an’ deadly all on me own.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone, my sworn compatriot?” Xzar asked in an unusually smooth tone.
“Ya mean the moronic shadow followin’ me every move an’ step?” Montaron rolled his eyes. “Nay, I dun know how I could possibly forget him.”
Anyone else might have returned Montaron’s jab with a fist of their own, but instead, Xzar’s eyelashes fluttered and he clasped his hands to his cheek like a swooning maiden. “Aw, Monty! You always say the sweetest things to me!”
Montaron grumbled some curses under his breath.
“Kobolds do their best in ambushes,” Jaheira explained as she stood to her feet once more. “If they truly are behind the troubles of the mine, we’ll likely find plenty more before our search is done. Stay cautious, all of you. Khalid, lead the way please?”
Her husband nodded and raised his shield as he walked. The rest of the party followed behind, their most squishy members in the back with Jaheira and Markra sharing the front.
After a long while, Jaheira put her arm before Markra’s path, urging him to stop.
“What is it?” Markra whispered. But she quietly hushed him with a finger on her mouth. Her eyes scanned the darkness ahead as her head leaned in. She sniffed the air a few times, nose twitching like a bloodhound’s, before she drew her quarterstaff from her back and gripped it in both hands.
“Proceed with caution,” Jaheira murmured. “There is a stench of death close by.”
Under the dust and the moist air, it was a wonder Jaheira even detected this so-called stench of death. But as they sneaked through the tunnels, Markra began to smell it too. Rot and decay, an almost sweet air that churned his stomach upside-down. It was faint at first, but grew more pungent the closer they edged toward the source. He and Imoen started covering their noses and mouths, but their hands did little to shield them.
A lone, orange torch on the wall dimly lit the yawning cavern, and a lumpy form lying still in the corner. Dressed in the tatters of what used to be a Nashkel soldier’s uniform, in a dried up puddle of his own blood, a stray longsword just inches from his desperate, blackened fingers—the corpse of what used to be a miner guard. Markra gazed, fixated, as Jaheira moved to check the body. Khalid followed her close behind and took the flickering torch from the wall.
“G-Gods…” Khalid breathed. As he raised the torch high above his head and illuminated the whole cave, they saw more of them. Dozens of bodies, armored and not, littered the tunnel floor. More than half had forests of arrow fletching sticking out of their backs, while others had sword wounds slashed across their stomachs. Somewhere in the eerie quiet, water dripped from the ceiling and plopped into a pool, but even as he heard it, Markra felt it was too far away from the slaughter before him.
“They’ve been dead for about two days, at least,” Jaheira told them, her voice just above a whisper. “I think we’ve found our missing miners, and their protectors.”
“H-Horrible…” Imoen gasped behind her hands as she stared, unblinking, into the remains. “W-Wasn’t there anyone who coulda checked on them down here? Why didn’t anyone find ‘em?”
“What makes ye think they hadn’t?” Montaron asked with a scoff in his voice. “Maybe they turned tail an’ ran before whatever killed them sorry bloats came outta hidin’ and killed them too.”
The words of the earlier miners echoed in the back of Markra’s head. The story of Ruffie and the demons who’d nearly killed him one night in the depths of the mines. “He woulda died if not for the guards that came running. Course, them guards are dead now.”
Jaheira began to murmur her prayers to Silvanus as Khalid ventured down the tunnel. He stopped in the mouth of a four-way intersection, the light of his torch casting its warmth on the walls.
“J-Jaheira, everyone!” he called back to them. “I-I think you all had b-b-better see this…”
Past the skirmish remains, the party joined Khalid in gazing down the crossroad. Along with the way they’d come, two of the paths were dimly lit with torches that glowed unseen around the corners. Only the right path was lost in shadow, but thanks to Khalid’s light, they saw what made the half-elf so skittish. Another pair of bodies, a good space between each, just lying in the middle of the tunnel as though they’d been placed. As Khalid raised the torch a little higher, Markra thought he saw a third body down the way.
“It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs…” Imoen muttered.
“Aye, and with a mousetrap waitin’ for us at the end,” Montaron scowled. “I dun like this at all.”
“Nor do I,” Jaheira agreed with a slight nod, “but we’ve little choice. Despite the evidence of a battle, we’ve yet to find any kobold corpses among the dead. My hunch is…they want to lure anyone who might investigate these deaths and ambush them when least expected.”
“That’s…kinda complex for kobolds, isn’t it?” Markra asked.
The druid shrugged. “Complex, but not outside the realm of possibility. Step lightly, and watch your backs.”
Hands poised to draw steel, they sneaked down the dark pathway. Imoen and Montaron clung to the walls just outside of Khalid’s light, blending into the shadows. Markra tried his luck at tip-toeing, but his every twitch of movement made a small sound. Slick metal sheets folding over each other, steel shoes against the rock ground, even his helmet made noise as it bobbed slightly on his head. Between him and Khalid, Markra felt like a walking talking tin can, but at least his armor would protect him better than leather. He hoped, anyway.
Under the soft clanks of his footsteps, Markra heard it. A faint yipping noise almost like laughter. He stopped in his tracks and quietly shushed the others, but before they could ask what was wrong, they heard it too. With a nod from Jaheira, Imoen and Montaron crept around the corner, stepped over yet another abandoned corpse, and peered down the cavern. Imoen wagged her finger at the others, urging them to carefully follow her. Though they kept Khalid in the back, hoping whatever lay up ahead wouldn’t notice the light of their torch.
Fire licked the cavern wall on a sconce, illuminating the pair of cackling kobolds down the way. One of them kicked the head of a fallen guard, and yelped when the metal stubbed its toe. The other laughed as it crawled atop a mine cart full of rocks. Wagging its tail like an excited puppy, the kobold pulled out a vial of dark liquid from its jacket, shook it once, then poured its contents into the cart. Markra swore he heard a hissing noise as the fluid met stone.
“What are they doing?” Markra whispered.
“I have no idea,” Jaheira answered, and took one cautious step around them. “Come, we must get closer.”
But they were so tightly knit, so pressed together as each of them edged for a better look. As Jaheira moved out of her spot, she bumped into Imoen, and the young trickster stumbled forward. Arms out, she caught herself before she hit the floor altogether, but it was enough. The kobolds’ jackal-like ears twitched as they turned to stare right at their party, and yowled.
Their friends answered them. A flurry of kobolds, a good dozen, came crawling out of holes in the walls that had been nearly invisible before in the darkness. The torchlight glinted off of steel as they pulled many shortswords from their sheaths and waved them in the air.
Imoen clambered to her feet as Jaheira swore under her breath, and began chanting a magic spell. A green glow lit her hands as Khalid stood before her with his shield up, bashing in the head of an especially fast kobold. Markra drew his magical sword as another beastie charged toward him, but before their steel could connect, Jaheira’s shout bounced through the tunnel:
“Praeses. Alia. Fero!”
It was the same spell she’d used before, back when they’d encountered the hobgoblin bandits. Only this time, in such close quarters, the magic vines were more dangerous than helpful. The tendrils ensnared many of the swarming kobolds, true, but not without snagging a few of Markra’s adventurous band as well. Right as Markra cut down the kobold before him, the vines writhed and coiled around his limbs. He tried to pry and jerk himself free, but whenever he loosened a vine, another would slither in and take its place.
Glancing around, he saw Montaron struggling just as he did, along with Khalid and Imoen. The kobolds, on the other hand, were slippery and small, and while some had been trapped, many more roamed free. Imoen was caught in a duel with one, both just outside of each other’s reach as the vines kept them apart. Khalid had two on his either side, sheepishly blocking one with his shield and slashing at the other with his longsword. Jaheira used her quarterstaff to bat them off her husband, but not without her own vines trying to yank it from her hands.
Xzar was the only true free one. He stood behind the rest of his companions as if they were a shield, nibbling on his fingernails as though it could help hide the crooked smile underneath. Just watching him stand by while the rest of them fought for survival made Markra’s blood boil.
“Xzar!” he shouted as he took another whack at a kobold. Of course, Markra’s swing didn’t stretch very far with the vines pulling him down. “Don’t just stand there, do something!” His blade glowed a faint blue as the ice crystalized along its edge. Maybe if he froze the plants, they’d shatter. But the kobold got a lucky cut into his arm, and the elf missed, wincing.
The manic necromancer didn’t even appear to hear him, still chuckling to himself as he gnawed his fingers. Finally, he waved at the kobolds like he was waving them goodbye. Markra had half a mind to rip the mage’s hair out, until he noticed the white sparks of magic in his hands.
“Nighty-night, little ones!” Xzar chided, before his fingers danced before his eyes and unleashed an orb of magic into the mass of kobolds. The orb quickly disappeared in a shower of glittery dust, and didn’t seem to do anything at first…until almost every kobold slowly closed its eyes, dropped its weapon, and slumped to the ground. Just as quickly as it had come, the kobold ambush had been reduced to a snoring heap, which Jaheira’s vines greedily took within their grasp and released the adventurers.
After several long minutes, the vines disappeared and slunk away, but the kobolds didn’t wake up. A couple that had stayed awake yelped and yipped for help, but Montaron quickly silenced them with a pair of blows to the stomach.
Heaving for breath, everyone else struggled to collect themselves.
“Is everyone all right?” Jaheira asked. A quick scan around the room answered her without the party needing to say so. Scratches and bruises, from both the kobolds and the vines, but nothing that needed immediate medical attention. She nodded. “Good… I misjudged the radius of my own spell, in this enclosed space… For that, I am sorry.”
“Aw, that’s okay, Aunty,” Imoen reassured her, ever the optimist. “We all mess up sometimes. It coulda been a lot worse.”
“Yeah,” Markra agreed, though he did nothing to hide the scowl on his face. To think, Jaheira was supposed to be the most seasoned of them all. “Just try to warn us next time.”
She nodded with the bow of her head. Good, Markra thought, at least she looks ashamed of herself. But he couldn’t stay mad for too long, not while watching Khalid put a hand on his wife’s shoulder and rub her back.
“W-We must do something about them,” Khalid pointed out, glancing nervously at the kobolds sleeping at his feet, “b-before they w-wake up…”
“Aye,” Montaron agreed, and tilted his blade just enough so it caught the flicker of light. “Leave that to me.”
Markra averted his eyes as the halfling proceeded to slit the throats of every sleeping kobold. He hadn’t any reason or logic to protest; he knew as well as the rest of them that the moment the midget banshees woke up, they’d attack again. Or worse, flee back to their nest and tell whoever’s leading them about their whereabouts. Still, he didn’t care to dwell on such a grisly act, killing someone in their sleep. Without his friends to protect him, he might have suffered the very same fate back at the Arm.
Instead, he wandered a little further down the tunnel where they’d first spotted the two kobolds atop the mine cart. That pair had either fallen asleep with their buddies after they’d joined the fight, or scampered off when things got ugly. But they had left the vials behind: one empty and one full, though the latter had a crack in its bottle where its owner had likely dropped it.
As Markra reached down to pick them up, Imoen appeared at his side and gazed over his shoulder. He nearly flinched when she brushed his injured arm.
“What’d ya think it is?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Markra answered. The liquid was murky, an inky gray that swirled when he shook the vial. He peered into the other bottle instead, and although this one had been emptied, the faint remnants of a rancid smell made him gag. “Nothing good…”
“Allow me,” came Xzar’s voice. He’d snuck up on him too, his lips just inches from Markra’s long ear. He wordlessly handed Xzar the vials and took a step back, if only to reestablish his own personal space.
Xzar squinted at the bottles for a better look, even though they were so close to his face, he shouldn’t have needed to. He gazed over the full vial in every angle possible before he finally pulled out the cork and took a long whiff. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as he choked for breath, but only for a moment before he gazed back at the vial, just as fiercely curious as before. Raising it high above his head, Xzar let one dark drop fall on his tongue. Though it only stayed for a couple seconds before he promptly spat it back out, plugged the vial back up, and handed it back to Markra.
“This…” he began, and took a moment to lick his own hand, as if that could get the taste off. “Th-This… Is a corrosive poison made especially to corrupt metal before it’s been processed.”
“So the kobolds are not only behind the disappearing miners,” Markra guessed, “but they’re also the ones poisoning the mine?”
“Now that…” Jaheira cut in as the rest of their party joined the discussion, “…is something too complex for kobolds.”
“A-And it makes little sense,” Khalid agreed. “The kobolds d-don’t have any reason to p-p-poison the mine. A-All that does is h-h-hurt their weapons too.”
“Sounds to me like there’s more to these lil’ vermin than meets the eye…” Montaron pondered as he kicked the head of a kobold corpse. “Like someone’s leadin’ ‘em, and that ‘someone’ ain’t just another kobold.”
“But who would gain from poisoning the region’s iron…?” Jaheira asked, eyes narrow as she rested her chin on her fist. “Amn, in preparation for war? Or perhaps… A Zhentarim scheme, set to ruin the Gate’s relationship with them?”
“Ha!” Xzar spat with the wave of his hands. “It wouldn’t be the Zhentarim!” Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered in Markra’s ear. “They have enough family problems as it is.”
If there was a joke somewhere in the mage’s words, Markra missed it. But what he took for mad babbling, Jaheira took very differently. She shot him an accusatory glare, reaching for her quarterstaff.
“You’re awfully quick to defend them, Xzar,” she said. “Care to enlighten why?”
“Well, it makes sense,” Montaron spoke up. He stepped between Jaheira and Xzar with a defiant glare of his own. “The Zhentarim’s a mercenary organization with thousands o’ members. A lotta them members rely on the Black Network to get their gear, and where do ya think they get that gear, eh? This here mine’s just one o’ them places. What bloody idiot among the Zhents would think poisonin’ their own resources was a good idea?”
All was quiet for a few, strenuous minutes as the druid gazed down the halfling rogue. “I don’t believe either of you have ever said what your reasons were for visiting the Nashkel Mines.”
“Same goes fer you, pretty half-elf,” Montaron seethed. “What interest do you an’ that half-wit husband o’ yours have in the Iron Crisis?”
Xzar shrieked with his hands over his mouth as Jaheira brandished her quarterstaff. A fire had blazed to life in her usually-calm eyes, a rage that shook even left Imoen petrified in her spot. Montaron raised his shortsword, but before the two could come to blows, Markra stepped between them with a shout and spread his arms to keep them apart.
“Hey! HEY!” he screamed, loud enough that his voice echoed down the tunnels. Everyone froze, all eyes falling on him. “Does any of this really matter right now? No matter what our reasons for being here, we’re stuck with each other now, and we’re not gonna find any answers—or get out alive—if we start turning on each other! So whatever problem you guys have with each other, it stops. Right here, right now, and the first one to break their word gets to answer to my sword. Is that clear?”
Silence. A long, uncomfortable, and almost awe-struck silence screamed back at him. Markra’s head pounded like it’d grown a heart of its own, throbbing so loudly he feared the others could hear it. It wasn’t as if Jaheira’s suspicions were unfounded; Xzar and Montaron made a shady couple, and if they truly did have dealings with the cutthroat Zhentarim, that made them all the more dangerous. In another time, under different circumstances, he might have stood with Jaheira instead of against her.
But I’ll be damned if I let our so-called leader strike down one of our own members.
At last, Khalid laid a hand atop his wife’s shoulder. “He’s right, my love. Let it go for now.” And then, only then, did Jaheira finally lower her weapon. Although she didn’t take her stunned eyes off of Markra the whole time. Once Montaron was sure he wasn’t about to be clobbered, he also sheathed his sword and stalked away, shooting murder at Xzar as he brushed past him.
“Let’s… Let us move on, then,” Jaheira concluded, trying to save her pride, but her words lacked the commanding air behind them. She didn’t even look at Markra as she strode past, gazing straight in front of her. But though Khalid followed after her like a dutiful shadow, he did give him a thankful nod, the edges of a soft smile tugging his lips.
Markra let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stepped up and yelled at someone like that before. A small part of him cursed his own efforts, worried for any nearby kobolds that undoubtedly would’ve heard him, but a much larger part felt exhausted, yet invigorated. Nervous, yet empowered. For even though it’d only lasted a minute, his words had weight. His feelings mattered. And they hadn’t just been brushed aside, not even by someone both older and wiser than him.
If only for a minute, he was the one in charge.
Imoen touched his arm, pulling Markra from his thoughts. She gave a shy smile as he looked at her. “That was really brave, Markra.”
She didn’t even use his nickname. She really was serious. Markra shrugged, trying to keep his ego in check.
“Someone had to say it,” he said.
“Yeah, but you were faster than any of us.” A guilty look set into her features. “By the time I’d figured out what to do, it woulda been over. But you… You were cool, ya know? All in-your-face and stuff.” Then she grinned. “And that last part, ‘break your word, and meet my sword!’ Yikes! You were almost scary there!”
Cool. Scary. The longer she went on, Markra knew that keeping his ego small was going to get increasingly difficult. Thinking it best to cut her off now, Markra gave a shy laugh and clamped his hand on her shoulder.
“Thanks,” he said. “Now c’mon, let’s catch up with the others.”
^_^ Thank you! They are my minions to toy with. >:D
And one of these days I'm gonna marathon your story and get all caught up. Just haven't had the time lately. But it's inspiring to see you updating so frequently; it takes a lot to write so much so fast!
On ff.net, I named this chapter Awakening. It's one I've been wanting to write since I started this little project. I hope I did a good job. Enjoy!
Chapter 11
Upon crossing into the third level, the tunnels had emptied. Passages grew narrower, and many of their branches led to dead ends. Those who’d been carving out this layer of the mines must have abandoned their work and fled to the upper floors. Or been killed and eaten by the kobold mobs. Whichever came first.
The party entered upon another three-way dimly lit with dying torches. Khalid reignited the flames on the walls with the help of his own torch as they went along, while the others discussed which possible direction they could take.
“This way lacks the rails that the other two have,” Jaheira realized, pointing to their left. “Kobolds won’t have the resources or the skill to match what the miners have accomplished above.”
“So the further we get from the actual mines, the closer we’ll get to the kobold’s lair?” Markra guessed, and at her nod, he began walking down the path she’d chosen. “All right, let’s go.”
Though before he could take as much as five steps, Imoen’s voice bounced off the walls.
“WAIT!” she exclaimed with her arms reaching after him. “Hold it right there, Marky! Don’t you take another step! Stand like yer life depends on it!”
Markra froze mid-step, one leg in the air as his arms rose high above his head, as if he was a captured criminal with a hundred arrows trained on him. He wobbled a moment, but luckily for him, his elven blood granted him excellent balance. He dared not even blink as Imoen ran to his side, crouched, and began messing with something on the ground.
“What?” Markra asked. “Imoen, what is it?”
“Just gimme one second…” she mumbled back. Squinting his eyes, Markra saw what she’d found: a wire, so razor thin and low to the ground that he never would have noticed it in the dark. Imoen scanned the shadows along the corridor, traced an unseen path until her eyes fell upon one of the support beams that helped reinforce the cavern. Then she wrapped her fingers around the wire, poised to yank it.
“Okay, everyone stand back! Marky, you duck on the count of three. Ready? One… Two… Three!”
She tugged the wire so it snapped, and Markra did as she said. Something fast and small whizzed over his head, hissing through the air, and clinked against the wall before it fell to the ground. Imoen rose from her stoop and dusted herself off, which Markra took as a sign that it was safe for him to stand on both feet again.
“Alrightie! We’re clear!” she announced to the rest of the party, which returned in-kind with a long sigh of relief as they gathered around the fallen object. As Markra and Imoen rejoined their comrades, they watched Montaron pick up the culprit: a small throwing knife, likely laced in poison.
“You got good eyes there, girlie,” he told Imoen with a toothy grin. “I was wonderin’ if someone else woulda noticed a trap lyin’ in our midst. Well done.”
Imoen scratched the back of her head as she blushed, but Markra didn’t miss the true meaning hidden in Montaron’s praise.
“Wait a minute,” he snapped. “You knew there was a trap there all along, and you were just gonna let me step on it!?”
Montaron shrugged. “Woulda got a laugh outta me if ye had. Not my fault yer as blind as an ooze, or as brainless.”
“Th-That trap could have killed him,” Khalid protested. Under the blaze of his torch, shadows had been carved into the contours of his face. And paired with a rare, scathing glare aimed at Montaron, Khalid actually looked scary*. “D-Did you think of th-that, when you were l-laughing at him in your h-head?”
Hardly one to be intimidated, Montaron simply rolled his eyes. “Yer bein’ dramatic. He wouldn’t have died. That is what yer wife be here for, ain’t it?”
But before Khalid could stammer together a comeback, Xzar gasped, collapsed on his knees, and threw his arm around his partner the way a child might a large dog. “Monty, Monty, quiet please! Say you’re sorry to the big scary half-wit. Go on!” Then he gazed back up at Khalid and Jaheira, eyes glittering with the oncoming of fake tears. “He’s usually not like this, sir, really he’s not! I trained him so well! He would never lay a scratch on dear Markra’s beautiful face! Isn’t that right, Monty?”
“Nay,” Montaron growled as he struggled to push Xzar off of him, “but I can think of a less pretty face I be inclined to hurtin’…!”
“You can make up for your lapse in judgment by scouting the tunnels with Imoen,” Jaheira ordered as she put a hand on Khalid, much in the same way he had done for her to ease her spirits. “If we’ve found one trap, we’ll likely find plenty more the further we go in. We’ll be counting on both of you to lead us in the right direction. Understand?”
Imoen gave a mock salute with a yip, excited to have a job of her own. Montaron took longer as he shoved Xzar on his butt, but after dusting himself off a little, he nodded. From then on, the party reassembled its formation: Montaron and Imoen leading the charge, Markra protecting Xzar in the middle, while Jaheira and Khalid guarded the rear. Khalid handed the torch off to Markra, so both ends of the group had light.
As they wandered deeper in, they lost all light but their own. Cold torches no longer lined the walls, the rails had all but disappeared, and the only sign of any mining activity were a few empty crates and broken tools abandoned on the ground. Markra wrinkled his nose as a new smell wafted in—the faint stench of rotten eggs. He’d read in a book long ago that deep parts of the earth, where lava flowed through the cracks, could smell like that. And not for the first time, he worried just how far the Nashkel miners had dug.
Just when Markra thought they’d never see light again in these gods-forsaken caverns, Montaron held up his hand, and the party came to a stop. The tunnel opened to a chasm, an orange glow splashed against the walls like fire. The foul odor had grown stronger, making Markra’s eyes itch, along with a breeze of hot air that carried it. He heard popping and hissing from below the chasm, but he dared not find out what it was. A natural stone bridge connected their end of the tunnel to the opposite side, across the hot crack in the earth.
“Whoa…” Imoen whispered as she peered over the edge, and everyone else scrunched up behind her. Far to the bottom, a river of magma oozed through the chasm. “What is this place?”
“A vein of Mother Earth,” Jaheira explained, and took out her branch of mistletoe to kiss it. “I believe we’ve found the end of the mines.”
“But still no kobolds,” Markra argued. “Which means… Their lair must be somewhere beyond that bridge. Is it safe to cross?”
“At a glance,” Montaron answered, but he shook his head. “But nay, they have traps linin’ it. Or they better, if they’re smart lil’ bastards.” He wagged his finger over his shoulder as he steadily approached the bridge. “C’mon, girlie. Best we have a pair o’ eyes to look this thing over.”
“Oh! Right!” Imoen hopped to her feet and followed after him, while everyone else kept their distance, lest be struck by any unsuspecting spikes in the ceiling or fall into the pit below.
Montaron crouched right at the foot of the bridge and went to work, while muttering to Imoen under his breath. The cavern was open enough for Markra to hear, with the help of his enhanced hearing. “There be another just past this one,” the halfling told her. “See it?”
“Uh-huh,” Imoen replied. “Trip-wires on a tiny bridge like this, huh? I wonder how they got it all rigged up?”
