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Knights' Attack, 2


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#1 Guest_Ananke_*

Posted 22 July 2007 - 01:09 PM

(2)

Later, Imoen could not recall what started the fight.

Back to back with Sarevok, she was casting: Pangur, sit, she had ordered the cat as if he were a dog, and now, a cone of iciness so cold that it burnt left the tips of her fingers. She had aimed it a bit wrong, and it only touched on the leftmost of the three men, the one with the crossbow.

Sarevok finished casting his own spell, and unsheathed the Chaos Edge; so, if her stone skins ran out, she would turn the ring on her finger and herself invisible. Protected from unenchanted weapons, her brother could afford to draw all the fire to himself.

In the corner of her vision, at-Taïr, crying and crowing, threw herself on the one with the crossbow; in the other corner, the one with the mace had hidden himself behind a massive, crude shield, and had been almost untouched by the spell. She must deal with him later; she turned to the man in front, the one with the sword.

She calmly accepted the blows on the stone skins; she was almost finished casting again. “—ockien!” she yelled out, and two flame arrows ran at her target, the first hitting high, between the eyes, the other low, in the groin; but the ruffian still lived. By pure reflex, she dodged the one with the mace, and started another cast.

A croak of a magic shield firing off behind her, followed by her brother’s surprised hiss. Welcome to Amn, she thought. Magic strictly regulated. So strictly, even bandits have access to it.

Pangur, the insolent creature, now a blur of rose and grey, ran up the one with the mace; she finished casting the acid arrow; the one with the sword fell to the ground; the one with the mace fell, too; at-Taïr’s triumphant cry rose to the air, because she, too, had caught her prey; behind her, someone cried, “Torm—!”

The cry ended in a surprised gargle; but, behind her, Imoen could feel Sarevok stiffen, just for a moment. He must be thinking the same as she.

What kind of bandit calls to Torm for aid?

Around them, the world started to change, twist and turn; the dirty, unkempt, pock-marked face of the man she had killed morphed into a much younger, much cleaner, clean-shaven face; the dirty, patched leather of the armour became a shining plate, and she realised what had been bothering her about the man’s moves, for he had not been moving deftly, like a man in a leather armour, but slowly, like a knight in plates; and the dirty pouch on his neck altered into a holy symbol, Tyr’s holy symbol, still, even after the knight’s death, surrounded by an aura of sanctity to her other eyes.

Behind her, Sarevok went rigid again; at-Taïr, still proud of herself, circled above their heads, crying their victory and their future doom.

Like, what ait’cha waitin’ for? Kill ’im, now!

She blinked and, slowly, shifted her gaze to the one with the mace. He, too, had changed: instead of an old, slim, ferret-like face with an eye-patch and a frame of long, greasy white hair under a rusty helmet, she was looking at a bareheaded brown-haired youth about her own age, with a square face, a strong chin, and on it, a beard cropped nearly as neatly as her brother’s. He was dressed in splint mail, and the shield he had hidden behind, now loosened from his slackened hand, was no longer crude, but very beautifully crafted, with the insignia of a ring and a crimson rhodelia on it; she had the feeling that it was a family heirloom.

Pangur was sitting on top of the boy-man’s chest, looking, in a way, as proud of himself as at-Taïr was.

“You mean he’s not dead?” she asked aloud.

Nope. Jus’ knock’d out. Will wake soon, tho’. Better kill ’im fast.

Evidently done with the topic, the cat wrinkled his nose, lifted his forepaw and started to wash himself; Imoen unfroze from her shock, darted to the youth and started to search him for weapons.

“Sarevok! Quickly! Some rope. This one’s still alive. Off,” she told Pangur. “Thank you, but off.”

Wha’? the disoriented cat protested as she whisked him off the man; but Imoen paid him little heed. Sarevok was already kneeling next to her, but instead for a rope, he was reaching to his belt for a hunting knife, that abyssal greensteel knife he had bought off a tiefling trader in Trademeet.

“Don’t! This would be—”

She hesitated: yes. That was where the argument rather failed with this particular man; and he, for a moment all smooth, glittering and hateful again, knew it perfectly as he asked, in a lightly mocking tone, “Murder, little sister? I can live with that.”

“Yes, but I can’t!” Imoen blurted. “And I was going to say, stupidity,” she lied.

Sarevok frowned. “He is the only witness, sister.”

“Yes, the only witness who can tell me who framed me into this. Any decent diviner can tell the rest! I don’t know who these people are, paladins, for all I know—”

“Yes.”

“—but I wouldn’t have attacked them if I hadn’t thought they wanted to attack me. Even if you would, brother—” She blinked. “What do you mean, yes?”

Her brother sighed, sheathed the knife, and, pulling a strap of leather from his bag and passing it to Imoen as he lifted the unconscious man so that she could bind his hands behind his back, he nodded at the man she had killed and said, “A weak chin. A bloated, porcine face with a most cretinous expression. And a distinctive helmet. He’s an Ilvastarr of Waterdeep, sister, and the last time I checked, there was only one Ilvastarr who wore Tyr’s sign in Amn. The man who shot at me was a woman, Irlana de Bergerac: a beauty such as launches a thousand ships to war, and an ace with a crossbow, I was told.”

“The one who yelled to Torm,” he said as they put the bound man back to the ground and stood up, “was Keldorn Firecam, easily recognisable by his bespoke full plate—”

They turned around. The body of an old, many-scarred knight lay there, with a large hole through the chest where the Edge of Chaos had pierced the bespoke full plate.

“—and his famed Hallowed Redeemer,” Sarevok narrated unemotionally, pointing to the knight’s sword, “which, I have been told, he was granted by his god as a boon for faithful service—so faithful, in fact, that his wife regularly paid your former guild-master a fortune in blackmail—”

“You lie!” they heard then a furious, high-pitched voice behind them. “Lady Maria would never stoop to paying blackmail!”

They turned back; the young knight had awoken and was thrashing himself on the ground wildly in an attempt to untie the tight bonds.

Sarevok crooked his head, and, clearly amused by the sight, said, “No objections to the allegations of adultery, though? Do you perhaps have firsthand evidence that they are true, squire?”

The other man, by now red-cheeked from exertion, hissed out, “Hold your lying tongue, fiend, before—”

“Before?” Sarevok inquired politely, with a pointed look and a faint trace of a growl in the back of his voice. He was still amused more than irritated; but there was no way the young knight could know this. He paled, made one more desperate move, and fell silent.

Sarevok shrugged, and continued, “The one Altair got— No. I don’t know him,” he admitted as Imoen saw the mess of raw flesh and blood into which the eagle’s talons had turned the man’s face. It was barely recognisable as a face, as it was. “Which brings us back to your captive,” he finished, looking back at the man at their feet. “Given the company he kept, and the markings on his shield, I would say that he is Firecam’s squire—”

“Anomen, son of Cor and Moirala, heir to the House Delryn,” the man finished through clenched teeth. “You will not sully my line with your words, beast.”

A brief twitch crossed Sarevok’s face. “So, here they are, sister,” he said lightly as he put out his hand for his eagle to perch on. “The Radiant Heart of Athkatla.”

-----


The man on the ground was looking at her with wide eyes; Sarevok, too, must have realised that he had finally committed the inevitable slip-up, because he looked from Delryn to his eagle to his belt where he had the knife, with a distracted kind of look, as if wondering whether he should not kill the hostage anyway, witness in possession of evidence or not. Oddly enough, Imoen herself was, perhaps, the least concerned about revealing her precedence to yet another person.

That quickly changed.

The bound man’s eyes narrowed, and, quickly, venomously, contemptuously, he started to speak, “I see, blackguard, that you found yourself an apt partner in wanton crime! A murderous harlot of your own unholy descent—”

Imoen took one look at her brother, who was not tense, and not taut, but was no longer amused, either; and, touching him briefly to get his attention, motioned him away from the bodies, and to the side.

-----


Pangur, obviously tired by the fight, barely opened a cornflower eye to check who they were before going back to sleep among their belongings.

Sarevok, picking himself a sweetmeat and trying to feed it to Altair, who was intent on refusing it, said, over the stream of insults still audible in the background, “I suspect, sister, that you know that it was not my plan for the events to turn such way; and I suspect that you had taken into consideration the possibility that they might turn this way when you agreed to our… enterprise. Nevertheless, for what it is worth, I apologise.”

“You do not apologise, brother,” Imoen reminded him calmly, patting Deneb’s back, before adding, “I know that you know better than to try to defend me, brother, but I definitely suspect that you think that what that man needs is a firm kick to the gut to silence him. That is why I thank you for refraining from beating him up.”

“He will shut up once he realises that he has no audience,” Sarevok replied; but she could still see how he uncoiled slowly.

“I know, brother.” She sighed. “Why ‘harlot,’ though? I can understand the rest, but ‘harlot’? It’s you who goes around depraving innocent boys—” Seeing the man’s amused expression, she added, “And you’re no better, you know. Did you really have to go around insulting the wife of the man you had just killed? It was low, brother.”

“It was the truth, sister.”

“It’s not the point, brother. What do we do with him next?”

“Your solution, I take it, would be to appeal to his sense of duty? A Helmite should realise the possibility that you have been misled, and that you may be an injured party.”