“The same way they burrow in the dirt and poison a bunch o’ ore: carefully.” Something clicked in the cavern, followed by the soft whirl of a knife slicing over their heads and falling into the lava. The molten rock hissed below as it consumed the steel. “All right, next one.”
They inched closer, and stopped again in the middle of the bridge.
That’s when Markra saw them. A pair of lights that suddenly burst to life in the shadows across the bridge. Just before a hiss bit the air, and two arrows—heads lit with fire—flew out of the darkness. They missed Montaron entirely thanks to his height, but both found a home in Imoen before she even had the chance to duck.
The others gasped beside him, but Markra didn’t hear them.
“Imoen!!” His scream echoed off the walls as he tossed their torch to the ground and ran. Eyes all on her, watching as she wavered almost off the bridge and collapsed onto the ground. Montaron stopped whatever he was doing and pulled out his sling, chucking rocks into the dark as he ducked another volley of arrows. Khalid raised his shield as he took the lead and drew his sword. Xzar hid behind him as he pulled out his own sling, while Markra and Jaheira stooped to the wounded Imoen.
Two arrow shafts stuck out of her, one in the stomach and one in her shoulder. Holes in her clothes had burned around the edges where the flames had been, along with her skin. Blood oozed out of both shafts, dark spots seeping through her clothes. Markra cradled her head in his arms and gently said her name, trying to grasp her attention. But although she was conscious, her eyes gazed past him and into the low ceiling above, wide and blinded by shock.
“I-Imoen…!” Markra stammered. Her face was already so pale. “Jaheira, please—”
“I know,” the druid answered, calm as she rifled through her pack. She pulled out a blue healing potion and handed it to him. “Quick, give her this first.”
Markra nodded and took it as more arrows collided with Khalid’s shield. He heard the shouting now, little demon yips of angry kobolds on the other side of the bridge. So, this had been an ambush; they’d been hiding in the dark, simply waiting for one of their group to edge too close.
If only I hadn’t held back, he thought. If only I’d stayed closer to her, I could’ve noticed.
Markra knew he should be helping Khalid fend them off; he was a fighter, not a healer. But gods damn him, he wouldn’t dare leave Imoen now.
“Open your mouth, Imoen,” he urged her as he propped her head up and yanked out the vial’s cork with his teeth. “C’mon, you have to drink this. Come on, Imoen…!” Forcing her lips open with his thumb, he tipped the whole vial over, only to watch its blue streams spill out of the edges of her mouth. What little did she did swallow she choked on, weakly coughing for breath.
“I have to pull out the arrowheads,” Jaheira told him. “Hold her down, Markra. Ready?”
A faint light began to glow around the holes in her body, signs that the potion was working. But it would all be for nothing if the arrowheads lodged inside gave her an infection. Markra nodded and squeezed Imoen’s shoulder. She loosed an agonized scream as Jaheira ripped out the arrow in her stomach, and placed both hands on the wound.
“Vita. Mortis. Ca—”
Just as the light shined between her fingers, a stray arrow struck her arm. Jaheira bit off the rest of her incantation with a yelp. That arrow hadn’t come from the south, where Montaron and Khalid were fighting the ambush. No, this one was from the north.
Xzar let out a high-pitched screech, and Markra looked up. The mad necromancer pointed down the north end of the bridge, back where they’d come, and barely dodged another arrow. A good half-dozen more kobolds poured out of the tunnels and gathered at the end of the bridge. Two with bows, and the rest waving shortswords in the air. Xzar bolted for Markra and Jaheira, and crumpled behind them as if they were his shield.
“Damn it!” Jaheira shouted. “Khalid! There are more of them!”
Khalid glanced over his shoulder as he slashed one of the archers with his sword, and raised his shield to the other. Montaron struck the second archer in the head with an especially large stone, but they were no longer alone. Three more kobolds hopped out of the darkness and charged at the pair like rabid dogs, tongues lapping and all.
With their best fighters preoccupied, Imoen wounded, and kobolds surrounding them on every side, it was only a matter of time before they were overrun. Even Khalid and Markra could not handle those numbers by themselves. Jaheira cursed again as her fingers were enveloped in another magical glow. But this time, instead of the soft blue of healing magic, it was a vengeful green.
“Keep pressure on her wound,” she told Markra, just before she removed her hands from Imoen’s wound. Markra scrambled to replace her hands with his as the druid stood, a bright green orb floating between her palms. “Praeses. Alia. Fero!”
Chunks of rock broke off the edge of the tunnel as the vines erupted from the cracks and writhed at the kobolds. Swirling, angry tendrils that snaked around tiny limbs until they snapped, dragged the puny mongrels to the ground like a many-tentacled monster found only in nightmares. Jaheira had kept her head even as Imoen lay dying in her lap, but Markra saw it now clearly in her spell—all of her fury thrown at the kobold mob, for her wounded comrade.
“M-Mar-ky…”
He turned back. Imoen was finally looking at him, as if noticing him for the first time. Relief washed over him, but it couldn’t stay—blood began to spill out of her lips as it gathered in her throat, and her breath was short, every syllable a labor. Never before had he seen Imoen so weak. So frail, so sick, so bone-chillingly close to death.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he assured her. “I’m here, I’m right here.”
“I-I…feel so c-cold…”
Markra’s fingers curled as her warm blood seeped through the cracks. Damn it all, he swore silently, it still hasn’t closed up enough, and there’s still that shaft in her shoulder! He shook his head, heart pounding in his throat.
“No, don’t say that,” he snapped, harsher than he wanted. “You’re gonna be just fine, you hear me? Jaheira will heal you up, you’ll see—”
Though even as he said that, his eyes darted everywhere around her frantically. There had to be something else he could do. He glanced at his backpack, at the cowardly Xzar nibbling on his fingers behind Khalid, at Montaron chucking more rocks as he clutched a wound on his side, at Jaheira focusing all her attention into her spell, ensuring that not a single kobold slipped away. He knew he had another healing potion in his pack, but could Imoen even drink it, after what happened the first time? And he’d have to remove a hand to reach it, which meant more loss of blood…
“H-Hey… M-Marky…” Imoen croaked again, cutting him off. Even as she teetered on the edge, a ghost of a smile graced her pale lips. “Could… C-Could ya tell me a s-story…? Like… We were back in… Candlekeep?”
Markra forced a smile of his own, tears pricking his eyes. “I can tell you a story when you’re better. When this is all over—”
“Meanie-head…” Imoen coughed, another dribble of blood trickling out of her mouth. “Puffguts would always…tell me a story…”
His smile quickly faded as her eyes drooped. He tried to shake her awake with his leg, propped under her head as a human pillow, but she didn’t budge. “Imoen, no. Don’t fall asleep, just stay with me—stay with me, Imoen! Imoen!!”
Somewhere far away, Khalid and Montaron had switched sides and began attacking the kobolds trapped in Jaheira’s vines. Xzar threw badly-aimed rocks out of his sling while the other two charged in, swords blazing. Jaheira fell to her knees as she struggle for breath, no doubt exhausted from concentrating for so long. But none of it meant a thing. Imoen’s eyes had closed, her breath too weak for even a whimper. All color faded from her cheeks. The dark circles in her clothes were soaked in blood.
Behind his eyes, Markra watched as Gorion stood his ground between him and their armored attacker. Watched as he flung every spell he had at him, and it still wasn’t enough. Saw the wry, kind smile long after he’d disappeared beyond the brush of trees.
No. Don’t die. You can’t die.
Something hot swelled inside of him. An anger, a sadness, a plea stronger than any scream could embody. A spark that sent a tremor through his body, made his tears steam on their way down, every fiber of his body aching and alive.
I can’t let someone else I love die!
It poured out of him, like a glorious flood through a dam, wild and raw and powerful. Markra’s hands blazed, almost too hot to bear, almost too blinding for him to look upon. A bright blue and white light as clear as the sky engulfed Imoen’s stomach wound. He almost pulled back, afraid, but he could feel her wound closing up beneath his fingers, her blood burning off as if it’d never been there in the first place.
He shut his eyes and focused. The arrowhead had dug deep into Imoen’s core, pierced her veins and ripped through her flesh. Toxins and acid had spilled into her blood, but once found, Markra purged them from her body. A sickness had begun feasting on her exposed innards, spreading from her stomach and into her intestines—and Markra purged that too. Every scrap of torn skin, every broken blood vessel, he slowly patched them together again. Until, at last, the hole was sewn shut and her torso like new again.
The light died instantly in Markra’s palms and he swayed, gasping for breath. For the first time he noticed the sticky layer of sweat that slid off his forehead and down the sides of his face, not just from the heat. His head spun, heart pounding fast and hard against his ribs, but he blinked away the dizziness and steadied himself with one hand on the ground.
He gazed again at Imoen. Her chest rose and fell, but her eyes remained closed. Gently, he nudged her shoulder. “I-Imoen?”
And at his voice, she took a longer breath, and her eyes squinted open. “M-Marky…?”
“Imoen!” Markra exclaimed. He forgot the arrow still lodged in her shoulder as he threw his arms around her, beaming from ear to ear. “You’re okay!!”
“Oww…” Imoen winced, already prying to get loose. “Marky, ow! I’ll be more okay once ya let go of me! What’re ya so giddy for!?”
“You were dead!” He gave her some much-needed breathing room, but that still didn’t stop him from clutching her upper arms, tight to make sure she was real. “I mean, you were gonna be dead! You took an arrow to the stomach, and Jaheira tried to heal you, but she got interrupted, and the kobolds just kept coming, so then I—”
His heart skipped a beat, and his euphoria drained out of him. “I…”
By gods, what had he done? He’d practiced magic before, the arcane arts that Gorion had taught him in his spare time, but nothing that could heal. Nothing that could bring someone back from the brink of death. And besides, he’d been wearing armor. Arcane magic-users couldn’t wear armor and cast spells at the same time.
Cast a spell. Markra realized something else, throat suddenly dry. Did I even say any words?
The rocky bridge had fallen into an eerie silence, so quiet that the only sound Markra heard was the churning magma far below them. He looked away from Imoen and gazed at the rest of his party. The battle had long finished. Khalid and Montaron stood at the north end, coated in a layer of kobold blood. Jaheira’s vines had disappeared, leaving only a collection of corpses on the ground. Xzar sat on his knees and hands, crawling shyly toward them.
Everyone was staring at him.
The silence hung over them a long while, caught in a noose. At last, Khalid cleared his throat and took a brave step toward him.
“Markra…” he carefully began, lips pursing. “You didn’t…t-tell us that you know how to use d-divine-magic.”
The elf gulped, knots coiling in his stomach, and very dearly wished he could go back in time and stop Imoen from ever getting too close to the kobold’s trap. That way, he wouldn’t have to answer. He never would’ve broken the laws of magic and gods.
“That’s just it,” he said, “I can’t.”
***
After Imoen’s brush with death, the party unanimously agreed to rest. Imoen still had that arrow in her shoulder to deal with, and neither Montaron nor Jaheira had come out of the battle unscathed. Khalid lit a small campfire out of loose wooden boards pried up from the mining rails, and boiled stew in a pot over the flames. Xzar busily looked over the loot they’d scrounged from the dead kobolds—most notably, the arrows that lit on fire when launched.
Markra ate away from everyone else, mindlessly stirring his spoon in his stew without ever taking a bite. He knew that if he tried to talk with the others, they’d just keep asking questions about his newly acquired power. The last thing he wanted right now was to delve into its mystery without sorting out the details for himself, least of all in front of Xzar and Montaron. Even when lost in his own thoughts, Markra swore he felt the necromancer’s hungry gaze on his neck, and sent a shiver down his spine.
How did I do that? he wondered as he pushed around a particularly large chunk of meat with his spoon. Divine-magic… It’s a different kind of power granted to clerics and druids from their gods. That’s how Jaheira does it. But me…
He was neither druid nor cleric, and had no god of his own to pray to at night. Not that he doubted their presence, but out of the many gods worshiped in Faerun, he never found devotion to any particular one. If he had to choose, he felt the most fondness for Oghma, god of knowledge and inspiration and the chosen deity of Candlekeep’s many scholarly monks. He’d read plenty about the Seldarine, the pantheon of elven deities, but felt no real closeness to any of them thanks to his upbringing. Markra did not think of himself as faithless, but not devout either.
Then where did this power come from? he asked for the hundredth time.
“It’s gonna get cold if ya keep stirring like that,” came Imoen’s voice as she plopped down beside him with a bowl of her own. Markra spared her a glance, pulled from his stupor.
“I know…” he sighed, and finally scooped up a chunk of potato with his spoon and took a bite. “How’s your shoulder?”
She rolled it a couple times, testing it out. “Still kinda hurts, but it’s fine now. Auntie healed it right back up.” Then she laid her bowl in her lap as she rubbed her stomach, the exact spot where the arrow had skewered her. “Not as well as ya did my tummy, though. I don’t even got a scar.”
Markra supposed he should be happy for that, but that didn’t stop his heart from sinking into the pit of his stomach. “That’s…good. For me…not knowing what I was doing…”
“Yeah, I know!” Despite his waning spirit, Imoen flashed a wide grin. “Isn’t it great? Most novices make mistakes, but you’re already better than Jaheira! Keep this up, and we’ll have another healer in our ranks, and we won’t have to put all the strain on her!”
“How can you possibly be this calm?” He shook his head in disbelief. Watching her crazy enthusiasm exasperated him. “You could have died. You should have died. And the only reason you’re still here is because I brought you back with magic!”
At last, Imoen’s shoulders slumped and her smile dipped into a hurtful sulk. “So what’re you saying? You’re not happy I’m still around?”
“Of course I’m happy!” Markra put the bowl of stew aside and pinched the bridge of his nose, propping his head up by his elbow. “But it still wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He groaned, fighting another throbbing headache between his brows. He was thinking about this too hard, yet no matter how long he shoveled through the piles of arcane knowledge instilled in him by Gorion, he found no answers. If only the old sage was here; he might have known the mysteries behind this power. But Markra knew all too well that his father was never coming back. Another bitter pang buried itself in his gut, and he wondered just how many secrets the old man had taken with him when the armored fiend cut him down.
“Hmmm…” Imoen’s lips pursed, mulling over her words. She reached for her stew again and took a few bites, allowing herself the chance to think longer, before she opened her mouth again. “To be honest, I don’t really get what the big deal is. I mean, you’ve used magic before, Marky. What’s so different this time around that’s got everyone all in a tizzy?”
“Because this was divine-magic, Imoen; I’ve only ever used arcane. They’re different.” At her blank stare, Markra heaved another sigh. “You would know this if you hadn’t skipped out on so many lessons back in Candlekeep…”
“Hey, you skipped too!”
“Not as often as you did.” That brought a small smirk to his lips, if only for a moment. “Arcane-magic is all about bending the world to the wizard’s will. He or she taps into the Weave, and manipulates its energy to do all kinds of things. Make someone stronger or faster, summon monsters, see the future or unleash a fiery explosion. Divine-magic works mostly the same way, except their kind of power comes from the gods—from the divine. That’s why there’s some spells that clerics can use that wizards can’t, and vice-versa. Like healing.”
“Okay.” Imoen’s face scrunched up as she rested her chin on her spoon. “So… I dunno, Marky. Ya don’t gotta be born with talent to use divine or arcane-magic, right? Maybe some passing god saw you were in trouble and smiled on ya, or something.”
It was the only thing that made even a sliver of sense, but Markra averted his gaze and began stirring his stew mindlessly again. “Maybe, but…” He lowered his voice, barely a whisper. “It didn’t…feel like a god…”
“What’d ya mean?”
“I mean, it didn’t feel like some outside force granting me strength.” He gulped down his nerves, even as his heart pounded in his throat. He didn’t even want to think about it, let alone say it aloud, but if he had to tell someone what was bothering him most, he’d bet everything on Imoen first.
“When… When you were shot, and I was there with you, all I could think about was how badly I didn’t want to lose you. That I had to do something, anything to save you, and if I couldn’t do that…” He shuddered as a chill ran down his spine. “Then… I felt this…warmth, I guess, rising up from within me. Next thing I knew, my hands were glowing and I was somehow healing you, and…and you were okay.”
Silence fell over them again, and Markra worried at first if the others had overheard. Not that it mattered; he would have to tell them at some point. Khalid and Jaheira were muttering to each other around the crackling campfire, while Montaron began sharpening his sword on a stone. Xzar boxed his fists over his ears as he huddled beside his partner, cursing under his breath. Either way, no one seemed to be paying any attention to him and Imoen.
“So…” she began again. “What’s it all mean?”
“I wish I knew,” Markra sighed. “I feel like a freak of nature. First the run from Candlekeep, the assassins, and now this…”
“Hey now, don’t be so hard on yerself. There’s freakier things in this world than a pretty elf usin’ whacky magic, Marky. Trust me on this one.” She patted his back with another toothy grin. “Besides… Your power saved my life. Whatever it is, if it can heal someone back from the brink like that, then it can’t be anything bad. Right?”
“I hope so…” Markra murmured. A power to save a person’s life, to heal injuries faster than any holy champion. By gods did he pray that Imoen was right, but Gorion had drilled wise words into him long ago that not all magic is as it first appears. Markra dreaded to think it could be anything else, this alien magic inside of him that hadn’t been there before. Or…had it always been there, out of sight and mind, just waiting to surface?
He lifted his hand and stared into his palm. All of the cuts and scratches, the veins and wrinkles, patterns that could tell a person’s destiny, according to some seers. He knew its every contour, its every flaw and grace. Yet he gazed at it like a stranger, as if his own hand was not his.
However this power came to be, he knew one thing for certain: this was why the armored man had come for him that night, why total strangers hunted for his life and the price on his head. If so, then he would find Gorion’s murderer. Not just for vengeance anymore, but for answers long overdue.
“M-Markra, Imoen…”
The pair turned around to see Khalid standing shyly behind them. One foot halfway in front of the other, as if unsure whether to take a step.
“J-Jaheira and I are eager to c-continue through the mines… I-If both of you a-are ready, it’s best we start t-traveling again soon, if we w-want to get to the bottom of th-this before n-n-nightfall.”
Not too keen on the idea of being thrown down a shaft thanks to a screaming Emerson, Markra nodded. “All right. I’ll finish eating here really quick, then we can head out.”
And upon saying so, Imoen started scarfing down the rest of her stew as well. Khalid gave a meek smile, though before Markra could return to his own food, the half-elf stammered his name yet again.
“M-Markra…” he said carefully. “I-I don’t mean to prod you, a-and I’m not going to a-ask. But…” He bent over slightly and touched his shoulder, gentle and kind and nothing at all like his wife. “Please know that no matter what m-may happen… Jaheira and I are your friends. Guardians. You can c-count on us for anything, tell us a-anything at all.” Then he was nervous again as he drew back his shaky hand. “Wh-When you are r-ready, of course.”
Markra wasn’t ready, and he didn’t know if he ever would be. Still, Khalid’s earnestness gave him some comfort, and earned a small, grateful smile out of him. Magical miracle he may be, at least he wasn’t alone. Khalid and Imoen and even Jaheira would accept him, faults and surprises and all. Though he couldn’t say the same about Xzar or Montaron.
I’ll tell them once we’re out of here, if it ever manifests again.
“I know,” Markra assured him. “Thanks.”
And with a satisfied nod, Khalid’s smile brightened and he returned to Jaheira’s side. Once everyone was ready, they threw rocks on the fire, packed up their gear, and ventured into the darkness once more. All in one piece, together, and determined to keep it that way.
You really have added a lot to my sense of the RP possibilities of the Nashkel Mines. For the most part I have only been interested in the final battle in Mulahey's Cave and the prospect of Dualling Imoen when/if she hits Thief-Level 5.
My plot-writing brain usually is agonizingly involved with how to exchange Jaheira and Khalid for Minsc and Branwen. I know I am going to miss them - they usually exit as escorts for Volo on a Harper Mission to rendezvous with Amnish confederates - but my Charnames only wake up and really start being themselves once the married couple leaves the scene.
Also agree with @kcwise about the onset of Bhaalspawn powers. Have not really given that aspect much thought but you have correctly pin-pointed that development as a crucial emergence of the self-discovery narrative. Whether or not that theme of "awakening to Bhaalspawn-hood" is fully explored certainly sets the tone of any fan-fiction in a pretty huge way.
I really should spend the cash to purchase a really good Speech-recognition software... Going now to check out your fan.fiction link. Cheers!
My plot-writing brain usually is agonizingly involved with how to exchange Jaheira and Khalid for Minsc and Branwen. I know I am going to miss them - they usually exit as escorts for Volo on a Harper Mission to rendezvous with Amnish confederates - but my Charnames only wake up and really start being themselves once the married couple leaves the scene.
You could always just kill them off.
*shot*
O-Or...let them live and go on their long-overdue honeymoon. Yeah, that oughtta liven up Jaheira's mood. Maybe. Um.
Also agree with @kcwise about the onset of Bhaalspawn powers. Have not really given that aspect much thought but you have correctly pin-pointed that development as a crucial emergence of the self-discovery narrative. Whether or not that theme of "awakening to Bhaalspawn-hood" is fully explored certainly sets the tone of any fan-fiction in a pretty huge way.
I really should spend the cash to purchase a really good Speech-recognition software... Going now to check out your fan.fiction link. Cheers!
Thank you very much. ^_^ I wanted to write that scene sooooo bad, and the praise is immensely validating.
Edit: Oh, and thank you for the favorite on ff.net too. ^_^
Excellent excellent excellent. Your passion in that piece really shone through and it was evident just how much you'd thought about that scene and how it would fit seamlessly in with the larger narrative. Even though I know the basic plot and characters involved like the back of my hand this is so addictive you should charge to read each installment. I'd be a poor man in no time. Thank you for continuing!
I'm amazed at how you build suspense to the climaxes in a story and a scenario that I've played in the game a thousand and one times. You make it all new again, and you have the best character development I've ever seen for the npc's.
I was riveted the whole time while I was reading chapters 10 and 11.
Isn't it amazing how just a few voiced lines from these BG1 characters in the game give so much exposition to their personalities, that our imaginations have so much fuel to fill them out into fully developed characters? And I think your interpretation of their personalities is spot-on. I can't wait to see what you will do with the J-K/M-Z conflict. I loved your foreshadowing in chapter 10, and how you made it a chance for Markra to take control of the party for the first time, if only for a moment.
Comments
We'll see how much more I write of this before I scurry back into the caves for November. After that, I'll dedicate more time to it. I have a bad habit of leaving projects unfinished, and it's about time I did something about that. *shakes her fist full of resolve*
Chapter 7 (Part I)
Early next morning, Feldepost’s Inn was alive with the buzz of chattering villagers. Markra caught the gossip of happy patrons sharing what happened with Marl the night before, and the more irritated complaints of forks breaking, made of brittle iron.
As soon as he joined his party at one of the furthest tables, Jaheira cut straight to business: she wanted to know everything about the assassination attempts. Markra sighed, still groggy and hungry, but he knew by her stern eyes that there would be no lying his way out this time. He told them everything he knew, all the way back to his flee from Candlekeep and Gorion’s death. He even showed them the mysterious letter from E and the wanted poster he’d kept in his pockets.
Upon seeing his price detailed on the wrinkled parchment paper, Imoen’s eyes grew wide.
“Marky!” she scolded. “Why didn’t ya tell us this sooner!?”
“I…” Markra began as he sheepishly rolled the poster back up. “I don’t know. I was scared, I guess, and I…I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Markra,” Jaheira said in a low, harsh voice, “this is serious. With a price on your head, many more will come hunting for you. Did you never once think of the danger you could put us in by keeping this a secret?”
Markra gaped, and spoke much quieter this time. “No… I guess I didn’t.”
Montaron scoffed at his stutter. The halfling sat with his feet on the table, his short legs stretched all the way without tipping his chair. “Two-hundred gold fer a whelp like you? I wouldn’t believe it if I did no’ see it with me own eyes.”
“My partner is right, dear Markra,” Xzar cackled as she shot up from her seat. She practically threw herself at Markra and cupped his face in her hands, stroking his cheek. “Such an exquisite elf as you should be worth two-thousand gold at least!”
“Not what I meant,” Montaron muttered.
“B-B-But why would they go so far as to p-put a p-p-price on your head?” Khalid asked.
“I already told you,” Markra began, grimacing as he struggled to pry Xzar’s hands off his face. “I don’t know. I never set foot outside of Candlekeep before, not since I was a little kid. If anyone knew why these guys are after me, it would have been Gorion…and now he’s dead.”
“Oy,” Imoen said as she prodded Khalid’s arm with her fork. “You and Jaheira were Gorion’s friends, right? Don’t you know anything about this?”
“Gorion was a secretive sort I’m afraid,” Jaheira confessed, “even amongst his friends.”
“R-Regardless,” Khalid said with a smile, no doubt hoping to lighten the mood, “there is very little we can do about it, a-and we must get to Nashkel. Th-Thank you for telling us the truth, Markra. From now on, we shall s-strive to be a little more c-c-careful!”
“Aye,” Montaron whispered under his breath. “More careful indeed.”
Their food arrived by a pair of pretty waitresses and the tension slowly dissolved into incoherent munches. Markra ate the slowest of them all, however, sneaking glances at the halfling and his partner whenever he could. He remembered why he feared telling them about the poster—something in his gut twisted with nerves now that Montaron and Xzar knew his value. The halfling rogue had already proven his deadly skill with a blade. As for Xzar, while Markra silently hoped that her newly effeminate heart truly lusted after him as much as she insisted it did, he doubted it would be enough to stay a greedy hand.
***
After a quick shopping trip to replenish supplies, they set out for Nashkel. The air was hotter than yesterday, having traveled so far from the ocean breezes, and Markra’s armor took in more heat than he cared for. His head baked under his helmet, save for his ears, which pricked to life with every little rustle in the bushes, sway of the trees, tumble of pebbles Imoen kicked with her toes beside him. Even the tiniest sound out of place could signal an assassin’s approach, and he wouldn’t dare miss it.
They stopped for a midday meal along the road when the sun stood high in the air, just past noon. Jaheira volunteered to scout ahead, skulking under the shadows of trees, while the rest of them ate. Khalid would have gone with her if she hadn’t almost smacked him with her quarterstaff and ordered him to replenish his strength.
“Aw, poor Khalid,” Imoen giggled once Jaheira had disappeared. “Ya sure do take a lotta abuse from your pretty wife.”
“Th-That’s just her way of showing she c-cares,” Khalid insisted. “Sh-She’s always had a s-strong spine…”
“Ohhh?” Xzar laughed. “You’re certain she didn’t snatch it from your back late one night?”
Montaron snorted. He’d finished eating already, content at sharpening his shortsword with a rock. “Maybe that’s the stick she swings around.”
“E-Everyone, please,” Khalid stuttered with the wave of his hands. “I-I won’t tolerate an ill-word against my wife.”
“Would ya tolerate a blade slicin’ out your tongue?” Montaron growled. “Yer speech be drivin’ me mad.”
“I-If you don’t l-l-like it, you’re more th-than welcome to leave.” Khalid puffed out his chin ever so slightly. Where his voice failed to display his courage, his high head seemed to compensate him. Montaron’s beady eyes scanned the half-elf up and down, and after a few minutes, he seemed to simmer off, returning to his sword.
“Hey, you okay Marky?” Imoen asked with a nudge of his arm. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“Hm?” Markra looked up from his bread. He’d been tearing the tough dough apart with his fingers. Occasionally he’d tear a piece free and nibble on its soft contents, but otherwise, he’d hardly eaten. His eyes circled the group, suddenly aware of the many eyes staring at him.
“Oh, sorry.” Markra sheepishly put his food down. “I’m just not hungry.”
“Y-You would d-do well to nourish yourself, Markra,” Khalid advised him. “You may have a lot on your mind, b-but starving yourself will do you no favors.”
“I know, I know,” Markra sighed, but he frowned stubbornly at the dismay in his voice. Jaheira’s words cut deep into his core, still guilt-ridden after withholding the truth from her and everyone else, but Khalid was right. Fretting over every little mistake he made wouldn’t get him anywhere.
Sighing and fretting and starving myself because of it, he thought with distaste. That can’t be all that I’m good for. Not after Gorion gave up his life for mine.
So with a determined glare, he picked up the mutilated bread once again and stuffed it into his face. He did the same with the jerky and hard chunk of cheese. His teeth barely chewed through it all before he tried swallowing, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. A pound on his chest and a few gulps of water was enough to save himself from choking.
When his coughing fit ceased, he looked up and saw everyone else staring at him. Again.
“What?”
Imoen burst with laughter, clutching her gut. “Aw, Marky! Don’t ever change, ya got that? Ahahaha!”
“What?” Markra asked again, blush creeping over his cheeks. “What is so funny? You’re the one who wanted me to eat!”
“N-Nothing, Markra,” Khalid assured him with a smile. “Think nothing of it.”
It certainly was not nothing and Markra wasn’t done thinking of it, but before he could protest, the crack of twigs and rustle of bushes caught his ears. The party turned their heads as Jaheira reemerged from the thickets, wearing a grim expression.
“We have a problem. If you’re done eating, follow me, as quietly as you can.”
They shuffled at a slow pace through the patch of forest that hugged the bottom of the cliff. Markra stepped lightly on his elvish feet while Imoen and Montaron crept through the shadowy branches. Khalid and Xzar had a harder time: Khalid thanks to his heavy armor and clumsy shield, and Xzar due to her constant chuckling under her breath. Jaheira stopped and crouched behind a layer of bushes, beckoning everyone to do the same at the edge of the treeline.
Through the twigs and leaves, Markra saw a group of hobgoblins huddled around a campfire. Tall beings dressed in leather armors and horned helmets, with burnished orange skins in dozens of tones. The carcass of a dead animal sizzled over the fire while they chatted and drank. One of them made a joke, a guttural language that Markra couldn’t understand, and the other two erupted in laughter.
“How many are there altogether?” he asked Jaheira in a low voice.
“There were five of them,” she whispered back. “The archers have gone elsewhere.”
“P-Perhaps we could, uh… R-Reason with them?” Khalid suggested.
“Not if yer our diplomat,” Montaron scowled.
“I doubt it,” Jaheira answered her husband, pointedly ignoring the grumpy halfling. “They’re bandits, most likely, scrounging for every drop of iron they can. Iron that we have in great quantity…”
“Well c’mon, what’re we waitin’ for?” Imoen asked. “There’s three of them and six of us! We can take ‘em on!”
Jaheira’s brow creased, frowning. “No, there are five, child. Two with arrows, and we’ve no idea where they’ve gone. We must think about this carefully; I have no wish to see any one of us die from an arrow to the heart.”
“We could lure them to the woods,” Markra suggested. “Throw arrows and slings at them from the trees and get a few shots in.”
“Oh?” Jaheira scoffed. “And are you so confident that your aim can kill in one blow? Can you say the same for halfling stones and haste-conjured spells?” She glanced at Montaron and Xzar from the corners of her eyes, and shook her head. “No. The bandits will not fall and they will be upon us in seconds. Then they will have the upper-hand in this tangled wood.”
“Then we could split up. Hit them from all sides so they won’t know who to focus on.”
“No. These trees are sparse enough where we sit, even thinner along the edges. Confuse them maybe, but once that wears off, we will be easier pickings if isolated. Khalid could defend himself alone. With some luck, your armor could do the same for you. But the rest of us? Not so much.”
As she spoke, her voice drenched in that accent of hers, Markra’s brows drew tight into an irritated frown. It seemed it didn’t matter how smart or foolish his ideas really were—so long as they came out of his mouth, Jaheira would have none of it.
“All right. So what does the Almighty Leader have in mind?” he snapped.
“You’d best watch your tone, Markra,” Jaheira scolded him, with a tone as sharp as his. “You will gain nothing by being petty.” Then her lips pursed as she gazed back at the bandits. “I could cast a spell to inhibit their movement, while we take shelter in the trees. That should make it harder for them to engage us. Is everyone ready?”
You won’t even ask for our opinions? Markra thought begrudgingly, but no one else seemed to share his complaints. Imoen and Khalid had already drawn their bows, while Xzar’s bloody fingers fizzled with magic sparks. Montaron picked up a stone on the ground and fixed it in his sling, though he looked like he couldn’t care less what they decided on. Biting back a sigh, Markra nodded, and nocked an arrow in his bowstring.
“Praeses. Alia. Fero.” The words spilled from Jaheira’s lips as her hands danced to a tuneless rhythm. A bright green orb of magic gathered in her palms, and grew to melon-size before she threw it into the bandit camp. The hobgoblins stopped their chuckling as they watched it, until it flashed out of existence in a blinding light.
The earth howled beneath them. An abysmal scream from nowhere filled the camp as magic vines ruptured from the dirt. They writhed at the air like transparent snakes, coiling around orange limbs and slithering up shaken legs. The hobgoblins squirmed and swung their hooked swords at the vines, but the magic glimmered with an invulnerable aura, completely unfazed by the blades.
Markra pulled his arrow to his cheek and loosed. It flew between trunks and above bushes and plunged right into a bandit’s shoulder. Another pair of arrows followed his—one in a leg, and the other in a chest. Xzar cackled as she loosed a white orb of magic while Montaron chucked a stone into a hobgoblin eye. The bandit-turned-pincushion let out a despaired grunt before he lay limp in the vines’ embrace, tongue lulled out like a sleeping dog.
Upon watching their companion’s death, the other two bandits writhed in the roots and shouted warnings into the trees. Markra loosed another arrow and struck an arm, but the others were not as lucky this time around. Imoen’s second arrow only scuffed against a leg while Khalid missed altogether. Another of Montaron’s stones struck a bandit in the chest, but left little damage behind. Jaheira pulled out a sling of her own and threw a rock, only to watch it bounce off a metal helmet.
Then one of them pried himself free. With his jagged sword raised high over his head, the hobgoblin charged towards the trees. He stepped lightly over the coiling vines to keep from getting caught again. Xzar punished his efforts with another spell, just enough to stun him for one second too long, before the vines crept up on him again.
“Nah-ah-ah, big boy!” Xzar laughed from the bushes, and wiggled her hips for good measure. “I do not do monsters, or magical vine-tentacles!”
“Ain’t that a shame,” Montaron snapped, just loudly enough so all of them heard him under Xzar’s shrill laughter.
Nobody paid attention to Xzar’s madness. Not until her laughing came to a dead stop, followed by a choking gasp for breath. Markra gazed between his party members and saw the necromancer suddenly leaning against a tree. Head low, breathing heavy, with an arrow piercing her right shoulder.
“Xzar!” Imoen shouted. “Are you okay!?”
But before she could aid her, another arrow flew into their hiding spot. It whizzed just past her nose and struck a tree trunk in front of her. Imoen jumped back with a yelp and quickly ducked into the bushes for cover. Another arrow flew straight over her head, just seconds too late.
“The archers are back,” Jaheira realized. “Everyone, take cover! I will tend to Xzar.”
Markra and the others did as she said while Jaheira crawled through the bushes towards the fallen mage. Markra hid behind a trunk and caught quick glimpses of the bandit camp over his shoulder. Sure enough, just beyond the opposite line of trees, a pair of orange figures had drawn their bows, aimed at his party. And all the while, the other two warriors struggled within the vines. Jaheira’s spell had started to lose its shine, fading faster with each passing second.
Markra peaked out the side of his trunk, but one of the archers found his hiding spot and launched another arrow his way. The bite of an arrowhead grazed his cheek as he shrunk back behind the tree.
Damn it, Markra thought. I can hardly even see those archers, let alone shoot them. And the other two are gonna get free if we don’t do something!
His fingers curled around the fletching of his own arrow, nocked but not drawn. Those archers would be the biggest problem until Jaheira’s spell wore off, but while Markra had confidence in his natural elven talent for bows, the druid’s scolding voice continued to berate him in his mind. “Are you so confident that your aim can kill in one blow?” Markra knew the answer, as much as it killed him to admit it—no, he was not. Not anymore.
The best he could do was pull back the bowstring and take aim at the warriors caught in the vines. A still and squirming target, especially up close, would always be more favorable than a free and moving one. He poked his head and arms out the left side of the tree, and fired. Then he fell back just seconds before another arrow hissed past his hiding spot, right where his head used to be. So he switched, and stuck out the right side this time. He kept up the pattern, sometimes even staying in one spot to keep from becoming predictable, always aimed at the tangled warriors.
Imoen must have noticed his plan, for she followed his lead. She was less graceful and missed more than him, but it was enough. The enemy archers ignored Montaron altogether, having buried himself in the foliage like a little bush monster. Only his arm was visible, throwing stones above the leaves. Between the three of them, and Jaheira’s inhibiting vines, the hobgoblin warriors didn’t stand a chance.
Then the vines wore off. They slunk into the ground and slithered away before slowly disappearing in a flash of green light. Without the vines holding them in place, the dead bandits dropped to the ground in misshapen heaps.
Stillness fell over the camp as both parties paused to catch their breaths. The fire popped and crackled as it cooked the spit, and cast its smoky scent into the air. The remaining archers looked at each other, bows drawn to their cheeks, and shifted on their feet anxiously.
Khalid surprised everyone by leaping from the bushes with a brave shout. The bandits shot at him, but their arrows flew wide, startled out of their aim. As they reached for another round, Khalid raised his shield and charged straight towards them. Another pair of arrows flew free, but they bounced off Khalid’s shield. He closed the gap far too quickly for a bowman’s range, but before either archer could drop their bows and draw their swords, Khalid stabbed one in the gut, and bashed his shield into the other’s head. Not dead, but dizzy and off-guard.
Jaheira took her chance—she threw a stone with her sling that struck the enemy’s back. The rest followed her lead in a shower of stones and arrows while Khalid raised his shield again to avoid getting shot. By the time they finished, a sparse forest of arrow fletching stuck out of the hobgoblin’s back. He fell to the ground with a groan, the last of his troupe.
Markra breathed a sigh of relief as he walked out from behind his tree. Khalid came to rejoin the group, shaking from head to toe with a sheepish smile on his face.
“Th-Th-Thank goodness…” he stammered. “I-I really didn’t think that would work…”
“Is everyone all right?” Markra asked, and took long glances at everyone else as they appeared out of the treeline. Imoen flashed him a couple thumbs-up signs while Montaron spat a flurry of leaves out of his mouth.
“Oh, Markra!” Xzar’s voice wailed from beyond the bushes, and instantly made Markra’s ears wilt. “My dear, precious elven boy! Help me! I’m dying, and only a true love’s kiss may save—”
Her plea ended in a yelp, however, as Jaheira reached into the brush and dragged her foot out of the green for everyone to see. “Stop your crying, necromancer,” the druid snapped. “Much to all of our displeasure, you are certainly not dying. Now pick yourself up off the ground and help us investigate the camp.”
The bush rustled a moment before a glaring Xzar tumbled out, leaves and twigs clinging to her clothes and hair. There wasn’t a trace left of the shoulder wound that almost killed her, not even the faintest stain of blood in her clothes.
Per Jaheira’s orders, the party split up and surveyed the bandit camp. Imoen and Montaron scoured the corpses for fresh arrows and valuables while Khalid put dirt on the fire. Xzar searched for magic scrolls, but had no luck. Markra and Jaheira explored the surrounding woods for any other signs of bandit activity, and perhaps any place they might have hidden the loot.
Markra pulled back another wall of brush and branches, and choked on a gasp. Surrounded in a nest of brambles and bushes was a pile of three bodies. A man, woman, and child, all dressed like commonfolk, with enough resemblance to show familial ties. Dried blood lay caked against their clothes, where their stomachs had been slashed open. Markra took one step closer, but had to cover his mouth and nose; the summer heat made the stench of blood even more poignant. Hot, sticky, and sick.
“What of you, Markra?” Jaheira’s voice asked as her footsteps snuck up on him. “What have you found?” But she stopped dead in her tracks as she peered over his shoulder. “By Silvanus…”
Markra said nothing as he walked into the circle. Slow, unsteady. Eyes unblinking, absorbing. A family. An entire family, a wife husband and child. Too weak to fight back, too slow to run away. Unarmed, and no one to protect them. Where was the mercenary? Where was the swashbuckling adventurer sent to guide them as they journeyed along the bandit-ridden roads?
Too late, Markra realized as he stared down at his metal-encased toes, at the hilt of his sword sheathed at his waist. He was too late. I should have been here. I could have done something to stop this, if I’d only been here…
Jaheira sighed as she brushed past him, and knelt before the corpses. She pulled out the stem of mistletoe before whispering the rites of the dead, in the spirit of her druid teachings.
“Silvanus, guide the light back to the source. These who were cut down amidst the woods. By Nature’s will, what was given is returned; what was turmoil is now peace.”
With a motion of her hands, and a faint flash of green light in her fingers, she finished the prayer and rose to her feet. Markra hadn’t taken his eyes off of them, still as a statue turned by a basilisk. She placed a steady hand on his shoulder to get his attention, though hardly flinched.
“There is nothing more we can do for them,” Jaheira gently explained. “All that is left is to let Nature take its course.”
Markra tilted his head just enough so he could look at her. “Why did they do this? This family, they… They were defenseless. What could they have had to take?”
“There is no way to know now, though I have my theories.” Jaheira gazed at the bodies again, carefully eyeing their every detail. “Their clothes are finer than most. Their skin is pale and soft, due to a lack of physical labor and harsh sunlight. If not iron, then they must have had wealth.”
Her lips pursed as she paused. “Come. We should regroup with the others and go.”
Markra gaped. “Can’t we at least bury them?”
“How so?” Jaheira asked. “We do not carry shovels, Markra, and your hands would find a better use around the hilt of your sword.”
She was right, of course. They’d had no way to bury Gorion either, nor the time. Still, the way she said it, in that cold voice that sought practicality in the wake of three deaths, made him angry. Markra pushed her hand off his shoulder and glared, fists curling at his sides.
“You’re right,” he snapped, “but my hands are my own, and I’ll use them however I see fit!” Then he turned his back and drew his sword. The blade was far too skinny to dig with, but there were plenty of branches and brambles about. He could at least cut them down to cover the bodies.
“If it’s that important, then go ahead without me,” Markra continued without looking at her. “I’ll catch up after I finish. It shouldn’t take long.”
Jaheira simply stared at him in silence, a glare so strong Markra could feel it digging into his back. After a few long, torturous minutes, she gave a long sigh, turned on her heel, and walked out of the thicket. Beyond the line of brambles, Markra heard her call for everyone’s attention. “We’ll leave shortly, once Markra finishes taking care…”
He didn’t listen to the rest, too absorbed in cutting down brush and gathering fallen branches. Once he had enough, he rearranged the bodies so all three of them huddled close together, but not on top of each other.
While he was moving the father, something metallic caught the light. Covered in a smear of blood and dirt was an amulet, dimly shimmering as it hung around the father’s neck. An ornate red gem connected by a chain of silver pearls, with but a single word engraved in the back: “Colquetle.” How the bandits might have missed the piece, Markra couldn’t begin to guess. Perhaps it hadn’t the value they were looking for. Perhaps the engraving would have turned off potential buyers.
Either way, Markra thought, this is no ordinary piece of jewelry. It’s all they have left.
He unhooked the clasp and hid the necklace inside his belt pouch. Someone, somewhere, had to know who this family was. Where they were from, why they had left, and who they were before they’d turned into yet more nameless victims of bandit slaughter. They would not disappear into the brush without their story being told, not if Markra had anything to say about it. And that locket was the only clue he had to go on.
When all was said and done, he reemerged from the thicket to see his party still waiting for him. Montaron sharpening his sword, Imoen cleaning her fingernails, Xzar humming some nonsensical tune, Khalid patiently keeping watch. Only Jaheira stood still, eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest, until the rustle of bushes drew her attention.
Imoen glanced up from her nails and leaped to her feet. “There ya are, Marky! What took ya so long?”
Before Markra could answer, Jaheira spoke first. “Finished now?” she asked, to which Markra nodded. “Good. Then let us go. We’ve lost enough time already.”
If the druid was angry with him, she tried hard not to show it. But she didn’t look at him as she passed, and she walked at a brisk pace. Khalid stumbled after her with a sheepish smile while Xzar and Montaron skulked behind without so much as batting an eyelash. It was Imoen who joined his side, as perceptive as ever, and dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Yikes,” Imoen whispered as she brought her lips to Markra’s ear. “What’d ya do to make her so mad all of a sudden?”
Despite himself, Markra couldn’t resist the slight grin tugging his lips. “I didn’t do what I was told.” And he bit his tongue to keep from adding “again” at the end.
***
The rest of the journey south was long and treacherous. Between the rolling hills and jagged cliffs, towering trees and trickling streams, bandits attacked them at almost every turn. They ran into a couple of human bands, armed with bows and plenty ammo, but more often than not, they encountered monsters. More hobgoblins, lumbering half-ogres, and gnolls with curled claws.
The sky had darkened by the time they reached Nashkel. The shadowy silhouette of the Temple of Helm pierced the starlit sky. A small river split the town in two parts, one for farming and one for housing. Candles flickered in the windows of the temple, the tavern, and the inn, but the rest were dark and closed for the night.
As the party crossed the bridge over the river—laggard, tired, and in sore need of a bath—a voice cut through the darkness.
“Halt!”
A man’s voice, and the metal clicks of weapons being raised. Markra and the group stopped dead in their tracks on the bridge as a small squadron of soldiers stood in their path. Dressed in red uniforms, covered in part by chainmail, and armed with longswords and bows. Everyone but Xzar and Montaron raised their hands above their heads. Montaron reached for his hidden shortsword while Xzar gnawed on her fingernails anxiously.
“Is there a p-p-problem, officer?” Khalid asked.
“I hope not,” the squad leader said, “but these are dangerous times, and you’re all armed to the teeth. Who are you that intrudes on Nashkel in the dead of night?”
“We’re adventurers,” Markra answered. “We came to see Mayor Ghastkill about the mines.”
“If I may, officer,” Jaheira spoke next, and took a leader’s stance in front of the group, “my husband and I were contacted by the mayor to investigate the town’s troubles. We have papers, if you wish to see them.”
She calmly dug out a scroll from her pockets, though before she could hand it to the guard, Xzar let out a yelp and bumped into her. She shoved a scroll of her own into the officer’s face, crinkled along the edges.
“Me too, me too!” Xzar exclaimed. “My halfling minion and I had been called out as well! Xzar, the infamous necromancer, is here at your service.”
“Who’s he callin’ a minion?” Montaron grumbled.
Jaheira ignored them. The officer looked from one woman to the other as he read both scrolls, though his eyes lingered longer on the tipsy mage. After a minute or so, he handed both papers back to their owners. With a wave of his hand and an order over his shoulder, the rest of the squad also lowered their weapons.
“Well, everything seems to…be in order…” His voice trailed off, raising an eyebrow yet again at Xzar. “Although, it says you were supposed to be—”
“A man?” Xzar asked with the bat of her eyelashes. “Why? Don’t you think I’m prettier this way?”
“He was cursed,” Markra answered, and tugged on Xzar’s shoulder to keep her in place. “You wouldn’t happen to know of a way to cure him, would you?”
“Erm… Well…” The officer scratched his face while a couple of other soldiers snickered beneath their breaths. “That’s a question better left to the Temple of Helm. I’m sure they can help you. As for mayor Ghastkill, he’s turned in for the night, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait ‘til morning to talk to him. There’s an inn just past the bridge that’s still open; sorry for the inconvenience.”