“He’s a Helmite? And it’s: we may, brother.”

“Yes, he is. And no, it’s: you may. You heard him: he knows my identity. They have come here to capture me, and, if they had tried it without the illusion, I would have fought equally as I did. You were correct: the illusion was not for my sake, sister. It was to make sure that you would fight on my side.”

Imoen frowned. “I was careful in the pubs. I really don’t think anyone should know that we are here. Even the cooks only knew that we were going out for a ride.”

“I think, sister,” her brother, who finally managed to convince his eagle to eat the pastry, replied, “that a wizard capable of creating an illusion which fooled me into believing that five paladins were bandits can easily afford long-distance teleportation. For all we know, the paladins were still in Athkatla this morning.”

“It can’t be Irenicus. He would simply catch us, not play with us… Your solution would be to beat out of him who told them we’re here?” She nodded in the general direction of where the string of calumnies had just stopped flowing.

Sarevok laughed lightly. “That might take some work, if it worked at all. It is harder to extract accurate information through physical means than the uninitiated think, sister. Even a Helmite might find merit and excuse for lying in such circumstance. I thought rather that if your innate charm doesn’t work on him—”

“—you might charm him, is that what you are saying?” Imoen asked desperately. She really hoped that it was not what Sarevok was saying. Messing around people’s minds… She had not even realised how much what she had been doing to Cernd had been like what Irenicus had been doing to her until the previous night’s talk. But this was closer still. This was practically the same thing. Or even exactly the same thing.

Her brother, frozen half-way through giving another piece of pastry to his bird, watched her calmly. “Yes.”

-----


They first searched the bodies, of course; but found nothing.

Delryn had rolled away slightly from where they had left him, but, restricted by his mail, he had not managed to untangle his bonds. Imoen sighed as they approached him: they had killed his superiors, tied him up, and were now expecting him to listen to her arguments. And if he did not, they would start messing around with his mind; as if that would help him understand her point.

Of course, the squire did not make it easy to understand his point, either.

“The butchers return,” he sneered at them as soon as he saw them. “Aren’t you content with yourselves yet? Have you come to finish your job?”

“No,” Imoen replied, kneeling next to the man, but away from his legs, so that he would not kick her. He was terrified; she could see it in the corners of his eyes; he was trying to hide it, but it was obvious. What was he thinking they were going to do to him?

Eyeing critically him in his splint mail, she asked, “Can you sit in that thing?”

There was no reply, so she turned to Sarevok, “Can he sit in that thing, brother? If he can, prop him up, will you? And untie him.”

Their prisoner struggled through each step of the procedure; but, once his wrists were free and circulation started to return to them, he looked ready to leap and dart off, splint mail and all; or, possibly, to leap and attack them.

“Stay, squire,” he heard as a heavy palm landed on his shoulder. “My sister would speak with you.”

“We really only want to talk to you,” Imoen added even as the man, trying to tug away from the clamp-like grasp, hissed, “Murderers and degenerates shall learn nothing from me.”

“Look,” Imoen interrupted, “Can you sort of… try not to curse us every second word? I’m not sure if you noticed, but you’re still alive?” It worked with me, she thought. Eventually. “We really only want to talk,” she repeated.

The man looked at her with pure spite. “Are you so daft, Bhaalspawn, as to think that a squire of the Order of Most Radiant Heart will be fooled into revealing intelligence?”

“This one, I believe, will not,” Sarevok said softly.

The squire grew red again. “For this, Anchev, and for what you said of the Lady Maria before, I would challenge you to a duel of honour. Had you any honour to repair the grievance with.”

“A convenient excuse,” Sarevok observed. “And, of course, Delryn, you are still a squire, which makes a duel completely impossible— Who told you I was here?”

“Jier— Nay! I am aware of what evil scheme you concoct here, Bhaalspawn. The good and the bad—”

“—and don’t let’s forget the ugly,” Sarevok interjected smoothly. The hand clamped on the shoulder travelled slowly up the collar of the man’s armour and up his neck; for a moment, it played with a stray lock of brown hair, before withdrawing suddenly. “Ugly,” Sarevok repeated, amused, before rising smoothly to his feet. “I tire of him, sister,” he announced. “If you still want to talk to that boor, please yourself as you will. I won’t. Call me when you have need of me.”

Red like a freshly boiled lobster, for once at a loss for words, their hostage seemed at once frozen to the ground and about to explode. “Don’t worry,” Imoen said good-naturedly. “He said that he did not like you. So, unless—”

She did not have a chance to finish; the man sputtered, “How dare he imply—” He shivered. “It’s revolting!”

Imoen shrugged. “How dared you, knight, imply that his sister was a whore the moment you met her? You owed him this one… Who told you we were here?”

The knight, still flummoxed, said, “Jierdan— No,” he repeated as he realised again what he was doing, “I shall not betray an innocent man!” He looked at Imoen angrily, and added, “And you, whoever you are, are no lady.”

The absurdity of this accusation halted Imoen for a moment, and gave the man an opportunity to stand up; but behind him, in the distance, she could already see Sarevok pull out a scroll; one of those scrolls they had used during the practice earlier that day. He skimmed over it briefly with a frown, and started casting a spell, without a word; how could he cast it without a word? She had not seen him—

“Stay, please,” she cried out to the Helmite, also rising to her feet. “It’s really important, see? That man, Jierdan, he’s not really innocent. He framed us into killing your people. We must find him, and if you go with us, you’ll see—”

“Yes,” the man said, reaching for his mace and shield, “I shall see the full depth of your accursed kin’s depravity as you murder a civilian, shall I not?”

“Oh, damn!” Imoen said, watching Sarevok finish his casting behind the man’s back, “Look, Delryn, or whatever you’re called, I’m really sorry! I really didn’t want it to go like this!”

The spell of dire charm hit its target; and the knight smiled broadly, with a smile which pierced her heart as accurately as any of her Father’s daggers. “Of course, my lady,” he said. “I understand. You did not mean it.”

-----


It was done; and they had, at most, a few moments to use before the spell dissolved.

“Put your weapons on the ground, and tell me Jierdan’s full name and where to find him,” she ordered.

“Lord Jierdan Firkraag, fifth Baron Windspear,” she heard as the man complied and Sarevok approached them. “His whereabouts, my lady, are not known to me.”

“Who can know them?” Sarevok inquired, picking up the mace and the shield. “Come with us.” He motioned to Imoen; they started to walk back towards the horses and the belongings.

The knight thought for a moment. “His tenants, possibly? Apart from Garren Windspear, I cannot think of a name at present, I’m afraid.”

“What did Firkraag tell you?” Imoen asked. “Precisely?”

“Again, my lady, I’m afraid that I simply don’t know,” the man said, blushing slightly. “It was his court wizard who spoke with us and arranged our transport this way, and he spoke only with Sir Keldorn.”

This time, it was Sarevok’s time to ask, “When did that happen? Halt, keep your hands behind your back and let Imoen bind them.”

“About two hours ago, Anchev.”

Apparently, even a dire charm was not enough to have the knight start calling Sarevok a lord; Imoen found it a deeply satisfying thought as she asked, “When are you expected to report?”

Sarevok started to pick their saddles and load them onto Deneb and Grasshopper; she bound the prisoner’s wrists again; he replied, smiling again, “Within two to three days, my lady.”

Imoen exchanged a look with her brother. “Where does Garren Windspear live?” she asked Delryn as they bound him to the hoop of Imoen’s saddle.

“Nearby, in a house— But if you think, wretches, that I will take you there, that you massacre a peaceful family in their sleep, know that you are in the wrong!”

Whassgoin’on? Why’s he screamin’? Can’t he see a cat wants to sleep ’ere? Oh. It’s him. D’ya like ’im?

“Altair tells me that she saw a house by the forest,” Sarevok commented calmly as Imoen picked Pangur (Yes, I do like him, Pangur. He’s a fine catch. Bit noisy, tho’. Be nice to him. I hurt him.), as he called Altair from wherever she had gone when they had left to speak with their prisoner, and as they both mounted their horses.

“Are you going with me, brother?” she asked in the same tone. Delryn was suddenly silent; good. So, he wasn’t completely thick-headed. If he were to be her only company in the days to come— She looked at her saddle, where her cat had rolled himself into sleep again, and amended: her only human company in the days to come—

“Do you forbid me to, sister?” she heard. “I would go. That man Firkraag sounds interesting. He either feuds against the paladins, or feuds against you. I would know whether, why and wherefore. And, when Irenicus was here, given what wizard Firkraag’s wizard is, they must have met.”

She nodded, and looked around. They were leaving the corpses of the paladins as they were, unburied, only tidied up a bit and arranged in a row under an outcropping which might provide some shadow until their reinforcements came.

How much time? she thought. Two to three days until the troops are expected back in Athkatla with Sarevok; then, perhaps, one or two days more… Unless Firkraag notifies the paladins earlier—

No. He won’t. The damage has been done. Now, he only needs to wait.

“Four to five days, sister,” she heard, and cast a look at the man with the eagle. The glimmer had a distinctly amused quality.

She smiled back. “Let’s hunt, brother.”




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