With nothing left to do, it was high time the party retired for the night. They followed the soldier’s instructions and crossed the bridge, eager for a well-deserved rest. But before Markra could open the door to the inn, Jaheira grabbed his arm and held it still.
“Wait,” she whispered. “The last two times you were attacked, the assassins targeted you at the inns, correct?”
Markra froze, feeling a chill run down his spine. “Yeah… The one who snuck into my room, and the other guy… He’d waited for us outside the Arm’s entrance.”
“Then let us go first,” she explained. “For all we know, there could be another one inside already.”
Of all of the things Markra had been looking forward to at Nashkel’s local inn, another brawl with a nameless assassin was not one of them. Jaheira had spent all of her healing spells on the roadside battles, and even that hadn’t been enough to ease the ache in their bones, or sew the wounds they’d suffered in combat, at least not to one-hundred percent. To get caught in a fight now, when they were most vulnerable, would be crippling at its best and deadly at its worst.
But so long as my name’s out there on wanted posters, Markra reminded himself, I’m not allowed the luxuries of wishful thinking. He nodded to Jaheira and let go of the door knob, then took a step back so she and the others could take the lead.
Fire crackled and hissed in a hearth against the far wall. The inn looked mostly empty this time of night, with only a few drunkards huddling around a table, and the keeper washing glasses behind the bar. There were no stairs, no second-story. As Markra peered behind Khalid’s shoulder, he could count the number of bedrooms in the whole inn. Four down the main hallway, and one in the left corner. None of the rooms used doors to separate them, only arches of open air.
Markra held his breath as his gaze swept the interior. He saw nothing too out of the ordinary, but the nerves twisting in his gut told him to exercise caution and wait for Jaheira’s signal. They’d seen nothing unusual at Feldepost’s either, but that didn’t stop the robed killer from sneaking into his room in the dead of night. After a few, tense minutes though, Jaheira’s shoulders slumped and she walked further inside.
“It is safe,” she whispered over her shoulder. “For now, it seems.”
Both Markra and Imoen let out relieved sighs as the rest filed in. Khalid and Jaheira handled the innkeeper while everyone else gathered around a table and began ordering food. The only waitress on duty warned them it may take some time, considering how late it was, but no one seemed to care. They were too hungry to refuse, and too tired to argue. It was only after they’d had their meals and a round of drinks before them that the husband and wife decided to join them once again.
“Th-They have j-just enough rooms for everyone,” Khalid told them, “b-b-but some of us will have to sh-share.”
“Khalid and I will have a room to ourselves,” Jaheira continued. “That much should be obvious. Markra, I would also think it wise that you not sleep alone. Unlike Feldepost’s and the Friendly Arm, this inn only has one story; it would take little effort at all for an assassin to sneak in and target you.”
Markra had already been thinking about that, the moment he didn’t see any stairs. He looked to Imoen, who’d been taking a deep gulp of her beer.
“I guess that means we’re paired up,” he chuckled. “Can I count on you, partner?”
Imoen nearly choked on her gulp as she put the pint down. A mustache of mug foam lined her upper lip, and stretched as she smiled. “O’ course ya can, Marky! If any bad guy sneaks in uninvited, they won’t know what hit ‘em!”
“Aw!” Xzar moaned, and suddenly grabbed Markra’s arm and nuzzled her head against him. “But dearest Markra, what if I wanted to sleep with you?”
“Not on your life, Xzar…” Markra murmured.
Khalid coughed into his fist, and if Markra didn’t know any better, he could have sworn the half-elf was covering a laugh. “A-Anyway, it looks like we have everything s-sorted out. We’ll reunite back h-h-here tomorrow morning, a-and meet with mayor Ghastkill.”
Markra and Imoen nodded, but Xzar didn’t appear to have heard him, maniacally sobbing broken-hearted into Markra’s shoulder. With a growl, Montaron yanked his partner off of him, so hard that Xzar’s face hit the table.
“And be visitin’ the temple, at that,” the halfling grumbled. “Before I kill the damn woman.”
Xzar gasped as her head leaped from its stoop. “M-Montaron! Well I…I never loved you either!” And without another word, she ran away bawling down the hallway and into the first room on the left. Her crying echoed through the whole inn, and earned many sidelong stares from the owners and patrons at their little table.
Montaron picked himself up and started walking across the common room. “Well I ain’t sleepin’ with that all night…” he grumbled, just loud enough so they would hear, and he headed for the far bedroom in the corner.
“You know…” Markra began once the halfling was out of earshot. “Even though it feels wrong somehow…I do feel a little sorry for Xzar.”
“So do I,” Khalid confessed. “It must be h-hard to be a woman…” But he flinched as Jaheira shot him a scathing glare from the corners of her eyes. “I-I mean… F-For a man, that is…”
Imoen let out a loud yawn as she stretched her arms to the ceiling. When they came down, she tugged Markra’s sleeve, head lulling. “I’m sleepy, Marky…”
“Me too,” he agreed, and had to bite back a yawn of his own. “How about we get some rest?”
She nodded, and they stood to their feet. Since Montaron had already taken the farthest room from Xzar’s crying, they settled for the one in the far right corner of the inn. Xzar would stop eventually, after all. With only a queen bed and one end table, the room was humbly furnished and small. Imoen quickly collapsed on one side of the bed without even drawing the blankets over herself.
As Markra unstrapped his armor, he found the Colquetle amulet inside his belt pouch. He let it dangle from his grip in front of his face, the crimson gemstone glinting off the faint candlelight. Even after such a long walk from Beregost to Nashkel, he could not erase the slaughtered family’s corpses from his mind. No doubt there were plenty more along the Sword Coast—innocent people who could not fight back, and bloodthirsty bandits willing to kill for pretty coin.
But now we’ve made it to Nashkel, he thought. Tomorrow starts our investigation of the iron shortage. And if we solve that…maybe the bandit raids will stop.
He shook his head. It was a foolish and naïve dream to pursue. Iron shortage or no, Markra need only remember the tales from his childhood to know that evil did not just go away or back down in the face of a few adversaries. It was an omnipresent force that was always present, the shadow that loomed beneath every ray of light. Tragedies like the murdered Colquetles would never stop, iron shortage or no. Bandits have never needed many excuses to justify their unlawful actions.
But even in the grand scheme of things, if solving this case could help those who are suffering, or at least slow the bandits down…
Markra’s grip on the amulet’s chain hardened, until he could feel the pearls rolling against his palm’s bones. It didn’t matter how small of an impact he may or may not have—he never wanted to witness such killings ever again. If in some way his efforts could save a life, then gods damn him, he would act.
I need to get stronger. With his new conviction burning in his heart, Markra put the amulet away and blew out the candle. Then he crawled under the covers and stared into the darkness until exhaustion proved too much for him, and he closed his eyes.
That very same night, he had a dream.
This thread has been on this forum since January, 2013 and it's a shame I haven't seen it before.
Now I will just take a coffee and will slowly taste it with your story, @Nonnahswriter !
I'm also loving your content and characterizations. Your action scenes are very detailed, have great temporal flow, and make me feel like I'm there with your characters during combat.
Very enjoyable. I look forward to future chapters.
Thank you very much!!
“Not on your life, Xzar…”
Perhaps someday he'll meet up with Edwina?
I don't really have anything in the way of constructive criticism to offer, but I can say that I enjoyed the read quite a bit. Thanks!
Chapter 8
He was walking. He had no idea to where or for how long, but his shoulders sagged with exhaustion and his head hung low. His legs moved mechanically—detached, numb, yet always compelled to step forward, as if under something else's command. The cobblestone road blurred in his glazed eyes; he would need rest soon if he was to continue.
Upon that realization, the path came to an end. Markra blinked and lifted his head. Towering before him stood the walls of Candlekeep, its spiral citadel piercing the sky behind them. The gates were shut with a giant lock and chains criss-crossed over its center. Markra had never seen such a contraption on the gates before, and what was stranger, the whole outside was unguarded. Every torch sconce was unlit, every window dark…except for one. In the second-highest story, the left-hand side, a candle flickered in the night.
My old room… Markra thought. He reached out to his faraway home and took a step closer, but upon his doing so, the light flickered out. Wooden planks slammed into the window and boarded it shut. The ring of a thousand nails seemed to rain from the sky as every window in Candlekeep copied it.
With a sigh, Markra's outstretched arm fell to his side. He stared again at his toes as the yearning gnawed at his core…
"You cannot go back this way, child. You must go on."
But his shoulders jumped as he raised his eyes. That voice was Gorion's. The old sage shimmered before the Candlekeep gates, transparent and hollow and pale. Markra felt his breath catch in his throat—even as a phantom, it was the first time he'd seen his foster father since he'd cradled his corpse in the forest.
"F-Father…" Markra struggled to keep his voice steady. "Is it…is it really you? How can you be here? You're…"
Gorion simply smiled, and pointed at something behind Markra. Reluctantly, Markra turned his back on his father and gazed at the spot. The cobblestone road that he'd been following before was gone. Instead, his eyes traced two different paths—one nearly engulfed by a thick woods, and the other plainly paved beneath the open sky.
Markra surveyed both trails with the squint of his eyes. It was difficult to see anything beyond the mouth of the forested path. Even the trees seemed cloaked in shadow. He lingered longer on the smooth one—something drew him to it. Whether it was an outside force or a feeling all his own, Markra couldn't be sure. He felt it pull on his eyes, lean him sideways, gently touch his arm and guide him. Like a patron welcoming tired guests into his home, with sly promises of delicious meals and warm beds and easy solutions to whatever ailed them. Markra could not see the end of this path either; it stretched too far beyond the horizon line.
Just how far could it take him, away from the memories of Candlekeep and the grief that had sickened his heart?
No. Despite the lure, Markra shook his head. I have more than just grief, and it's these memories that have shaped me. I couldn't let go of them even if I tried.
But even if he couldn't let them go, that didn't mean he had to dwell on them. Gorion was right—with Candlekeep sealed in the past, Markra had no other choice but to press forward. He glanced back at his foster father one last time, and somehow, he knew that he understood. Gorion's smile widened with warmth, and he faded away.
A small smile of his own touched Markra's lips as he turned once again, and headed towards the woods. Though upon making his choice, a sharp pull almost yanked him off his chosen path and onto the paved one. Markra staggered once, caught off-guard, but the malevolent pull sparked a rebellion in him, and he stood his ground. Teeth grinding and fists curled, Markra pushed against the force as if walking against a river current. Only after the shelter of trees swallowed him did it finally let him go.
He paused to catch his breath and leaned on a tree trunk for comfort. He still couldn't see much within the straggly branches, but anything had to be better than the ghosts that'd tried to drag him away. Anxious to move on, Markra recollected himself and delved within the forest's embrace.
A breeze brushed his long ears, and carried with it a sinister whisper.
"You will learn…"
It was a voice Markra had never heard before, yet it left a chill in his bones that felt all too familiar.
***
Markra's eyes flew open. He could still hear the haunting voice, slithering in his ears like a snake's tongue, but it was distant now, only a memory. Blinking away the vision, he took a few minutes to remember where he was—Nashkel's inn. All was quiet save for Imoen's light breathing on his right, and someone's snoring in another room.
Just a dream, Markra assured himself. A vivid one, but still just a dream.
Judging from the darkness of the inn, it would be hours yet before the sun rose above the horizon. Outside of the eerie dream slowly fading from his mind, he sensed nothing amiss within his bedroom. But just to be safe, he leaned over the side of his bed to make sure his longsword was still within reach. One squeeze around the hilt told him it was safe.
With a relieved sigh, he crawled back under the covers. He stared into the night until the exhaustion proved too much for him, and plunged into the darkness once more.
***
After a hearty breakfast and round-the-table morning hellos, the party headed outside for the new day. Farmers labored in the fields across the river, hoes raised high overhead that slammed into the earth with a mighty arc and spray of dirt. Soldiers marched to and fro in the same red uniforms as last night. Now basking in the daylight, Markra got a better look at their emblem—a blue shield with three gold boar's heads in the center.
Far to the south, the snowy Cloudpeak Mountains drew Markra's eyes. Like their namesake, their spiral heads gleamed white in the sun while several smaller green hills hugged the mountains' slopes. They formed a natural barrier between the Sword Coast and the southern Amn province, and though Nashkel was technically a part of Amn, their precarious position on the mountains' north side made them more of a border town than any official part of either region. As they passed a pair of soldiers, Markra caught a few snippets of their chatter thanks to his elven ears:
"Damn… This iron crisis is gettin' bad. You think the council back in Athkatla have taken notice yet?"
"Man, I hope not. You know that the second they learn our defenses are down, that's when Amn will strike. And you know the first place they're gonna hit? Right here at home."
"The Gate versus Amn on the farmlands of Nashkel… Ugh, I can see it now. We'd never get anything to grow after a bloodbath like that."
"I'm thinkin' you need to get out of town more and slay a kobold or somethin' if you're gonna be dreaming up a slaughter-fest while on-duty… Don't forget what happened to Capn' Brage."
"Yeah yeah, ya don't gotta remind me of that one."
High tensions with Amn of all places? Markra thought. But don't we have a treaty with them?
Though he bit his tongue and shook away the intrigue before it could take root in his mind. All he needed to do was crack open a history tome to know that not all treaties between powers would hold forever. Still, there was no use worrying about it now; better to let the prestigious high-borns play politics than a simple adventurer like him, especially one with a dozen troubles already piled on his back.
The first order of business was to sell the loot they'd earned off the many bandits who crossed their path. Common highway robbers usually didn't have much of value, but what few trinkets they found were easy to carry and worth a pretty coin. It was also prime time to stock up on supplies; along with the usual provisions, they needed more ammo. Markra and Imoen had both nearly emptied their quivers, and while any large stone would do for a sling, professionally polished bullets were cheap and plenty. When everyone had finished their shopping and Markra had the store to himself, he asked the merchant about the Colquetle amulet, but unfortunately, he didn't recognize it.
Next was the Temple of Helm. To avoid any confusion, Jaheira decided it would be best to confront Berrun after Xzar's curse was lifted. Rows of tombstones and pillars dotted the vibrantly green grass around the church, while a gravel path cut the graveyard in two halves. Helm's holy symbol—a palm with an eye in its center—hung over the entrance, always on vigilant watch for grave robbers and other miscreants.
Inside, they found a man dressed in plate armor with a mace hanging at his waist, standing behind an altar draped in red cloth. The same symbol outside was engraved on a wall behind him, with two bowls of standing water on either side of it. Markra marveled at the high, vaulted ceiling as their footsteps echoed across the tiled floor. Upon the party's entry, the armored priest looked up from a tome he'd been reading, and greeted them with a holy gesture over his heart.
"Ah, intrepid adventurers at our door," he said. "How might Nalin, servant of the Vigilant One, aid you this fine day?"
"We came hoping you're good with removing curses," Markra answered, and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at Xzar. "This one's been stuck as a woman for the past couple of days."
Nalin the priest blinked, and for a moment, his stoic demeanor wavered. His eyes narrowed on Xzar, eyeing her up and down, to which Xzar simply swung her hips and waved at him with the twirl of her nibbled fingers. Behind her, Montaron let his face fall into his hand.
"I…I see," Nalin said after a long minute. Markra could tell he didn't get requests like this very often. "Well, come here. Let's take a look at you."
"Oh, I'll give you more than just a look, big boy!" Xzar chuckled as she blew the priest a kiss. But one shove from Jaheira threw her off balance and put an end to her flirting.
"Behave yourself, necromancer," the druid snapped. "You have caused enough trouble as it is."
Xzar didn't apologize, instead flashing a toothy grin as she strode up to Nalin. Much to his dismay, she took a seat on the altar like a child-patient awaiting a doctor's examination, legs swinging over the edge. Markra could almost feel Khalid stiffen beside him as the half-elf glanced around, already anticipating the holy bolt that would surely strike them down for their companion's insolence.
"Hmm…" Nalin pondered, no doubt struggling to keep his visage in-check. "I sense a kind of magic emanating from the belt she's wearing. Have you not tried to remove it?"
"O' course we have, ya moronic priest," Montaron growled. "Do ye think we'd even be here if it were that easy?"
"Whenever we tried to pry it off him, the belt wouldn't budge," Markra explained.
"P-Please, Watcher Nolin," Khalid began, ever the wary diplomat, "s-surely you know of some way to b-b-break the enchantment, d-don't you?"
"The Vigilant One stands ready to mend thy ailments and so divert the unyielding gaze of the Great Guide…" Nolin reassured them. "…for a donation, of course. To remove a curse as strong as this, I will need five-hundred gold pieces. No more, no less."
Almost every set of eyes widened within the church. Xzar clasped her hands over her mouth in feign horror while Imoen outright gawked at the priest.
"Five-hundred pieces!?" Imoen yelped. "Just for gettin' some lousy belt off!?"
"That's more than what I'm worth…" Markra murmured.
"I-I would have to a-agree, Watcher…" Khalid sheepishly added. "The price is…a little steep."
"Indeed it is," Nalin said, "but such is the price for mishandling magical items. Shall I offer my services, or shall I not?"
"Wait." Jaheira held up her hand. "Give us a moment." And she urged the party to gather round with the wave of her hands. With their heads huddled together—all save for Xzar, who seemed content enough to squirm atop Helm's altar—they spoke in hushed voices so the priest couldn't eavesdrop.
"As much as I may despise Xzar's incessant antics in his womanly form," Jaheira muttered, "a price that high is problematic at best."
"What're you saying?" Markra asked. "We have the funds, don't we?"
"Barely," Jaheira answered, "though Xzar's transformation will cost us dearly if we find no way to lower Nalin's offer."
"B-But, money or no money," Imoen interrupted her, "we gotta do something, don't we? Ya don't mean to really leave him like that, do ya Jaheira?"
"Mm. Perhaps I would. But the decision is not mine alone to make, Imoen." Jaheira gazed hard at each of her companions. "I would rather not waste such funds on a condition that neither endangers his life nor compromises his combat capabilities… And what of the rest of you?"
The party exchanged glances around the circle.
"We know what you mean," Markra began, "but…I for one would really like him to stop throwing himself at me all the time…"
Montaron snorted. "An' what makes ye think he'll stop once he's normal again, eh?"
The blood drained from Markra's face. But before he could think of a retort, Khalid gave a loud cough and spoke over them.
"Wh-While it may cost a little extra to c-cure him," he stuttered, "I do think it would be a bit cruel to simply l-leave the curse on him, my love. A-And with the belt off, he might prove less…d-distracting."
"Yeah, I think so too," Imoen agreed. "I mean… Xzar's a weirdo, and I don't like him much, but I can't help thinkin' that if I'd put on that belt when I had the chance, I woulda ended up just like him. I don't think I could stand bein' changed into a guy all of a sudden…"
"Then it seems we've come to a majority," Jaheira sighed. And with that, she took out the party's bag of conjoined funds. "We will pay."
Before they could disband their huddle, however, Nalin's scathing voice bounced off the hallow halls of the temple.
"Wh-What do you think you're doing, mad woman!?"
Markra and the rest turned around. They saw Xzar leaning in her seat as far as she could without falling off of the altar, toward a very flustered Nalin. The priest had taken a huge step back and blush burned in his cheeks. Whether it had been born from embarrassment or anger, Markra couldn't guess. Perhaps both.
"But Watcher Nalin," Xzar began with a pair of big, puppy-dog eyes, "twas but a simple kiss to express my unending gratitude… I'd dared to hope we could even be friends."
"This is a holy site, woman!" Nalin exclaimed, having abandoned all that had made him stoic. "And I am a vigil servant of Helm! I know not what you intend to gain by seducing me, but you will keep your hands to yourself!"
Xzar's innocent face dipped into a scowl, and glared into a crumpled piece of parchment in her left fist, nearly hidden beside her hip. "Curse this useless scroll…! It was supposed to make him more compliant! Hmph! I guess I'm just not pretty enough!"
"You would dare cast magic upon a priest within his own home!?"
Xzar simply stuck out her tongue and crossed her arms over her chest, sulking. Jaheira pinched the bridge of her nose, and muttered an oath to Silvanus as she approached the offended priest.
"A thousand apologies for our companion's behavior, Watcher," she said. "We've come to a decision about your offer, and—"
"Oh?" Nalin scoffed. "So you still seek my services after this affront to Helm and His guardianship? Then fine, fine! I'll rid this fool of her curse—just get her out of here, and don't bring her back in!"
He turned back to Xzar, a blue-white glow in his hands, before Jaheira could hand him the bag. "Vita. Mortis. Careo." And the aura of light consumed Xzar, so brightly that no one could even see her beneath the flare. They heard a click, and the gender-bending belt hit the tiled floor with a clank. When the spell had all but dissipated, they saw a male Xzar sitting atop the altar.
The magic died in Nalin's hands as he made a holy gesture over his heart, and cleared his throat. "It is done. He is cursed no more."
Xzar hopped off the altar with a giddy smile and began checking himself over. He squeezed his chest where his breasts used to be, patted his hips as they rigidly swayed back and forth, and even grabbed his own butt. When he'd finally finished, he scooped up the belt—without putting it on this time—and gave a lopsided bow to Nalin with his hand held out for shaking.
"Many thanks, my friend Nalin," Xzar said, rather reasonably until a sly smile slid into his lips. "For the kiss and the cure!"
"Just get out of here," Nalin snarled without returning the handshake, "before my patience finally breaks, and I do something I cannot forgive."
Xzar outright threw back his head and cackled at the priest's threat. Then he tackled him in a quick hug, rubbing his cheek against the cold platemail. Nalin's eye twitched, but Xzar was off of him in seconds. The mad male necromancer ran out the door, hands flailing in the air.
Montaron rolled his eyes as he stalked after him, lest Xzar lose himself in his newfound freedom. Everyone else waited for Nalin to speak, too dumbfounded by Xzar's insane stunt to even form their own words. After a few minutes, Nalin seemed to blink out of a daze, and shot a glare at the rest of the party.
"Well? I thought I told all of you to leave," he snapped.
"But our payme—" Markra began. But the rest of his sentence ended in a grunt as Imoen dug her elbow into his arm. Jaheira, meanwhile, hid the bag of coins behind her back as she slowly retreated from her earlier advances. Once she stood beside Khalid again, she passed the bag off to him.
"Yes, of course," Jaheira complied, and bowed her head to Nalin. "A thousand apologies once again, Watcher Nalin. And thank you."
With that, Jaheira led everyone outside. Xzar and Montaron were still waiting in the midst of the graveyard. Xzar had his arms raised high above his head, basking in the sunlight like a joyous martyr who'd just had a spiritual awakening.
"Oh, Monty!" Xzar exclaimed, on the verge of inspirational tears. "It's as if I've been reborn anew! Oh… Everything looks so colorful—the world is glowing!"
"Mmhm," Montaron growled. His fingers strummed the hilt of his shortsword hidden against his hip. "I'm sure yer blood could make the world even more colorful…"
Xzar laughed and waved the halfling's threat away with his hand. "Ahaha! Such a charmer you are, Monty!" Then he fondled the belt in his hands, and an evil grin spread across his lips. "Now… What to do with this lovely treasure we've found?"
He spoke quieter that time, but not quite enough to avoid Markra's keen ears. Still lost in his madness, Xzar didn't hear the party's approach until too late—Markra snatched the belt right out of his grasp with a glare.
"You won't be doing anything," he snapped. "It's the party's treasure now, not just yours."
Xzar frowned and stomped his feet like a child throwing a tantrum. "Grr! Stupid Marky! Always taking away my favorite toys!"
"I-I wouldn't call it a t-toy," Khalid cut in sheepishly. "B-But we should decide what to d-do with it. We can't rightly j-just leave it around for someone to find, but I'd hate to s-s-sell it to an unsuspecting shop-keeper either."
"Ooh! I got an idea!" Imoen yelped with an enthusiastic jump. "Why don't we give it ta Marky? That way, we can confuse all the assassins!"
Markra immediately hid the belt behind his back to keep it out of her reach. "Imoen. No."
"Aw, c'mon!" Imoen laughed. "You'd make a perfect woman Marky! Yer all slender and pretty and you're an elf to-boot! The guys won't be able to take their eyes off ya!"
He cringed. "And that's exactly what I'm afraid of."
"Hm, come ta think of it…" Imoen didn't seem to hear, preoccupied by her own schemes as she stroked her chin. "We don't really need the belt to disguise ya, do we? Just some change of clothes, some make-up, and—"
"I said no, Imoen!"
"Oh, give that to me." Jaheira's sharp voice cut through their bickering as she took the belt from behind Markra. He and Imoen opened their mouths to protest, but before they could say a word, Jaheira tossed the belt through the air and into the river.
Silence fell around them. A silence so deathly quiet, they almost heard the faint plop as the belt submerged beneath the water.
"There." Jaheira dusted her hands with a satisfied smile, far too proud of herself. "We shall leave Nature to decide its fate."
"NOOOOOOO!" Xzar shrieked and reached after it. "Such a precious piece of myself—gone! Lost to the wild blue currents of despair! Oh, woe is me! Waaahhhh!"
Then he collapsed on his knees, one hand clutching his chest, and wept. Montaron gave an exasperated groan and muttered something about how no one gave a rat's arse about the necromancer's dramatics. Khalid gave a nervous chuckle under his breath while Imoen sulked, her shoulders slumped.
"Awww…" she mumbled. "And it feels like only yesterday when we took it from that smelly ogre, too."
"You mean when you took it," Markra reminded her with his arms crossed over his chest, "and good riddance, I say."
But although he acted brave and angry, he fought to suppress a shudder in his spine. That was way too close… he thought, and thanked every god he knew for Jaheira’s no-nonsense attitude.
"Hello there!"
A stranger's voice pulled the party from their antics. Markra turned around to see a man dressed in studded leather armor, with a long bow and matching quiver strapped to his back. Many long days spent outside had darkened his skin, while his black hair had started to fade gray at the tips. And yet, his face was young and his body fit, for he was an elf who'd likely seen many more years than his outward appearance cared to share. He approached the group with a hand in the air, waving hello.
"You must be the adventurers I was expecting," the elf began. He gave each pair an approving nod as his dark eyes traced their features. "Yes, you all seem to match the descriptions. Khalid and Jaheira, Xzar and Montaron, and…" He lingered on Markra and Imoen. "Two more whom I do not know. Who might you be?"
Markra hesitated once. He didn't doubt the elf's trustworthy manner, but he'd gone far too long without another attack, and his name had been printed on all of the wanted posters. However, the stranger said that he'd been expecting them, both Jaheira and Xzar's respective parties; it wasn't hard to guess who he was.
"I'm Markra," he answered, "and this is Imoen. We're friends of theirs."
The elf nodded with a smile. "Then you are friends of mine as well. Saesa omentien lle; it's not often I see a kindred spirit in these parts."
Markra didn't speak much elvish—having been raised in a very human settlement where most everyone spoke Common—but he could recognize it when he read or heard it. "Saesa omentien lle," or, "A pleasure to meet you." He inclined his head in respect, half-hoping it would hide the faint blush trying to creep into his cheeks. He'd not seen many other elves in Candlekeep either.
"I am Berrun Ghastkill, mayor of Nashkel," the man continued, "and I am happy to welcome you. I'm only sorry we had to meet under these circumstances."
"Good to meet you as well, mayor," Jaheira agreed. "What exactly is the trouble here?"
"I can't believe you haven't guessed," Berrun chuckled. But the good humor in his voice soon dimmed and turned serious. "Have you heard of the iron shortage? Well, Nashkel is in the thick of it. Our mines are all but shut down because the workers continually go missing, and what ore we do get is tainted somehow. I would send in the town guards, but we need them to protect our citizens from the bandits that raid our caravans. That's where you come in—we need you to find out what is wrong in the mines."
Then Berrun's smirk returned. "Do you think you are up to the task?"
Xzar suddenly scoffed as he rose to his feet. He'd stopped crying long ago, his torment already forgotten. "Do I think. I am Xzar, terror of death and most unholy of all necromancers! There is no darkness that I fear and no task that I dread!"
Before he was caught in another mad reverie, though, Montaron yanked on the wizard's sleeve, strong enough that Xzar doubled-over and dropped to the halfling's eye-level.
"What he means is," Montaron began with a chilling smile, "whatever ye need dead, we'll do yer toil."
"Th-That is n-not quite how I would have put it," Khalid stammered, "b-but yes, we'll do whatever we can."
"And for that, I thank you. You will be the toast of the town if you can help." Berrun pulled out a small map of Nashkel and its surrounding wilderness, and pointed at the mine's emblem drawn on the parchment. "You will find the mines southeast of here, past the carnival. Good luck, and may Helm guard you on your journey."
Thanks to Xzar's spectacle inside, I doubt Helm would cut us any breaks, Markra thought with a small grin. But angry god or no, what he didn't say out loud wouldn't hurt him. Or at least, he hoped so.
After waving Berrun goodbye one more time and gathering their things, the party pressed on to their mission at last, and left the tiny town behind them. For now.
Seriously, though, a wonderful piece of writing. I'll wait for an update even if it takes months.
Guess what?
...
Enjoy!!
Chapter 9 (Part I)
The landscape changed dramatically as they traveled further east. Lush green grass turned to brown dirt and dust clouds. Forests were nonexistent—only clusters of spiny trees and shrubs, arid and skeletal without the moisture of the coast. The hot air itched Markra’s throat with every breath as he baked inside his armor. Though the party shared their waterskins liberally amongst themselves as they marched beneath the burning sun.
They brushed past a hulking boulder, about the size of a small house, when Markra stopped in his tracks. The rock was smiling at him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes once; perhaps it was just a desert trick, like one of those mirages he’d read about in Candlekeep. But when he looked again, the face was still there. A statue, carved out of the stone’s surface in a way that was only capable by man. Markra thought it was meant to be a woman, with its smooth lines and graceful arches, but the sculpture was only half-finished. A rickety, makeshift ladder had been nailed into the rock to reach its highest spots.
Noticing that he’d stopped, Imoen swerved back around and followed Markra’s gaze. “Whatcha lookin’ at, Marky?”
“It’s staring at me…” Markra murmured as he swayed his head back and forth. No matter his vantage, the sculpture’s empty eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went. Imoen quickly copied him, and gasped as she noticed the same thing.
“Yowza! The rock’s alive!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t be so foolish, both of you,” Jaheira’s scolding cut through their reverie, and earned a jump out of their shoulders. “This is nothing more than a madman defacing Nature.”
Khalid chuckled. “W-Wouldn’t it be more like…r-refacing, darling?”
“Khalid,” Jaheira began with a frown. But upon seeing his giddy expression, she heaved a defeated sigh. “I… Yes, I suppose so, dear.”
Markra’s brow furrowed. What madman is she talking about? So he walked around a little to get a better view of the statue, until he saw him. A disheveled young man dressed in blue, chiseling the stone ever so delicately. Clink-clack-clink-clack went the soft pound of his hammer, rounding every rough edge and polishing every flaw.
As the party approached, the clinking stopped. The artist gazed at his work with a longing sigh, as though lost in a dream.
“Ah, beauteous creature!” he cried. “Never should I have stolen those emeralds, but there was nothing else that would capture the majesty of thine eyes! I did what must be done, for I have left my shop, forgotten all my commissions, and spent all that I had. I must complete thee!”
“Did he just say ‘stolen emeralds’?” Imoen whispered.
Montaron reached for his shortsword as a greedy grin stretched across his face. “Aye. That he did, girlie.”
The artist gasped and jumped in place as he beheld his audience for the first time. “Wait, there is someone here!” He spread his arms wide before the statue, as if that could protect it. “Who are you? T’was that relentless Greywolf who sent you, wasn’t it!?”
Now that Markra saw him up close, he could see the spark of madness in the artist’s eyes. Not like Xzar’s madness that came and went on whims, but a relentless passion that had pushed the man to his limits. His once-noble blue clothes were tattered and ragged, covered in dust from head to toe. His hands were swollen and red around the fingers. And his face, so hollow and thin enough that Markra could see his cheekbones protruding, with dark bags sagging under his eyes. Malnourished and weary, perhaps from the many days and nights he’d spent diligently sculpting outside.
Markra immediately raised his hands away from his weapons. “Easy, friend. We’ve nothing to do with this Greywolf, whoever he is.”
The artist sighed and lowered his arms. “Thank Deneir, I thought I was done in. I am not cut out for a life on the run…”
“Y-Your face looks…f-familiar, good sir,” Khalid began. “A-And this sculpture… You wouldn’t happen t-to be the famed artist Prism, w-would you?”
“That I am,” the artist answered with a nod, “though what little fame I’ve garnered is but a drop in the sea next to her beloved eyes, perfect lips… Such glory is wasted on me should I fail to capture her exquisite beauty.”
“You don’t look to have failed at all,” Markra reassured him. “What you’ve done here is amazing.”
“I thank thee, friend.” Despite his exhaustion, Prism managed a slight bow. “I have been using potions of speed to aid my work, and have not slept for days.” Though the madness snuffed out his pride as he revered the sculpture once again. “She is beautiful, is she not? Tis a monument to my foolishness. I saw her but once, on the outskirts of Evereska, and said nothing. I let thee pass from mine eyes, and mine heart hath cursed me for it!”
“Regardless of whatever your inspiration,” Jaheira said in a cold voice, “you said yourself that you stole those emeralds. I would expect better from an artist of your esteem.”
Prism winced, shaken from his musings, and bowed his head in shame. “I had intended to return the gems after…but alas, I know not how long I have left, and she must be completed soon… She must!” He eyed the six of them, surveying their every feature, and especially the weapons strapped to their hips and backs. “Mayhaps…you could help a foolish sculptor finish his epiphany?”
“How so?” Markra asked. “I don’t think any of us can sculpt.” He glanced at his friends just to make sure. Imoen and Khalid shook their heads, and while Xzar giddily started off with a nod, a jab from Montaron switched him to a no.
“Please, guard this place,” Prism explained. “Surely Greywolf will come seeking the bounty on the gems, but I need them to complete her first. I will pay with my last possessions if you would do this one service for me.”
It didn’t seem like such a bad job. Prism may have stooped to thievery, but it wasn’t as if he’d stolen the emeralds out of greed. Whoever this woman was, Prism loved her enough to capture her in something eternal. Unlike a sketch or a painting that curled and faded as the paper aged, a sculpture would stand the test of time for many years, even in the harshest wind and rain—and Markra had a feeling rain didn’t find this region very often. It would be a shame if Prism’s work were left unfinished after so much love and dedication had been put into it, especially now that he was reaching the end.
And it wasn’t as if the Nashkel mines were much farther away, either.
“Sure,” he concluded. “If it is so important, then we’ll guard you the best we can.”
Prism brightened into a grateful smile, though while Imoen and Khalid seemed to take Markra’s side, the rest of his party didn’t shy away from showing their disapproval. Jaheira sighed and shook her head with her arms crossed over her torso, muttering something about needless distractions. Montaron rolled his eyes and took a seat on a rock much too large for him. Xzar didn’t seem to care either way, lost in his own quiet chuckling as he nibbled on his fingers.
“My thanks to thee, newfound friends,” Prism said with another lopsided bow. “Now I may return to my work in peace.”
With that, Prism pulled another slim potion from within his jacket. A vial of white liquid that shined in the sun like well-beaten egg whites. The cork popped as he opened the vial and shakily downed its contents in one swig. As Prism resumed his work, the rest of the party set up a perimeter around the sculpture to keep an eye out for Greywolf, or any more greedy bounty-hunters. Montaron on his rock, with Xzar wandering closeby. Khalid and Imoen on each west corners, and Jaheira and Markra on the east.
Hours passed. Tracing the sun’s path in the sky, Markra saw the glowing orb had passed its highest peak and dipped into the afternoon. And yet, still no sign of any mercenaries. Prism did not speak or pay any of them much attention, fervently chipping away at the rock. But as time went on, Markra saw that his hands could no longer lay still, wobbly and raw. Whenever Prism took out another oil of speed, his entire body shook with an enormous effort just to pull out the cork. Every now and then the artist would close his eyes, only for a moment or two, and he’d start to sway. Just before his eyes would pop back open with the shake of his head, and he’d persist.
Markra feared he would pass out at any second.
“Hey, Jaheira…” he began cautiously as he watched Prism from the corners of his eyes. “Is it safe for him to be drinking that many potions at once?”
“If he hasn’t given his body any other proper rest or nourishment between doses,” Jaheira answered just as quietly, “then no, I would say it is not.” She watched him too with narrowed eyes, tracing every detail of the artist’s haggard state. “With how many he’s taken, over the course of several days and nights, then I would guess… He’ll likely die within the hour.”
Markra’s eyes widened. “Die? Then we have to stop him!”
But before he could start walking toward Prism and confiscate any and all other potions he might have on his person, Jaheira touched his arm and held him in place.
“Do you think that you could?” she asked. “Look at Prism again.” So he did as Jaheira continued. “That man has poured everything that he has into that sculpture. He said himself he’s neglected his commissions and sold all of his possessions, save for what he now carries on his back. He even went so far as to steal valuable gems that any bandit or thug would kill him for. Now I ask again, Markra. Do you really think that you, or I, or any of us could stop him from ending his own life?”
He paused and averted his gaze. “No… But still—”
“This isn’t the slaughtered family we found in the woods.” Jaheira’s words cut into his core, and earned a flinch out of Markra. He hadn’t even realized he’d been thinking about them until the druid pointed it out. “Prism made this choice with his own power, and that deserves your respect as much as your concern. Tragic as it may be, he’s not going to change his mind now just because you tell him it’s dangerous. I suspect he knew the dangers the moment he arrived at this spot.”
Markra watched Prism again. The artist accidentally struck his own hand with his hammer. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he shook his hurt hand, as if to shake the pain out, but with a stubborn glare he tried again. Not just his motor skills and mobility, but even Prism’s vision was deteriorating too. Even if Markra somehow convinced Prism to put the chisel down and rest, he doubted it would be enough to save the doomed artist now.
Yet another person dying before his eyes that he could not save. However…this time he was not so powerless to stand by and watch. At the very least, he would finish the job Prism had asked of him.
“Yeah,” he told Jaheira after a while. “You’re right. All we can do now is honor his last request, and make sure he finishes in time.”
Jaheira nodded with a small, pleased smile. “Yes. And sometimes, that is all that we need do.”
“Ohhhh Maaar-kraaa!” Xzar’s voice suddenly sang out like a dramatic opera singer. Markra turned to see Xzar pointing down the slope with a giddy, malicious smile. Montaron was nowhere to be seen. “The big bad wolf is here!”
Sure enough, climbing the slope with a sword over his shoulder, was the rugged mercenary Greywolf. Fur taken from a gray wolf pelt lined the collar of his studded leather armor, and a crude, bronze medallion in the shape of a wolf print hung from his neck. His hair was greasy black with streaks of gray and his tanned body was laced in old scars. Greywolf smirked as he gazed past the wary adventurers and straight at Prism, like a real wolf eyeing its prey.
“I have come for you, Prism,” he chuckled.
Prism started from his sculpting as his protectors took a defensive stance. Markra put a hand on his trusty longsword while Jaheira drew her quarterstaff. Behind them, Khalid came running with his shield raised and Imoen drew her bow.
“No!” the artist screamed. “Not yet! My work is nearly done! Please, I implore you!”
“Your sentiment is wasted on me, fool. You are but gold in my purse.” Greywolf flashed a toothy grin as he waved a hand at Markra’s party. “Do you make your situation worse by hiring help to protect you? Who are you fools?”
“Who we are is unimportant,” Jaheira answered. “You must be Greywolf.”
“And if I am?” Greywolf asked, but judging from the widening smile across his lips, he had no real intention of hiding his name.
“Prism has been out here for days crafting this sculpture,” Markra explained. “He only wishes to finish his masterwork. Why not let him? What harm could it do?”
“Ha!” Greywolf barked a laugh and spat on the ground between them. “You should be more worried ‘bout the harm I can do! Never have I taken a bounty and not delivered!” He then raised his sword and pointed it straight at Markra. “Now, stand aside that I might dispense with this fool and claim my prize. Or would you rather I go through you to get him? Consider well if he be worth your lives!”
Six against one. So Markra hoped as he glanced at his party members. Aside from the vanished Montaron and the frantic Prism, everyone was staring at him. Of course, this job had been his idea. He was responsible for whatever would come next if they spat with Greywolf. And as good as the odds looked, the mercenary must be either wrongfully arrogant or rightfully powerful to take them all on at once. Or, Markra realized uneasily, perhaps both.
He glanced back at Prism. At the tremor running up and down his limbs, so spent he could hardly stand. At his bloodshot eyes, his blemished hands. At the flawless sculpture he’d slaved over for hours, even days to complete, all for a nameless muse who’d stolen his heart.
The nameless muse whom he would die for.
Gazing back at Greywolf, Markra at last drew his sword.
“You can’t have him,” he said. “I promised I’d protect him, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Greywolf’s smile bent into a frown, and he scoffed. “Fine. If that’s your wish, then I’ll just have to cut you down too!”
And with another battle cry, he lunged. Metal-on-metal clashed and grated against one another as Markra blocked the first—the second—the third blow, one after another after another. Greywolf’s swings were relentless, savage, and fast. Blocking the first few was easy, but with each collision, Markra lost inches to Greywolf, and his confidence.
Jaheira tried to get in with her quarterstaff, but he was too slippery, nor did he seem to care when or where Jaheira struck at him. Markra sensed it in his ruthless gaze and harsh swipes—it was the elf, the baby-faced elf who’d dared to get between him and his mark… He pissed him off the most. An arrow flew past them both, just a breadth away from hitting Markra. From Imoen, though her friend and her enemy were too close together to land a clear shot.
White sparks lit Xzar’s fingers as his hands danced, and the familiar pale orb flew out of his palms and struck Greywolf. The mercenary staggered, and gave Markra but a moment’s relief. The elf thrust forward, aimed straight for Greywolf’s heart. But he recovered too fast, and with a snide grin, Greywolf swung and blocked yet again.
This time was different. As their swords collided, a chilling breeze blew into their faces. Shards of glittering ice grew out of nothing and crept along their blades like living crystal. Frost bit into Markra’s fingers as he fought Greywolf’s weight, but the ice didn’t harm Greywolf. With another loud yell, Greywolf shoved him off and the flower of ice shattered—along with Markra’s sword.
Icicle shards cut into Markra’s exposed hands and face, as deadly and fragile as glass. As Markra faltered, trying to shield his face with his free arm, Greywolf swung a kick into his gut, hard enough to throw Markra rolling down the short hill.
In a victorious yell, Greywolf raised his sword again, but Khalid and Jaheira stood between him and Markra. The magic sword banged against Khalid’s shield and left a bloom of ice behind. Jaheira struck him in the shoulder with the butt of her staff, but Greywolf whacked his blade against it and threw her off her aim. Another stray arrow shot too wide, almost hitting Prism as he clambered to finish his sculpture amidst the chaos.
Once he’d hit the bottom and the rolling slowed to a stop, Markra scrambled to get back on his feet. But as he reached for the hilt, one look at his sword dashed his hopes. Cracked in the middle and splintered, as though a beast had bitten it in half. Flecks of frost lined the edges where it’d broken in two, and somewhere far away, old Winthrop’s words echoed in Markra’s mind. “A fine choice, lad! Crafted with Iron Throne metal an’ all!” Metal of the Iron Crisis, brittle and dull.
A thousand panicked thoughts swam through Markra’s head as he watched the fight continue above him. At last, Montaron reappeared. The halfling melted out of the shadows behind his new favorite rock, and thrust his shortsword into Greywolf’s lower back. But Greywolf sidestepped at the last moment and threw him off his aim; the shortsword just barely sliced the corner of his tunic. A red line etched into Greywolf’s side where the clothes had been torn open by the blade, but it was only a surface cut. A wound that would bleed, yet damaged nothing of import.
Letting out a yell, Greywolf turned his vengeful eyes on Montaron. His sword slashed through the air, seemingly whiffing, before another burst of ice crystals flew out of the blade. Jagged icicles buried themselves into Montaron’s right shoulder, and the halfling fell to his knees.
Though with Greywolf’s back turned, one of Imoen’s arrows finally found its mark: his upper back. Greywolf loosed another angry howl as he swerved around and raised his magic sword with both hands. This time, at Jaheira. Khalid leaned close to Jaheira as he raised his shield, covering them both. But it was a clumsy stance, hastily put together, and now they were trapped behind it and Greywolf’s relentless barrage of swings.
Khalid seemed to shrink beneath every strike, knees bent and arms dipping. Not because he was tiring already, but with each collision, Greywolf’s sword left sheets of ice on his shield. Layer upon gleaming layer gathered in its center, one on top of the other, and burdened the shield with crippling weight that Khalid was not used to. It was taking all of Khalid’s energy just to hold his defense, let alone look for the chance to strike back. A chance that Greywolf was not about to give.
Broken sword or not, Markra had to do something. He threw the useless weapon away and reached for the bow strapped to his back. How long had it been, he wondered, since Greywolf had tossed him over the hill and out of sight? Not very; mere seconds, minutes at most, yet it seemed that the mercenary had already forgotten him, thirsty for new blood. And while Greywolf may be a famous man with a shiny sword, in the end, he was still just one man with only one set of eyes.
This should surprise him, Markra thought as the fletching touched his cheek. While aiming, Jaheira’s eyes met his, an unspoken question as she grasped her quarterstaff with white knuckles. Markra answered her with a nod, and she poised to strike. And that’s all I need to do.
The arrow flew. It dug into Greywolf’s exposed side, right where Montaron’s sword almost stabbed into him. For the first time since Xzar’s magic trick, Greywolf faltered, hand instinctively reaching for the red splotch in his waist.
That moment was all Jaheira needed. With a final warcry, she leaped out from behind Khalid’s shield, spun her quarterstaff above her head in a fluid dance, and—crack! The brunt of the stick whacked Greywolf’s skull, and he dropped to the ground like a pot from a high window.
A silent wind brushed through Markra’s hair as he slowly climbed back up the hill. Khalid fell on his butt, breathing heavily, and at last dropped the frozen shield. He even began rubbing his hands together, as though to keep them warm.
“Alright, we did it!” Imoen was the first to cheer, punching the air victoriously as she hopped to her friends. She even gave Jaheira a loving clap on the shoulder, beaming. “Take that, ya greedy mongrel! And oh boy, what a hit ya gave him, Auntie! That was great!”
“Thank you, Imoen,” Jaheira replied, though her brow furrowed an instant later. “But did you just call me—”
“Ohhh!” Xzar popped out from behind the rock with a spring in his step, and a goofy, almost drunken tune in his voice. “Fi-fo, thy brute is dead! That’s what I said, the one thou wed! Fi-fo, thy brute is dead, but now I shall take thine spot in bed!”
And a drunken rhythm in his steps, as Xzar practically tripped over his own toes and fell on his knees. He hovered just above Greywolf’s corpse, a slimy smile tugging his lips. “And take thine shiny pretties too…”
Before one of Xzar’s slippery hands could cut Greywolf’s purse from his waist, however, Montaron grabbed his shoulder and yanked him off. Only with one arm too, but even as his strength returned and the ice in his shoulder started to melt, he shot Jaheira a haggard glare as he struggled for breath.
“Quit yer yowling before I cut out ye throat,” he growled at Xzar. “You did no’ do nothin’ to earn a pretty coin in that fight. Me, on the other hand…could be usin’ a certain woman’s touch?”
A scowl etched into Jaheira’s sharp features, but she wordlessly sat beside Montaron and began to heal him with magic. Within minutes, the ice vanished, and all that remained of the hole in his flesh was a red stain in his clothes and some bruising. When she had finished, Montaron scooped up the pouch of gold for himself, and began counting the pieces inside.
Markra had no interest in Greywolf’s gold though. His hands wandered instead to the hilt of the sword lying abandoned beside its old master. Even without Greywolf’s icicle attacks, Markra could have known just by looking at it—at the sheen in the blade, the design of the hilt, the magic that resonated in the air around it like the quiet thrum of hummingbird wings… This was no ordinary sword.
“H-Hey, hey!” Khalid’s voice pulled him back to the real world. The half-elf gently put his hand on the sword and lowered it back to the ground. “C-Careful with it, Markra. We don’t know wh-what kind of s-s-spells are in it.”
Yes, Markra knew full well the dangers that came with mishandling magical items, especially when he may not know the extent of its abilities. Gorion had made well sure that those lessons had gotten drilled into his very soul back in Candlekeep, let alone his mind. But—
“All it does is make ice,” Markra reassured him. “I don’t think it’s too dangerous, so long as you don’t point it at the wrong person.”
Everyone’s eyes fell to him and to the sword in his lap, some more wonderstruck than others. Imoen peered at it over his shoulder and gave a breath of awe in his ear. “It sure is pretty, Marky,” she gasped. “Real pretty, kinda like it was made for you.”
“It would be more efficient in Khalid’s hands,” Jaheira bluntly pointed out. But right as Markra opened his mouth to protest, Khalid raised his hands up and shook his head.
“O-Oh no! Not me, dear,” he insisted. “I-I’m much more comfortable with a plain sword… And the cold m-makes me itchy.” Then he gazed at Markra, a wry smile in his lips. “B-Besides… Your sword is broken now, is it n-not?”
“Yeah…” Markra sighed out his nose as he gazed at Greywolf’s sword. Even with the masterwork resting in his hands, the snap of his old sword still echoed in his ears. It was sad, in a way; that was the sword he’d bought from Winthrop, the sword he’d carried with him from Candlekeep. A companion of sorts who’d been with him when Gorion was killed, when he’d fled through the woods until his legs collapsed in the dark. A guardian who’d protected him from wolves, ogres, assassins, and much more.
Thanks for staying together for me, even though you were made from tainted iron, Markra thought. Silly, thinking to a sword as if it were sentient, yet the prayer gave him some small comfort. I’ll keep doing my best with this new partner.
He would need to Identify it later. A small bit of magic, something he’d watched his father practice many times whenever he found something strange. Nothing difficult, but it had its preparations. Until then, Markra strapped the sword’s scabbard onto his belt, with a pair of approving nods from Imoen and Khalid.
“Ah… At last…”
Prism’s voice drew back their attention, and they all turned toward the artist and his sculpture. He gazed upon the stone even more loving than before, as if a sky full of stars were sparkling in his eyes. But his body was torn, strung together by thin tissue and muscles clinging to bones. Prism collapsed on his knees, yet he continued to stare into the sculpture, a horrid bend in his undoubtedly sore neck.
Markra could not look away either, nor many of his friends. Even Montaron let out an impressed whistle. Every line of the sculpture: smooth, undeterred, graceful and elegant. She looked as though she could come to life at any second and speak to them. Prism had used the emeralds in her eyes, a royal green that glowed in the golden sunlight. Now that she was finished, Markra noticed the high curves of her ears, the sharpness of her eyebrows, the fine features in her cheeks—an elven face not unlike his own, yet he dared not compare himself to such a beautiful creature if she were real. At the bottom of the sculpture lay a collection of empty potion vials. Dozens of them, scattered amidst Prism’s sculpting tools.
Upon seeing the pile, a chill ran down Markra’s spine that chased away the awe in his heart.
“Prism…” he murmured, but did not know really what to say. Nor did it much matter; Prism may as well have been in a whole other world, an aura of love and relief embracing him all around.
“Alas, she is complete,” Prism spoke absently. “Take what you will of my possessions, but leave the sparkle in her eyes. Oh sweet creature, my effigy to thee is done. Perhaps our paths shall cross in distant realms, and I shall find the courage to call thy name: Ellesime!”
A tremor wracked through all of Prism’s body as he reached out his hand, and touched her smooth, stone face, much like a caress. Even after his legs failed him and he fell to the ground in dead stillness, the pleased smile stayed on his lips.
Markra lowered his gaze as Imoen gasped beside him, and buried her head in his shoulder. Khalid took off his helmet and held it to his chest as he bowed his head. No one said a word as Jaheira knelt beside Prism’s body and put two fingers against his neck. After waiting a minute or so, she closed his eyelids.
“He’s dead,” she confirmed, and bowed her head in prayer as she whispered the rites. “Silvanus, guide the light back to the source…”
As she spoke beneath her breath, however, Xzar let out a loud groan and gripped his head, as if he were suffering from a giant headache.
“Yes, yes, it’s all very tragic and sad!” he scowled. “But what of our payment? What of our just reward for fulfilling this utterly pointless—I mean… Purely righteous request?”
“H-Have you no compassion?” Khalid asked. “The poor man is…d-d-dead.”
“Lotsa people die all around,” Montaron cut in. “Don’t mean we gotta starve for our efforts. Oy, druid! What’s the fool got on him, eh?”
Markra gripped the hilt of his new sword as he turned his steely green eyes on Montaron and Xzar. “Prism has just died, and you already want to rifle through his possessions?”
“He hasn’t much, I’m afraid,” Jaheira answered. “His clothes are all but rags, and his pouch is empty of gold.”
“Jaheira!” Markra scolded, but the druid simply shrugged as she pushed herself to her feet.
“They asked; I answered,” she told him. “And as tasteless as it is, the artist did promise us payment in whatever was left on his person. The only thing of any value that he owned were the two emeralds in the sculpture. The same emeralds he’d stolen.”
A twinkle lit up Imoen’s eyes as she jabbed Markra’s arm with a smirk. “I’m bettin’ those emeralds would sell for a nice price, huh Marky?” Though at his warning glare, her smile dipped. “I-I mean… If they weren’t stolen, that is.”
“I-It might do us good to hold onto them,” Khalid suggested. “Whoever lost them m-must be searching for them as we s-s-speak.”
“An’ what’re we, some delivery service fer lost goods?” Montaron grimaced. “No, not fer stones like those. Ya know how the words go: finder’s keepers, loser’s weepers. And finder’s richers too.”
But to everyone’s surprise, Xzar was the first to scold his partner, patting him on the shoulder in a tut-tut voice, like a parent to a child. “Now now, Montaron. The goodly ones do have a point.”
The tears swelled almost spontaneously as he went on. Xzar even produced a dirty handkerchief from the inside of his robe to dab his eyes.
“Those poor, baby emeralds… Spirited from their homes one night by a mad artist, and now, out in a cold, harsh world all by themselves with no one to protect them…! Oh, just think of the Mama and Papa emeralds! They must be worried sick!”
Xzar blew his nose as loud as a blare of trumpets, much to Montaron’s disgust. But as he wiped his eyes dry and feigned his grief, his voice dropped and spoke out of the corners of his mouth, just loud enough for all to hear. “Now think about how much Mama and Papa would pay to see their children returned, safe and sound.”
Montaron seemed to take Xzar’s advice, for he did not protest again. He instead simmered off a bit, crossing his arms over his chest grudgingly.
“Then are we decided?” Jaheira asked one more time, just to be sure. “Shall we take the gems or not?”
Markra didn’t much like the idea of taking the emeralds, even if it was to return them to their rightful owner. Prism had begged with his dying breath that they “leave the sparkle in her eyes,” and looking at the stone Ellesime now, he didn’t want to remove them. It was the curves of the stone, their glint against the sun—the emeralds just seemed to fit. What a shame it would be if they were taken away now, before anyone else had the chance to look upon her in wonder.
But a much wiser, more cynical part of him knew that it wouldn’t last. Someone, some time, would eventually stumble upon Prism’s statue, and that person may or may not be an admirer. More likely, a bandit or a thief who would sooner take the jewels for himself and sell them away, to some place where the original owner would surely never see them again. Prism had completed his statue; she was the last he saw before the light faded from his eyes, and she would be etched into his memory for eternity.
And besides, Markra assured himself as he gazed again at the sculpture, she’s plenty beautiful without the emeralds.
“Let’s take them down,” he answered at last. “It’s not like they’re hard to carry.”
Jaheira nodded, and with Imoen’s help, they dislodged the sparkling gems from Ellesime’s eyes and placed them into a safe pouch. As the rest of the party gathered their bearings, though, Markra continued to stare at Prism. At his content smile, as unmoving as the statue that hovered over him.
“We must hurry to the Nashkel Mines,” Jaheira’s voice cut through his remorse like a knife through ice. “They won’t be much further now, and we need to at least begin our investigation before the day comes to an end.”
He knew that. Of course Markra knew that. But that didn’t stop him from at least trying to ask:
“We’re just going to leave him like that?”
Jaheira sighed, but instead of breaking out into yet another lecture—one that Markra had already begun preparing a plethora of comebacks for—she put a hand on his shoulder, and her gaze softened.
“Let us ask the miners when we arrive,” she suggested gently. “As I said, they are not far, and there are many people in this region who loved Prism’s art. I am certain we can find someone willing to take care of him.”
Markra’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, unsure of what to say at first. “J-Jaheira, I… Th-Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it, Markra. But you should try to not stutter so much. We wouldn’t want you turning into my husband, now would we?”
She smiled to show she was joking. And Markra smiled back, because Jaheira was actually joking. “No ma’am,” he laughed. And with Ellesime’s eternal gaze at their backs, the band of adventurers continued on, passing through the amber glow of early twilight.
(Something tells me that's not exactly something to be proud of... >.>;; )
I enjoyed how you worked the sword's cold powers into the fight. Very nicely done.
And, I got a good chuckle from this:
Quick question, did something get left out here? It seems like a sentence or two might be missing: Also, more more, write more!
Lemme go fix that riiiiight noooow...
Edit: Ah-ha. I accidentally typed in the wrong bracket when I was adding the italics, so it skipped a huge chunk of it even though the text is written in the post. Might want to go back and read it again now that everything makes sense again... Sorry about that. ^_^;;
Chapter 10 (Part I)
After wandering just a little ways north, the adventurers arrived at the Nashkel Mines. A giant hole carved out of the earth by dozens upon dozens of straggly laborers. Thin, disheveled men in rags, climbing up and down ladders, steering wheelbarrows full of rocks, and chugging gourds of water as though it was their lifeblood. Soldiers in Nashkel militia uniforms supervised the mine with swords on their hips and shortbows on their backs. No doubt, there were many bandit groups starved of iron on the roads, and some were more than mad enough to attempt a raid on the source.
As Markra and the others climbed down the hole, they heard angry shouting at its center. A man in leather with bright orange hair and freckled skin was barking orders to the miners. “Put your backs into it, slouts, before we lose the last o’ daylight! Don’t carry those rocks by yourself, get some help ya gods-damn idiot! Remmy! If I catch you takin’ another drink on the job, I’m dockin’ your pay until next year!!” And so on, along with a string of profanities that even made Imoen blush as they approached.
Markra caught the shirt of a miner running up the steps, and pointed to the redhead below with his other hand. “Hey, is that the man in charge?”
Upon steering his head around to follow Markra’s point, the miner scoffed and spit. “Emerson, yeah. Unfortunately.”
“W-Well…” Khalid coughed as he forced a reassuring smile. “H-He seems…assertive.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” the miner replied. “You got business with him? Take my advice: don’t do business with him. You’ll have better luck talkin’ to a wall, and your ears will thank you for it.”
“Clovis!!” Emerson’s voice shouted over the hustle and bustle, earning a flinch out of the miner. “If ya got the time to sit and chit-chat, ya got the time to fetch that water I told you to! Now move it!!”
The miner sighed with the roll of his eyes, and resumed his jog up the hill. “Good luck,” he muttered to Markra right before he left.
“Hey!!” Emerson’s shouting grew louder. And to Markra’s dismay, now it was aimed at his party. “Who the devil are you sorry lot!? If you’re not here to work, then piss off! You’re blockin’ my men!!”
Jaheira, completely unfazed, ignored Emerson’s banshee screams and approached the taskmaster as she would any other authority figure—chin high, shoulders straight, walk steady. Khalid sheepishly followed after her with his head low, while Xzar practically doubled-over as he tried to hide behind Montaron. Markra and Imoen shared a look, one of many they’d exchanged during their childhood in Candlekeep. The classic I’ll-go-if-you-go silent promise. It was enough, at least, to steel each other’s resolve, and follow everyone else.
“Wait a minute…” Emerson’s yelling quieted for a moment as his eyes squinted at them, surveying their every detail up and down. “By the looks of you, you’re…adventurers!”
A rigid snarl set into Emerson’s features as he stomped toward them, meeting Jaheira halfway. “Oh, I don’t know what you’re here for, but the answer is no! I don’t be needin’ adventuring fools wandering about me mines, especially ones that think they can tromp about with nary a thought about askin’ permission!!”
“Rest assured, Emerson, we are not fools,” Jaheira told him, with an obvious effort to keep her voice and expression totally neutral. “And we have permission. Barrun Ghastkill has sent us to investigate the troubles of the mine.”
Emerson’s eyes went wide as Jaheira pulled out the documents. “Barrun? Gods, gimme those.” Just before he snatched them out of her hands and practically ripped them open. He mumbled the legal words under his breath as he read, barely coherent, but even as he processed it all, his frown only creased deeper. Once he finished, he shoved the papers back into Jaheira’s arms.
“Hmph,” he growled, and lifted his finger. “Fine! You’ve got one day. If I see you after that, I’ll have a new shaft dug for each of ya! Got that!?” They nodded. “Good!”
And with the wave of his hand, Emerson turned his back on the adventurers and returned to his belligerent shouting. Jaheira shut her eyes, as if to block a pesky bug from flying into them, as she rolled up the papers and returned them to her coat pocket.
“I’ve had more eloquent conversations with bears,” the druid grumbled, then let out a sigh. “But, he was simple enough. At least we’re in.”
“M-Monty?” Xzar asked in a too-loud whisper all of them could hear. “Is it safe to come out now?”
Montaron scoffed as he reached behind his head, held Xzar’s jaw, and pushed it up as far as his stubby arms could reach. Xzar nearly lost his balance as he half-stood, half-leaned over his partner.
“You were never in a hidin’ to start with, ye git,” the rogue snapped. And gave Xzar one last slap on the thigh as he turned around and began walking toward the mine’s entrance. Xzar pouted as he rubbed his leg, and walked with a hunch as he sheepishly followed Montaron.
The rest marched after them, reunited just short of the cave’s dark, yawning mouth. A pair of soldiers on either side had blocked the passage earlier, their spears criss-crossed over the hole, but now that Emerson had given his permission, they left it open.
“I wish you guys luck in there,” one of the guards told Markra as they passed by. “Whatever’s been causing all the trouble isn’t something I’d wanna run into.”
As they crossed the threshold and the darkness swallowed them, Markra couldn’t help but think the same thing. Gripping the hilt of Greywolf’s sword, he gulped down his dread and pressed on.
***
Imoen broke into a coughing fit once they’d delved into the mine’s first floor. Markra managed to stifle a choke, even as his lungs screamed at him to cast out the toxic air he took in. Dust drifted in clouds of orange lantern light, dry and thick and rusty. The pounding of hammers echoed off the cavern walls mechanically, almost like a chorus of practiced musicians who’d over-rehearsed their routine. Clack. Clack. Clack. An empty, hollow sound not unlike the miners who struck it.
Markra saw a pair of them as they entered. Pale, scrawny men who looked to have not seen the sun in days. One of them sat hunched in a corner, coughing violently as the other kept a steady hand on his back. Dark liquid spewed out of his mouth—too dark to be blood, but could be nothing else. Tar, Markra suspected, corrosively burning through his veins and collecting in his lungs.
Hearing their footsteps, the comforter of the two looked over his shoulder and gave them a grim nod. “Hmm, more adventurers, eh? I’d leave while you still can, if I were you. I’ve heard awful stories about what’s been happening to those that go deeper into the mines.”
More adventurers. So, we’re not the first ones to try, Markra realized.
“Is that so?” Jaheira asked gently, perhaps out of respect for the other suffering. “Why? What have you heard?”
“Well, my friend Ruffie barely escaped with his life, he did. Little demons jumped out of the very walls and chased him down.”
He paused as his friend heaved another fit, and rubbed his back with a hand caked in dirt. Markra’s ears began to wilt at the tips; the poor fool may as well have been coughing up his heart.
“He woulda died if not for the guards that came running,” the miner continued softly once his friend’s fit had eased itself. “Course, them guards are dead now. Chit-chat with some of the miners round here, and they’ll tell ya what they saw.”
“Th-Thank you,” Khalid replied with a nod, and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. He walked to the miners and offered it to them with a shy smile. “H-Here, take this.”
At last, the afflicted miner raised his head. Blood slathered his lips and chin, while dark snot and tears matted his face. His ratty, mangled sleeves were already stained with dirt and gods know what else; Khalid’s handkerchief glowed like an angel’s robe in comparison. For a moment, at least, before the miner took it in his hands and used it to wipe his face. Not clean, but better than it was.
“Gods bless ya, sir,” was all the miner said, voice hoarse from all the hacking.
“We should follow their advice,” Jaheira concluded, ever the undeterred one, “and speak with other miners on what they’ve heard or experienced. It would be wise of us to gather more information before we press forward.”
“Yeah, I agree,” Imoen said between coughs. Though despite her difficult breathing, she cracked a goofy grin. “Wouldn’t want us wanderin’ round in the dark on the whole thing, eh? Eh?”
No one laughed, not even Xzar. Her shoulders slumped. “Aw, c’mon. Too soon?”
“Make another cave pun,” Montaron growled with his finger pointed at her, “and I clobber ya. Don’t think I can’t neither, just cause yer taller than me.”
“No one is clobbering anyone,” Markra snapped as he stood between them and raised his hands. “We have a job to do, so let’s do it.”
They plunged into the dark tunnels in search of miners to interview. They found plenty, but few wanted to speak, or even had the ability to. Plenty more crouched on the floor, leaned on their shovels, and spewed their lungs out in fits and spasms. The ones who did speak to them told much of the same things: miners disappearing in the lower levels, the scarcity of iron ore, and whatever iron that they did haul out crumbling almost as soon as it’d been cast.
Other rumors bridged between fear and insanity. They met one miner who shook with a fever and murmured curses to his employers, about the high wages they’d promised and tight spaces too small to breathe in. Another claimed the mines were haunted by the souls of all those who’d perished before them—and seeing the conditions the workers lived in, Markra almost believed it to be true. More repeated the claim that demons had been appearing out of the walls. One fellow even believed a dragon dwelled in the depths of the mines.
“Dragons!” Xzar perked up with a wild gleam in his eyes. “Oh, I’ve seen dragons with feet like rabbits. Tis true, I swear!”
The miner nodded his head like he’d just told him that the walls were made of rock. “Oh yes, yes. Haven’t actually seen him, but what else could kill all those miners? He must be mad about us mining his hill. Poor thing.”
Somehow, only Xzar believed him. They did not speak with that one for very long.
They spent almost an hour just asking questions and compiling answers, and Markra hated it. The poisoned air he had to choke down, the mournful looks of the bone-skinny miners, the low ceiling and cramped tunnels… Nothing about the place felt right—so dark and musty and brown, far from the vibrant forests and clear skies above. Every fiber of his body twitched with an anxiety he rarely felt. Elves were not meant to crawl through the earth; that belonged to the dwarves, and the drow taken by the wicked spider goddess, Lloth. And though Markra may have been raised in Candlekeep his whole life, he was still an elf through and through.
Once we’re done with this venture, he thought, I never want to see another mine again.
“Let us rest a moment,” Jaheira said, and the party came to a stop. “Khalid, what have we gathered so far?”
Khalid pulled out the notes he’d been taking and listed off what they already learned so far. “The only real c-consistencies a-are this talk of demons, the faulty iron, a-and the holes in the walls. B-But some have also said th-that it gets worse f-f-further down.”
“Auntie…” Imoen began, looking at Jaheira. “You don’t…really think these mines are possessed by some sorta demons or ghosts, do ya?”
“Certainly not, child,” Jaheira assured her. “But I do think those miners saw something, and whatever that something is has to be behind the disappearances. Perhaps even the corrupted ore as well.”
“Hmmm…” Xzar pondered as he stroked his chin, a rare moment of lucidity. “Whenever someone mentions these ‘demons,’ they always say they saw them jump out of the walls.” Then his eyes lit up and he gasped, the madness returning. “Walls mean nothing to ghosts! They can walk straight through them! Which means… The mines truly are haunted after all!”
Imoen gasped and covered her mouth; she’d never been fond of ghost stories, despite her taste for mischief. But Montaron rolled his eyes and elbowed Xzar’s waist, knocking him out of his insanity. “If that was true, we’d be hearin’ more talk o’ ghosts than demons, ya blabberin’ moron. It ain’t nothin’ supernatural, I can tell ye that.”
“The holes,” Markra said suddenly, and waited until he had everyone’s attention. “The miners keep saying these ‘demons’ are popping out of the walls, but what if they’re just using the holes? Like…they’re all connected somehow, like a secret network of tunnels?”
All five pairs of eyes widened a smidge as the idea clicked in their heads. Khalid jotted down another scribble of notes while Xzar took in another gasp, and threw his arms around Markra.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” the mad wizard exclaimed. “Oh dear Markra, you’re a beautiful genius!”
“Would you please let go of me?” Markra grumbled as he tried to push him off.
“Then whatever these ‘demons’ are, they must be small enough to climb through the holes undetected,” Jaheira contemplated aloud. “Not to mention, strong enough to carry the bodies of the missing miners somewhere unseen.” Her brow furrowed in thought for a moment before she shook her head, sigh quietly. “But that still doesn’t narrow it down enough. We should move on from here; perhaps we’ll find more clues on the second floor.”
With another series of nods—and an especially hard shove from Markra, at last freeing himself from Xzar’s loving clutches—the party gathered itself once more, and moved further down the tunnels.
Ironically, despite diving deeper into the earth and further from the surface, the air was better in the second level. Far away, Markra heard the caverns drip with water and yawn with a nice, cool draft. The dust was still thick, but a more tolerable poison than what suffocated the miners above. Imoen still coughed every now and then, but her fits came and went more quietly than before.
Markra put a hand on her shoulder as they walked. “Feeling better?”
“I think so,” she answered with a nod. “It’s not so bad down here. Still can’t believe what they have to put up with above us though. I mean, how can they work at all when they’re coughin’ up blood?”
“I know what you mean. It’s wrong. It doesn’t matter how much they’re getting paid; this place, and being forced to work here, it’s killing them, with or without these ‘demons.’”
“Wrong or not,” Jaheira’s voice cut in, earning a jump out of their shoulders, “remember that these miners are here of their own free will. Let us focus on the evil lurking through the caves and put a stop to the abductions before we try any liberation for the workers. Shall we?”
“Yes ma’am…” both Markra and Imoen sighed simultaneously. Though they shared a small smile when they heard each other’s voices.
A scream suddenly erupted from the darkness, and the party halted once again. A man’s voice, coarse and gravelly like the other miners, along with the frantic thud of fast footsteps. As it drew closer, they saw the pale silhouette of a miner running toward them. But he couldn’t run very far or very fast, not with the tar in his lungs and the ache in his limbs from working all day. Once he noticed the band of adventurers, he slowed to a stop and heaved for breath.
“H-Help!” he cried again. “They’re coming—the yipping demons, they’re everywhere! Save me!”
“Calm down,” Jaheira began cautiously. “What demons? Where are they?”
Something skittered in the dark. The rest of his party didn’t seem to notice, but Markra heard it. And a higher-pitched growling, like a small dog’s. At first he reached for the bow on his back, but he didn’t trust his own aim in the low light.
The miner looked over his shoulder, and pointed a trembling finger into the darkness. “Th-there! They’re already here! They—”
He never finished. A hiss bit the air before the miner choked, staggered, and fell to the ground with an arrow in his back.
The swarming yips grew louder and bounced off the walls as everyone else drew their weapons. More arrows flew at them, but as Khalid led the charge, most of them hit his shield and harmlessly dropped to the ground. The party ran straight into the dark, and once they were close enough, Markra finally saw them: small, almost dog-like heads atop scaly, rust-colored bodies, tails wagging and tongues lulling excitedly. Three of them, all using bows, but as the adventuring party came upon them, the monsters quickly put their ranged weapons away and drew short swords from their waists.
Dangerous from afar, but puny up-close. Each “demon” stood barely three feet tall. Ivory horns grew out of their heads, but they were small and curled, more ornamental than deadly. They dressed in cheap leather armor and went without helmets. Markra thought it strange that creatures with scales for skin would even need extra protection, but he soon saw why.
One of them tried to gnaw through Jaheira’s quarterstaff as it swung its shortsword wildly at her torso. With a sharp shove, Jaheira threw the beast off of her. It went flying against the wall, and a crack echoed off the cavern as it slumped to the ground, limp and lifeless. Khalid bashed his shield into another’s head; the runt staggered, dazed, just before Khalid slashed his sword across its chest. It gave a pained whine as it fell, like a dying dog.
The last leaped for Markra, and although it did get a cut on his sleeve thanks to its bold charge, it could not compare with Markra’s magical blade. One flash of steel, and Markra ran his sword through the critter’s gut. Ice grew like crystal from the wound, and when Markra pulled it out, the so-called demon had become a frozen corpse.
Markra sighed as he sheathed his sword. “Is everyone all right?”
His party answered him with a half-dozen different ways of saying “yes.” Khalid had knelt beside the fallen miner, checking his pulse, but he soon stood up again with the grim shake of his head. Jaheira hunched beside one of the dead monsters, analyzing it in the dark. The others crept closer once they realized it was safe to approach, which Montaron took as the chance to scan bodies for loot.
“What are they, Auntie?” Imoen asked Jaheira.
“Kobolds,” the druid answered. “I had suspected that they were the cause of all this, and although there are only three here, it seems my thoughts were not misplaced.”
“They weren’t very strong,” Markra began, brow furrowing. “You really think they’re the ones behind the disappearances?”
Montaron scoffed as he jiggled a small pouch of coins found off a corpse and added them to his purse. “Ye do best not to underestimate the lil’ ones, elf-boy. Kobolds be like insects—puny an’ weak when all by their lonesome, but smart an’ deadly in a swarm.” He flashed Markra a toothy grin. “An’ then there’s me, smart an’ deadly all on me own.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone, my sworn compatriot?” Xzar asked in an unusually smooth tone.
“Ya mean the moronic shadow followin’ me every move an’ step?” Montaron rolled his eyes. “Nay, I dun know how I could possibly forget him.”
Anyone else might have returned Montaron’s jab with a fist of their own, but instead, Xzar’s eyelashes fluttered and he clasped his hands to his cheek like a swooning maiden. “Aw, Monty! You always say the sweetest things to me!”
Montaron grumbled some curses under his breath.
“Kobolds do their best in ambushes,” Jaheira explained as she stood to her feet once more. “If they truly are behind the troubles of the mine, we’ll likely find plenty more before our search is done. Stay cautious, all of you. Khalid, lead the way please?”
Her husband nodded and raised his shield as he walked. The rest of the party followed behind, their most squishy members in the back with Jaheira and Markra sharing the front.
After a long while, Jaheira put her arm before Markra’s path, urging him to stop.
“What is it?” Markra whispered. But she quietly hushed him with a finger on her mouth. Her eyes scanned the darkness ahead as her head leaned in. She sniffed the air a few times, nose twitching like a bloodhound’s, before she drew her quarterstaff from her back and gripped it in both hands.
“Proceed with caution,” Jaheira murmured. “There is a stench of death close by.”
Under the dust and the moist air, it was a wonder Jaheira even detected this so-called stench of death. But as they sneaked through the tunnels, Markra began to smell it too. Rot and decay, an almost sweet air that churned his stomach upside-down. It was faint at first, but grew more pungent the closer they edged toward the source. He and Imoen started covering their noses and mouths, but their hands did little to shield them.
A lone, orange torch on the wall dimly lit the yawning cavern, and a lumpy form lying still in the corner. Dressed in the tatters of what used to be a Nashkel soldier’s uniform, in a dried up puddle of his own blood, a stray longsword just inches from his desperate, blackened fingers—the corpse of what used to be a miner guard. Markra gazed, fixated, as Jaheira moved to check the body. Khalid followed her close behind and took the flickering torch from the wall.
“G-Gods…” Khalid breathed. As he raised the torch high above his head and illuminated the whole cave, they saw more of them. Dozens of bodies, armored and not, littered the tunnel floor. More than half had forests of arrow fletching sticking out of their backs, while others had sword wounds slashed across their stomachs. Somewhere in the eerie quiet, water dripped from the ceiling and plopped into a pool, but even as he heard it, Markra felt it was too far away from the slaughter before him.
“They’ve been dead for about two days, at least,” Jaheira told them, her voice just above a whisper. “I think we’ve found our missing miners, and their protectors.”
“H-Horrible…” Imoen gasped behind her hands as she stared, unblinking, into the remains. “W-Wasn’t there anyone who coulda checked on them down here? Why didn’t anyone find ‘em?”
“What makes ye think they hadn’t?” Montaron asked with a scoff in his voice. “Maybe they turned tail an’ ran before whatever killed them sorry bloats came outta hidin’ and killed them too.”
The words of the earlier miners echoed in the back of Markra’s head. The story of Ruffie and the demons who’d nearly killed him one night in the depths of the mines. “He woulda died if not for the guards that came running. Course, them guards are dead now.”
Jaheira began to murmur her prayers to Silvanus as Khalid ventured down the tunnel. He stopped in the mouth of a four-way intersection, the light of his torch casting its warmth on the walls.
“J-Jaheira, everyone!” he called back to them. “I-I think you all had b-b-better see this…”
Past the skirmish remains, the party joined Khalid in gazing down the crossroad. Along with the way they’d come, two of the paths were dimly lit with torches that glowed unseen around the corners. Only the right path was lost in shadow, but thanks to Khalid’s light, they saw what made the half-elf so skittish. Another pair of bodies, a good space between each, just lying in the middle of the tunnel as though they’d been placed. As Khalid raised the torch a little higher, Markra thought he saw a third body down the way.
“It’s like a trail of breadcrumbs…” Imoen muttered.
“Aye, and with a mousetrap waitin’ for us at the end,” Montaron scowled. “I dun like this at all.”
“Nor do I,” Jaheira agreed with a slight nod, “but we’ve little choice. Despite the evidence of a battle, we’ve yet to find any kobold corpses among the dead. My hunch is…they want to lure anyone who might investigate these deaths and ambush them when least expected.”
“That’s…kinda complex for kobolds, isn’t it?” Markra asked.
The druid shrugged. “Complex, but not outside the realm of possibility. Step lightly, and watch your backs.”
Hands poised to draw steel, they sneaked down the dark pathway. Imoen and Montaron clung to the walls just outside of Khalid’s light, blending into the shadows. Markra tried his luck at tip-toeing, but his every twitch of movement made a small sound. Slick metal sheets folding over each other, steel shoes against the rock ground, even his helmet made noise as it bobbed slightly on his head. Between him and Khalid, Markra felt like a walking talking tin can, but at least his armor would protect him better than leather. He hoped, anyway.
Under the soft clanks of his footsteps, Markra heard it. A faint yipping noise almost like laughter. He stopped in his tracks and quietly shushed the others, but before they could ask what was wrong, they heard it too. With a nod from Jaheira, Imoen and Montaron crept around the corner, stepped over yet another abandoned corpse, and peered down the cavern. Imoen wagged her finger at the others, urging them to carefully follow her. Though they kept Khalid in the back, hoping whatever lay up ahead wouldn’t notice the light of their torch.
Fire licked the cavern wall on a sconce, illuminating the pair of cackling kobolds down the way. One of them kicked the head of a fallen guard, and yelped when the metal stubbed its toe. The other laughed as it crawled atop a mine cart full of rocks. Wagging its tail like an excited puppy, the kobold pulled out a vial of dark liquid from its jacket, shook it once, then poured its contents into the cart. Markra swore he heard a hissing noise as the fluid met stone.
“What are they doing?” Markra whispered.
“I have no idea,” Jaheira answered, and took one cautious step around them. “Come, we must get closer.”
But they were so tightly knit, so pressed together as each of them edged for a better look. As Jaheira moved out of her spot, she bumped into Imoen, and the young trickster stumbled forward. Arms out, she caught herself before she hit the floor altogether, but it was enough. The kobolds’ jackal-like ears twitched as they turned to stare right at their party, and yowled.
Their friends answered them. A flurry of kobolds, a good dozen, came crawling out of holes in the walls that had been nearly invisible before in the darkness. The torchlight glinted off of steel as they pulled many shortswords from their sheaths and waved them in the air.
Imoen clambered to her feet as Jaheira swore under her breath, and began chanting a magic spell. A green glow lit her hands as Khalid stood before her with his shield up, bashing in the head of an especially fast kobold. Markra drew his magical sword as another beastie charged toward him, but before their steel could connect, Jaheira’s shout bounced through the tunnel:
“Praeses. Alia. Fero!”
It was the same spell she’d used before, back when they’d encountered the hobgoblin bandits. Only this time, in such close quarters, the magic vines were more dangerous than helpful. The tendrils ensnared many of the swarming kobolds, true, but not without snagging a few of Markra’s adventurous band as well. Right as Markra cut down the kobold before him, the vines writhed and coiled around his limbs. He tried to pry and jerk himself free, but whenever he loosened a vine, another would slither in and take its place.
Glancing around, he saw Montaron struggling just as he did, along with Khalid and Imoen. The kobolds, on the other hand, were slippery and small, and while some had been trapped, many more roamed free. Imoen was caught in a duel with one, both just outside of each other’s reach as the vines kept them apart. Khalid had two on his either side, sheepishly blocking one with his shield and slashing at the other with his longsword. Jaheira used her quarterstaff to bat them off her husband, but not without her own vines trying to yank it from her hands.
Xzar was the only true free one. He stood behind the rest of his companions as if they were a shield, nibbling on his fingernails as though it could help hide the crooked smile underneath. Just watching him stand by while the rest of them fought for survival made Markra’s blood boil.
“Xzar!” he shouted as he took another whack at a kobold. Of course, Markra’s swing didn’t stretch very far with the vines pulling him down. “Don’t just stand there, do something!” His blade glowed a faint blue as the ice crystalized along its edge. Maybe if he froze the plants, they’d shatter. But the kobold got a lucky cut into his arm, and the elf missed, wincing.
The manic necromancer didn’t even appear to hear him, still chuckling to himself as he gnawed his fingers. Finally, he waved at the kobolds like he was waving them goodbye. Markra had half a mind to rip the mage’s hair out, until he noticed the white sparks of magic in his hands.
“Nighty-night, little ones!” Xzar chided, before his fingers danced before his eyes and unleashed an orb of magic into the mass of kobolds. The orb quickly disappeared in a shower of glittery dust, and didn’t seem to do anything at first…until almost every kobold slowly closed its eyes, dropped its weapon, and slumped to the ground. Just as quickly as it had come, the kobold ambush had been reduced to a snoring heap, which Jaheira’s vines greedily took within their grasp and released the adventurers.
After several long minutes, the vines disappeared and slunk away, but the kobolds didn’t wake up. A couple that had stayed awake yelped and yipped for help, but Montaron quickly silenced them with a pair of blows to the stomach.
Heaving for breath, everyone else struggled to collect themselves.
“Is everyone all right?” Jaheira asked. A quick scan around the room answered her without the party needing to say so. Scratches and bruises, from both the kobolds and the vines, but nothing that needed immediate medical attention. She nodded. “Good… I misjudged the radius of my own spell, in this enclosed space… For that, I am sorry.”
“Aw, that’s okay, Aunty,” Imoen reassured her, ever the optimist. “We all mess up sometimes. It coulda been a lot worse.”
“Yeah,” Markra agreed, though he did nothing to hide the scowl on his face. To think, Jaheira was supposed to be the most seasoned of them all. “Just try to warn us next time.”
She nodded with the bow of her head. Good, Markra thought, at least she looks ashamed of herself. But he couldn’t stay mad for too long, not while watching Khalid put a hand on his wife’s shoulder and rub her back.
“W-We must do something about them,” Khalid pointed out, glancing nervously at the kobolds sleeping at his feet, “b-before they w-wake up…”
“Aye,” Montaron agreed, and tilted his blade just enough so it caught the flicker of light. “Leave that to me.”
Markra averted his eyes as the halfling proceeded to slit the throats of every sleeping kobold. He hadn’t any reason or logic to protest; he knew as well as the rest of them that the moment the midget banshees woke up, they’d attack again. Or worse, flee back to their nest and tell whoever’s leading them about their whereabouts. Still, he didn’t care to dwell on such a grisly act, killing someone in their sleep. Without his friends to protect him, he might have suffered the very same fate back at the Arm.
Instead, he wandered a little further down the tunnel where they’d first spotted the two kobolds atop the mine cart. That pair had either fallen asleep with their buddies after they’d joined the fight, or scampered off when things got ugly. But they had left the vials behind: one empty and one full, though the latter had a crack in its bottle where its owner had likely dropped it.
As Markra reached down to pick them up, Imoen appeared at his side and gazed over his shoulder. He nearly flinched when she brushed his injured arm.
“What’d ya think it is?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Markra answered. The liquid was murky, an inky gray that swirled when he shook the vial. He peered into the other bottle instead, and although this one had been emptied, the faint remnants of a rancid smell made him gag. “Nothing good…”
“Allow me,” came Xzar’s voice. He’d snuck up on him too, his lips just inches from Markra’s long ear. He wordlessly handed Xzar the vials and took a step back, if only to reestablish his own personal space.
Xzar squinted at the bottles for a better look, even though they were so close to his face, he shouldn’t have needed to. He gazed over the full vial in every angle possible before he finally pulled out the cork and took a long whiff. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as he choked for breath, but only for a moment before he gazed back at the vial, just as fiercely curious as before. Raising it high above his head, Xzar let one dark drop fall on his tongue. Though it only stayed for a couple seconds before he promptly spat it back out, plugged the vial back up, and handed it back to Markra.
“This…” he began, and took a moment to lick his own hand, as if that could get the taste off. “Th-This… Is a corrosive poison made especially to corrupt metal before it’s been processed.”
“So the kobolds are not only behind the disappearing miners,” Markra guessed, “but they’re also the ones poisoning the mine?”
“Now that…” Jaheira cut in as the rest of their party joined the discussion, “…is something too complex for kobolds.”
“A-And it makes little sense,” Khalid agreed. “The kobolds d-don’t have any reason to p-p-poison the mine. A-All that does is h-h-hurt their weapons too.”
“Sounds to me like there’s more to these lil’ vermin than meets the eye…” Montaron pondered as he kicked the head of a kobold corpse. “Like someone’s leadin’ ‘em, and that ‘someone’ ain’t just another kobold.”
“But who would gain from poisoning the region’s iron…?” Jaheira asked, eyes narrow as she rested her chin on her fist. “Amn, in preparation for war? Or perhaps… A Zhentarim scheme, set to ruin the Gate’s relationship with them?”
“Ha!” Xzar spat with the wave of his hands. “It wouldn’t be the Zhentarim!” Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered in Markra’s ear. “They have enough family problems as it is.”
If there was a joke somewhere in the mage’s words, Markra missed it. But what he took for mad babbling, Jaheira took very differently. She shot him an accusatory glare, reaching for her quarterstaff.
“You’re awfully quick to defend them, Xzar,” she said. “Care to enlighten why?”
“Well, it makes sense,” Montaron spoke up. He stepped between Jaheira and Xzar with a defiant glare of his own. “The Zhentarim’s a mercenary organization with thousands o’ members. A lotta them members rely on the Black Network to get their gear, and where do ya think they get that gear, eh? This here mine’s just one o’ them places. What bloody idiot among the Zhents would think poisonin’ their own resources was a good idea?”
All was quiet for a few, strenuous minutes as the druid gazed down the halfling rogue. “I don’t believe either of you have ever said what your reasons were for visiting the Nashkel Mines.”
“Same goes fer you, pretty half-elf,” Montaron seethed. “What interest do you an’ that half-wit husband o’ yours have in the Iron Crisis?”
Xzar shrieked with his hands over his mouth as Jaheira brandished her quarterstaff. A fire had blazed to life in her usually-calm eyes, a rage that shook even left Imoen petrified in her spot. Montaron raised his shortsword, but before the two could come to blows, Markra stepped between them with a shout and spread his arms to keep them apart.
“Hey! HEY!” he screamed, loud enough that his voice echoed down the tunnels. Everyone froze, all eyes falling on him. “Does any of this really matter right now? No matter what our reasons for being here, we’re stuck with each other now, and we’re not gonna find any answers—or get out alive—if we start turning on each other! So whatever problem you guys have with each other, it stops. Right here, right now, and the first one to break their word gets to answer to my sword. Is that clear?”
Silence. A long, uncomfortable, and almost awe-struck silence screamed back at him. Markra’s head pounded like it’d grown a heart of its own, throbbing so loudly he feared the others could hear it. It wasn’t as if Jaheira’s suspicions were unfounded; Xzar and Montaron made a shady couple, and if they truly did have dealings with the cutthroat Zhentarim, that made them all the more dangerous. In another time, under different circumstances, he might have stood with Jaheira instead of against her.
But I’ll be damned if I let our so-called leader strike down one of our own members.
At last, Khalid laid a hand atop his wife’s shoulder. “He’s right, my love. Let it go for now.” And then, only then, did Jaheira finally lower her weapon. Although she didn’t take her stunned eyes off of Markra the whole time. Once Montaron was sure he wasn’t about to be clobbered, he also sheathed his sword and stalked away, shooting murder at Xzar as he brushed past him.
“Let’s… Let us move on, then,” Jaheira concluded, trying to save her pride, but her words lacked the commanding air behind them. She didn’t even look at Markra as she strode past, gazing straight in front of her. But though Khalid followed after her like a dutiful shadow, he did give him a thankful nod, the edges of a soft smile tugging his lips.
Markra let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stepped up and yelled at someone like that before. A small part of him cursed his own efforts, worried for any nearby kobolds that undoubtedly would’ve heard him, but a much larger part felt exhausted, yet invigorated. Nervous, yet empowered. For even though it’d only lasted a minute, his words had weight. His feelings mattered. And they hadn’t just been brushed aside, not even by someone both older and wiser than him.
If only for a minute, he was the one in charge.
Imoen touched his arm, pulling Markra from his thoughts. She gave a shy smile as he looked at her. “That was really brave, Markra.”
She didn’t even use his nickname. She really was serious. Markra shrugged, trying to keep his ego in check.
“Someone had to say it,” he said.
“Yeah, but you were faster than any of us.” A guilty look set into her features. “By the time I’d figured out what to do, it woulda been over. But you… You were cool, ya know? All in-your-face and stuff.” Then she grinned. “And that last part, ‘break your word, and meet my sword!’ Yikes! You were almost scary there!”
Cool. Scary. The longer she went on, Markra knew that keeping his ego small was going to get increasingly difficult. Thinking it best to cut her off now, Markra gave a shy laugh and clamped his hand on her shoulder.
“Thanks,” he said. “Now c’mon, let’s catch up with the others.”
And one of these days I'm gonna marathon your story and get all caught up. Just haven't had the time lately.
Chapter 11
Upon crossing into the third level, the tunnels had emptied. Passages grew narrower, and many of their branches led to dead ends. Those who’d been carving out this layer of the mines must have abandoned their work and fled to the upper floors. Or been killed and eaten by the kobold mobs. Whichever came first.
The party entered upon another three-way dimly lit with dying torches. Khalid reignited the flames on the walls with the help of his own torch as they went along, while the others discussed which possible direction they could take.
“This way lacks the rails that the other two have,” Jaheira realized, pointing to their left. “Kobolds won’t have the resources or the skill to match what the miners have accomplished above.”
“So the further we get from the actual mines, the closer we’ll get to the kobold’s lair?” Markra guessed, and at her nod, he began walking down the path she’d chosen. “All right, let’s go.”
Though before he could take as much as five steps, Imoen’s voice bounced off the walls.
“WAIT!” she exclaimed with her arms reaching after him. “Hold it right there, Marky! Don’t you take another step! Stand like yer life depends on it!”
Markra froze mid-step, one leg in the air as his arms rose high above his head, as if he was a captured criminal with a hundred arrows trained on him. He wobbled a moment, but luckily for him, his elven blood granted him excellent balance. He dared not even blink as Imoen ran to his side, crouched, and began messing with something on the ground.
“What?” Markra asked. “Imoen, what is it?”
“Just gimme one second…” she mumbled back. Squinting his eyes, Markra saw what she’d found: a wire, so razor thin and low to the ground that he never would have noticed it in the dark. Imoen scanned the shadows along the corridor, traced an unseen path until her eyes fell upon one of the support beams that helped reinforce the cavern. Then she wrapped her fingers around the wire, poised to yank it.
“Okay, everyone stand back! Marky, you duck on the count of three. Ready? One… Two… Three!”
She tugged the wire so it snapped, and Markra did as she said. Something fast and small whizzed over his head, hissing through the air, and clinked against the wall before it fell to the ground. Imoen rose from her stoop and dusted herself off, which Markra took as a sign that it was safe for him to stand on both feet again.
“Alrightie! We’re clear!” she announced to the rest of the party, which returned in-kind with a long sigh of relief as they gathered around the fallen object. As Markra and Imoen rejoined their comrades, they watched Montaron pick up the culprit: a small throwing knife, likely laced in poison.
“You got good eyes there, girlie,” he told Imoen with a toothy grin. “I was wonderin’ if someone else woulda noticed a trap lyin’ in our midst. Well done.”
Imoen scratched the back of her head as she blushed, but Markra didn’t miss the true meaning hidden in Montaron’s praise.
“Wait a minute,” he snapped. “You knew there was a trap there all along, and you were just gonna let me step on it!?”
Montaron shrugged. “Woulda got a laugh outta me if ye had. Not my fault yer as blind as an ooze, or as brainless.”
“Th-That trap could have killed him,” Khalid protested. Under the blaze of his torch, shadows had been carved into the contours of his face. And paired with a rare, scathing glare aimed at Montaron, Khalid actually looked scary*. “D-Did you think of th-that, when you were l-laughing at him in your h-head?”
Hardly one to be intimidated, Montaron simply rolled his eyes. “Yer bein’ dramatic. He wouldn’t have died. That is what yer wife be here for, ain’t it?”
But before Khalid could stammer together a comeback, Xzar gasped, collapsed on his knees, and threw his arm around his partner the way a child might a large dog. “Monty, Monty, quiet please! Say you’re sorry to the big scary half-wit. Go on!” Then he gazed back up at Khalid and Jaheira, eyes glittering with the oncoming of fake tears. “He’s usually not like this, sir, really he’s not! I trained him so well! He would never lay a scratch on dear Markra’s beautiful face! Isn’t that right, Monty?”
“Nay,” Montaron growled as he struggled to push Xzar off of him, “but I can think of a less pretty face I be inclined to hurtin’…!”
“You can make up for your lapse in judgment by scouting the tunnels with Imoen,” Jaheira ordered as she put a hand on Khalid, much in the same way he had done for her to ease her spirits. “If we’ve found one trap, we’ll likely find plenty more the further we go in. We’ll be counting on both of you to lead us in the right direction. Understand?”
Imoen gave a mock salute with a yip, excited to have a job of her own. Montaron took longer as he shoved Xzar on his butt, but after dusting himself off a little, he nodded. From then on, the party reassembled its formation: Montaron and Imoen leading the charge, Markra protecting Xzar in the middle, while Jaheira and Khalid guarded the rear. Khalid handed the torch off to Markra, so both ends of the group had light.
As they wandered deeper in, they lost all light but their own. Cold torches no longer lined the walls, the rails had all but disappeared, and the only sign of any mining activity were a few empty crates and broken tools abandoned on the ground. Markra wrinkled his nose as a new smell wafted in—the faint stench of rotten eggs. He’d read in a book long ago that deep parts of the earth, where lava flowed through the cracks, could smell like that. And not for the first time, he worried just how far the Nashkel miners had dug.
Just when Markra thought they’d never see light again in these gods-forsaken caverns, Montaron held up his hand, and the party came to a stop. The tunnel opened to a chasm, an orange glow splashed against the walls like fire. The foul odor had grown stronger, making Markra’s eyes itch, along with a breeze of hot air that carried it. He heard popping and hissing from below the chasm, but he dared not find out what it was. A natural stone bridge connected their end of the tunnel to the opposite side, across the hot crack in the earth.
“Whoa…” Imoen whispered as she peered over the edge, and everyone else scrunched up behind her. Far to the bottom, a river of magma oozed through the chasm. “What is this place?”
“A vein of Mother Earth,” Jaheira explained, and took out her branch of mistletoe to kiss it. “I believe we’ve found the end of the mines.”
“But still no kobolds,” Markra argued. “Which means… Their lair must be somewhere beyond that bridge. Is it safe to cross?”
“At a glance,” Montaron answered, but he shook his head. “But nay, they have traps linin’ it. Or they better, if they’re smart lil’ bastards.” He wagged his finger over his shoulder as he steadily approached the bridge. “C’mon, girlie. Best we have a pair o’ eyes to look this thing over.”
“Oh! Right!” Imoen hopped to her feet and followed after him, while everyone else kept their distance, lest be struck by any unsuspecting spikes in the ceiling or fall into the pit below.
Montaron crouched right at the foot of the bridge and went to work, while muttering to Imoen under his breath. The cavern was open enough for Markra to hear, with the help of his enhanced hearing. “There be another just past this one,” the halfling told her. “See it?”
“Uh-huh,” Imoen replied. “Trip-wires on a tiny bridge like this, huh? I wonder how they got it all rigged up?”
“The same way they burrow in the dirt and poison a bunch o’ ore: carefully.” Something clicked in the cavern, followed by the soft whirl of a knife slicing over their heads and falling into the lava. The molten rock hissed below as it consumed the steel. “All right, next one.”
They inched closer, and stopped again in the middle of the bridge.
That’s when Markra saw them. A pair of lights that suddenly burst to life in the shadows across the bridge. Just before a hiss bit the air, and two arrows—heads lit with fire—flew out of the darkness. They missed Montaron entirely thanks to his height, but both found a home in Imoen before she even had the chance to duck.
The others gasped beside him, but Markra didn’t hear them.
“Imoen!!” His scream echoed off the walls as he tossed their torch to the ground and ran. Eyes all on her, watching as she wavered almost off the bridge and collapsed onto the ground. Montaron stopped whatever he was doing and pulled out his sling, chucking rocks into the dark as he ducked another volley of arrows. Khalid raised his shield as he took the lead and drew his sword. Xzar hid behind him as he pulled out his own sling, while Markra and Jaheira stooped to the wounded Imoen.
Two arrow shafts stuck out of her, one in the stomach and one in her shoulder. Holes in her clothes had burned around the edges where the flames had been, along with her skin. Blood oozed out of both shafts, dark spots seeping through her clothes. Markra cradled her head in his arms and gently said her name, trying to grasp her attention. But although she was conscious, her eyes gazed past him and into the low ceiling above, wide and blinded by shock.
“I-Imoen…!” Markra stammered. Her face was already so pale. “Jaheira, please—”
“I know,” the druid answered, calm as she rifled through her pack. She pulled out a blue healing potion and handed it to him. “Quick, give her this first.”
Markra nodded and took it as more arrows collided with Khalid’s shield. He heard the shouting now, little demon yips of angry kobolds on the other side of the bridge. So, this had been an ambush; they’d been hiding in the dark, simply waiting for one of their group to edge too close.
If only I hadn’t held back, he thought. If only I’d stayed closer to her, I could’ve noticed.
Markra knew he should be helping Khalid fend them off; he was a fighter, not a healer. But gods damn him, he wouldn’t dare leave Imoen now.
“Open your mouth, Imoen,” he urged her as he propped her head up and yanked out the vial’s cork with his teeth. “C’mon, you have to drink this. Come on, Imoen…!” Forcing her lips open with his thumb, he tipped the whole vial over, only to watch its blue streams spill out of the edges of her mouth. What little did she did swallow she choked on, weakly coughing for breath.
“I have to pull out the arrowheads,” Jaheira told him. “Hold her down, Markra. Ready?”
A faint light began to glow around the holes in her body, signs that the potion was working. But it would all be for nothing if the arrowheads lodged inside gave her an infection. Markra nodded and squeezed Imoen’s shoulder. She loosed an agonized scream as Jaheira ripped out the arrow in her stomach, and placed both hands on the wound.
“Vita. Mortis. Ca—”
Just as the light shined between her fingers, a stray arrow struck her arm. Jaheira bit off the rest of her incantation with a yelp. That arrow hadn’t come from the south, where Montaron and Khalid were fighting the ambush. No, this one was from the north.
Xzar let out a high-pitched screech, and Markra looked up. The mad necromancer pointed down the north end of the bridge, back where they’d come, and barely dodged another arrow. A good half-dozen more kobolds poured out of the tunnels and gathered at the end of the bridge. Two with bows, and the rest waving shortswords in the air. Xzar bolted for Markra and Jaheira, and crumpled behind them as if they were his shield.
“Damn it!” Jaheira shouted. “Khalid! There are more of them!”
Khalid glanced over his shoulder as he slashed one of the archers with his sword, and raised his shield to the other. Montaron struck the second archer in the head with an especially large stone, but they were no longer alone. Three more kobolds hopped out of the darkness and charged at the pair like rabid dogs, tongues lapping and all.
With their best fighters preoccupied, Imoen wounded, and kobolds surrounding them on every side, it was only a matter of time before they were overrun. Even Khalid and Markra could not handle those numbers by themselves. Jaheira cursed again as her fingers were enveloped in another magical glow. But this time, instead of the soft blue of healing magic, it was a vengeful green.
“Keep pressure on her wound,” she told Markra, just before she removed her hands from Imoen’s wound. Markra scrambled to replace her hands with his as the druid stood, a bright green orb floating between her palms. “Praeses. Alia. Fero!”
Chunks of rock broke off the edge of the tunnel as the vines erupted from the cracks and writhed at the kobolds. Swirling, angry tendrils that snaked around tiny limbs until they snapped, dragged the puny mongrels to the ground like a many-tentacled monster found only in nightmares. Jaheira had kept her head even as Imoen lay dying in her lap, but Markra saw it now clearly in her spell—all of her fury thrown at the kobold mob, for her wounded comrade.
“M-Mar-ky…”
He turned back. Imoen was finally looking at him, as if noticing him for the first time. Relief washed over him, but it couldn’t stay—blood began to spill out of her lips as it gathered in her throat, and her breath was short, every syllable a labor. Never before had he seen Imoen so weak. So frail, so sick, so bone-chillingly close to death.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he assured her. “I’m here, I’m right here.”
“I-I…feel so c-cold…”
Markra’s fingers curled as her warm blood seeped through the cracks. Damn it all, he swore silently, it still hasn’t closed up enough, and there’s still that shaft in her shoulder! He shook his head, heart pounding in his throat.
“No, don’t say that,” he snapped, harsher than he wanted. “You’re gonna be just fine, you hear me? Jaheira will heal you up, you’ll see—”
Though even as he said that, his eyes darted everywhere around her frantically. There had to be something else he could do. He glanced at his backpack, at the cowardly Xzar nibbling on his fingers behind Khalid, at Montaron chucking more rocks as he clutched a wound on his side, at Jaheira focusing all her attention into her spell, ensuring that not a single kobold slipped away. He knew he had another healing potion in his pack, but could Imoen even drink it, after what happened the first time? And he’d have to remove a hand to reach it, which meant more loss of blood…
“H-Hey… M-Marky…” Imoen croaked again, cutting him off. Even as she teetered on the edge, a ghost of a smile graced her pale lips. “Could… C-Could ya tell me a s-story…? Like… We were back in… Candlekeep?”
Markra forced a smile of his own, tears pricking his eyes. “I can tell you a story when you’re better. When this is all over—”
“Meanie-head…” Imoen coughed, another dribble of blood trickling out of her mouth. “Puffguts would always…tell me a story…”
His smile quickly faded as her eyes drooped. He tried to shake her awake with his leg, propped under her head as a human pillow, but she didn’t budge. “Imoen, no. Don’t fall asleep, just stay with me—stay with me, Imoen! Imoen!!”
Somewhere far away, Khalid and Montaron had switched sides and began attacking the kobolds trapped in Jaheira’s vines. Xzar threw badly-aimed rocks out of his sling while the other two charged in, swords blazing. Jaheira fell to her knees as she struggle for breath, no doubt exhausted from concentrating for so long. But none of it meant a thing. Imoen’s eyes had closed, her breath too weak for even a whimper. All color faded from her cheeks. The dark circles in her clothes were soaked in blood.
Behind his eyes, Markra watched as Gorion stood his ground between him and their armored attacker. Watched as he flung every spell he had at him, and it still wasn’t enough. Saw the wry, kind smile long after he’d disappeared beyond the brush of trees.
No. Don’t die. You can’t die.
Something hot swelled inside of him. An anger, a sadness, a plea stronger than any scream could embody. A spark that sent a tremor through his body, made his tears steam on their way down, every fiber of his body aching and alive.
I can’t let someone else I love die!
It poured out of him, like a glorious flood through a dam, wild and raw and powerful. Markra’s hands blazed, almost too hot to bear, almost too blinding for him to look upon. A bright blue and white light as clear as the sky engulfed Imoen’s stomach wound. He almost pulled back, afraid, but he could feel her wound closing up beneath his fingers, her blood burning off as if it’d never been there in the first place.
He shut his eyes and focused. The arrowhead had dug deep into Imoen’s core, pierced her veins and ripped through her flesh. Toxins and acid had spilled into her blood, but once found, Markra purged them from her body. A sickness had begun feasting on her exposed innards, spreading from her stomach and into her intestines—and Markra purged that too. Every scrap of torn skin, every broken blood vessel, he slowly patched them together again. Until, at last, the hole was sewn shut and her torso like new again.
The light died instantly in Markra’s palms and he swayed, gasping for breath. For the first time he noticed the sticky layer of sweat that slid off his forehead and down the sides of his face, not just from the heat. His head spun, heart pounding fast and hard against his ribs, but he blinked away the dizziness and steadied himself with one hand on the ground.
He gazed again at Imoen. Her chest rose and fell, but her eyes remained closed. Gently, he nudged her shoulder. “I-Imoen?”
And at his voice, she took a longer breath, and her eyes squinted open. “M-Marky…?”
“Imoen!” Markra exclaimed. He forgot the arrow still lodged in her shoulder as he threw his arms around her, beaming from ear to ear. “You’re okay!!”
“Oww…” Imoen winced, already prying to get loose. “Marky, ow! I’ll be more okay once ya let go of me! What’re ya so giddy for!?”
“You were dead!” He gave her some much-needed breathing room, but that still didn’t stop him from clutching her upper arms, tight to make sure she was real. “I mean, you were gonna be dead! You took an arrow to the stomach, and Jaheira tried to heal you, but she got interrupted, and the kobolds just kept coming, so then I—”
His heart skipped a beat, and his euphoria drained out of him. “I…”
By gods, what had he done? He’d practiced magic before, the arcane arts that Gorion had taught him in his spare time, but nothing that could heal. Nothing that could bring someone back from the brink of death. And besides, he’d been wearing armor. Arcane magic-users couldn’t wear armor and cast spells at the same time.
Cast a spell. Markra realized something else, throat suddenly dry. Did I even say any words?
The rocky bridge had fallen into an eerie silence, so quiet that the only sound Markra heard was the churning magma far below them. He looked away from Imoen and gazed at the rest of his party. The battle had long finished. Khalid and Montaron stood at the north end, coated in a layer of kobold blood. Jaheira’s vines had disappeared, leaving only a collection of corpses on the ground. Xzar sat on his knees and hands, crawling shyly toward them.
Everyone was staring at him.
The silence hung over them a long while, caught in a noose. At last, Khalid cleared his throat and took a brave step toward him.
“Markra…” he carefully began, lips pursing. “You didn’t…t-tell us that you know how to use d-divine-magic.”
The elf gulped, knots coiling in his stomach, and very dearly wished he could go back in time and stop Imoen from ever getting too close to the kobold’s trap. That way, he wouldn’t have to answer. He never would’ve broken the laws of magic and gods.
“That’s just it,” he said, “I can’t.”
***
After Imoen’s brush with death, the party unanimously agreed to rest. Imoen still had that arrow in her shoulder to deal with, and neither Montaron nor Jaheira had come out of the battle unscathed. Khalid lit a small campfire out of loose wooden boards pried up from the mining rails, and boiled stew in a pot over the flames. Xzar busily looked over the loot they’d scrounged from the dead kobolds—most notably, the arrows that lit on fire when launched.
Markra ate away from everyone else, mindlessly stirring his spoon in his stew without ever taking a bite. He knew that if he tried to talk with the others, they’d just keep asking questions about his newly acquired power. The last thing he wanted right now was to delve into its mystery without sorting out the details for himself, least of all in front of Xzar and Montaron. Even when lost in his own thoughts, Markra swore he felt the necromancer’s hungry gaze on his neck, and sent a shiver down his spine.
How did I do that? he wondered as he pushed around a particularly large chunk of meat with his spoon. Divine-magic… It’s a different kind of power granted to clerics and druids from their gods. That’s how Jaheira does it. But me…
He was neither druid nor cleric, and had no god of his own to pray to at night. Not that he doubted their presence, but out of the many gods worshiped in Faerun, he never found devotion to any particular one. If he had to choose, he felt the most fondness for Oghma, god of knowledge and inspiration and the chosen deity of Candlekeep’s many scholarly monks. He’d read plenty about the Seldarine, the pantheon of elven deities, but felt no real closeness to any of them thanks to his upbringing. Markra did not think of himself as faithless, but not devout either.
Then where did this power come from? he asked for the hundredth time.
“It’s gonna get cold if ya keep stirring like that,” came Imoen’s voice as she plopped down beside him with a bowl of her own. Markra spared her a glance, pulled from his stupor.
“I know…” he sighed, and finally scooped up a chunk of potato with his spoon and took a bite. “How’s your shoulder?”
She rolled it a couple times, testing it out. “Still kinda hurts, but it’s fine now. Auntie healed it right back up.” Then she laid her bowl in her lap as she rubbed her stomach, the exact spot where the arrow had skewered her. “Not as well as ya did my tummy, though. I don’t even got a scar.”
Markra supposed he should be happy for that, but that didn’t stop his heart from sinking into the pit of his stomach. “That’s…good. For me…not knowing what I was doing…”
“Yeah, I know!” Despite his waning spirit, Imoen flashed a wide grin. “Isn’t it great? Most novices make mistakes, but you’re already better than Jaheira! Keep this up, and we’ll have another healer in our ranks, and we won’t have to put all the strain on her!”
“How can you possibly be this calm?” He shook his head in disbelief. Watching her crazy enthusiasm exasperated him. “You could have died. You should have died. And the only reason you’re still here is because I brought you back with magic!”
At last, Imoen’s shoulders slumped and her smile dipped into a hurtful sulk. “So what’re you saying? You’re not happy I’m still around?”
“Of course I’m happy!” Markra put the bowl of stew aside and pinched the bridge of his nose, propping his head up by his elbow. “But it still wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He groaned, fighting another throbbing headache between his brows. He was thinking about this too hard, yet no matter how long he shoveled through the piles of arcane knowledge instilled in him by Gorion, he found no answers. If only the old sage was here; he might have known the mysteries behind this power. But Markra knew all too well that his father was never coming back. Another bitter pang buried itself in his gut, and he wondered just how many secrets the old man had taken with him when the armored fiend cut him down.
“Hmmm…” Imoen’s lips pursed, mulling over her words. She reached for her stew again and took a few bites, allowing herself the chance to think longer, before she opened her mouth again. “To be honest, I don’t really get what the big deal is. I mean, you’ve used magic before, Marky. What’s so different this time around that’s got everyone all in a tizzy?”
“Because this was divine-magic, Imoen; I’ve only ever used arcane. They’re different.” At her blank stare, Markra heaved another sigh. “You would know this if you hadn’t skipped out on so many lessons back in Candlekeep…”
“Hey, you skipped too!”
“Not as often as you did.” That brought a small smirk to his lips, if only for a moment. “Arcane-magic is all about bending the world to the wizard’s will. He or she taps into the Weave, and manipulates its energy to do all kinds of things. Make someone stronger or faster, summon monsters, see the future or unleash a fiery explosion. Divine-magic works mostly the same way, except their kind of power comes from the gods—from the divine. That’s why there’s some spells that clerics can use that wizards can’t, and vice-versa. Like healing.”
“Okay.” Imoen’s face scrunched up as she rested her chin on her spoon. “So… I dunno, Marky. Ya don’t gotta be born with talent to use divine or arcane-magic, right? Maybe some passing god saw you were in trouble and smiled on ya, or something.”
It was the only thing that made even a sliver of sense, but Markra averted his gaze and began stirring his stew mindlessly again. “Maybe, but…” He lowered his voice, barely a whisper. “It didn’t…feel like a god…”
“What’d ya mean?”
“I mean, it didn’t feel like some outside force granting me strength.” He gulped down his nerves, even as his heart pounded in his throat. He didn’t even want to think about it, let alone say it aloud, but if he had to tell someone what was bothering him most, he’d bet everything on Imoen first.
“When… When you were shot, and I was there with you, all I could think about was how badly I didn’t want to lose you. That I had to do something, anything to save you, and if I couldn’t do that…” He shuddered as a chill ran down his spine. “Then… I felt this…warmth, I guess, rising up from within me. Next thing I knew, my hands were glowing and I was somehow healing you, and…and you were okay.”
Silence fell over them again, and Markra worried at first if the others had overheard. Not that it mattered; he would have to tell them at some point. Khalid and Jaheira were muttering to each other around the crackling campfire, while Montaron began sharpening his sword on a stone. Xzar boxed his fists over his ears as he huddled beside his partner, cursing under his breath. Either way, no one seemed to be paying any attention to him and Imoen.
“So…” she began again. “What’s it all mean?”
“I wish I knew,” Markra sighed. “I feel like a freak of nature. First the run from Candlekeep, the assassins, and now this…”
“Hey now, don’t be so hard on yerself. There’s freakier things in this world than a pretty elf usin’ whacky magic, Marky. Trust me on this one.” She patted his back with another toothy grin. “Besides… Your power saved my life. Whatever it is, if it can heal someone back from the brink like that, then it can’t be anything bad. Right?”
“I hope so…” Markra murmured. A power to save a person’s life, to heal injuries faster than any holy champion. By gods did he pray that Imoen was right, but Gorion had drilled wise words into him long ago that not all magic is as it first appears. Markra dreaded to think it could be anything else, this alien magic inside of him that hadn’t been there before. Or…had it always been there, out of sight and mind, just waiting to surface?
He lifted his hand and stared into his palm. All of the cuts and scratches, the veins and wrinkles, patterns that could tell a person’s destiny, according to some seers. He knew its every contour, its every flaw and grace. Yet he gazed at it like a stranger, as if his own hand was not his.
However this power came to be, he knew one thing for certain: this was why the armored man had come for him that night, why total strangers hunted for his life and the price on his head. If so, then he would find Gorion’s murderer. Not just for vengeance anymore, but for answers long overdue.
“M-Markra, Imoen…”
The pair turned around to see Khalid standing shyly behind them. One foot halfway in front of the other, as if unsure whether to take a step.
“J-Jaheira and I are eager to c-continue through the mines… I-If both of you a-are ready, it’s best we start t-traveling again soon, if we w-want to get to the bottom of th-this before n-n-nightfall.”
Not too keen on the idea of being thrown down a shaft thanks to a screaming Emerson, Markra nodded. “All right. I’ll finish eating here really quick, then we can head out.”
And upon saying so, Imoen started scarfing down the rest of her stew as well. Khalid gave a meek smile, though before Markra could return to his own food, the half-elf stammered his name yet again.
“M-Markra…” he said carefully. “I-I don’t mean to prod you, a-and I’m not going to a-ask. But…” He bent over slightly and touched his shoulder, gentle and kind and nothing at all like his wife. “Please know that no matter what m-may happen… Jaheira and I are your friends. Guardians. You can c-count on us for anything, tell us a-anything at all.” Then he was nervous again as he drew back his shaky hand. “Wh-When you are r-ready, of course.”
Markra wasn’t ready, and he didn’t know if he ever would be. Still, Khalid’s earnestness gave him some comfort, and earned a small, grateful smile out of him. Magical miracle he may be, at least he wasn’t alone. Khalid and Imoen and even Jaheira would accept him, faults and surprises and all. Though he couldn’t say the same about Xzar or Montaron.
I’ll tell them once we’re out of here, if it ever manifests again.
“I know,” Markra assured him. “Thanks.”
And with a satisfied nod, Khalid’s smile brightened and he returned to Jaheira’s side. Once everyone was ready, they threw rocks on the fire, packed up their gear, and ventured into the darkness once more. All in one piece, together, and determined to keep it that way.
My plot-writing brain usually is agonizingly involved with how to exchange Jaheira and Khalid for Minsc and Branwen. I know I am going to miss them - they usually exit as escorts for Volo on a Harper Mission to rendezvous with Amnish confederates - but my Charnames only wake up and really start being themselves once the married couple leaves the scene.
Also agree with @kcwise about the onset of Bhaalspawn powers. Have not really given that aspect much thought but you have correctly pin-pointed that development as a crucial emergence of the self-discovery narrative. Whether or not that theme of "awakening to Bhaalspawn-hood" is fully explored certainly sets the tone of any fan-fiction in a pretty huge way.
I really should spend the cash to purchase a really good Speech-recognition software... Going now to check out your fan.fiction link. Cheers!
*shot*
O-Or...let them live and go on their long-overdue honeymoon. Yeah, that oughtta liven up Jaheira's mood. Maybe. Um. Thank you very much. ^_^ I wanted to write that scene sooooo bad, and the praise is immensely validating.
Edit: Oh, and thank you for the favorite on ff.net too. ^_^
I was riveted the whole time while I was reading chapters 10 and 11.
Isn't it amazing how just a few voiced lines from these BG1 characters in the game give so much exposition to their personalities, that our imaginations have so much fuel to fill them out into fully developed characters? And I think your interpretation of their personalities is spot-on. I can't wait to see what you will do with the J-K/M-Z conflict. I loved your foreshadowing in chapter 10, and how you made it a chance for Markra to take control of the party for the first time, if only for a moment.
Excellent, excellent work.
*finds praise in her fanfic thread that she was not expecting*
Thank you both!!