Sigurd answered and said, “Few may have victory by means of that same countenance of terror, for whoso comes amongst many shall one day find that no one man is by so far the mightiest of all.”
Then says Fafnir, “Such counsel I give thee, that thou take thy horse and ride away at thy speediest, for ofttimes it fails out so, that he who gets a death-wound avenges himself none the less.”
—Of the Slaying of the Worm Fafnir; translated by William Morris and Eirikr Magnusson
When the siblings were re-entering the dragon’s lair, Kriemhild came out to meet them, and Anomen came out to meet them; and both were empty-handed.
“I took the liberty to pack some of the finer gems,” the squire said, and earned himself two approving looks; Sarevok, amused, growled, “Excellent. Never be it said that I divorced my wife without providing for her.”
“Divorced?” perplexed, Anomen asked a turned back, as the wife in question, stone-faced and terrified, exchanged with her husband words in orcish about their swords: her broken and his undelivered. “Yes,” Imoen replied, instead. “The trouble may be in getting her to understand the concept. I don’t think it exists among the orcs.”
The squire’s brow wrinkled with sudden thought, and, belatedly, she wondered if the custom existed among the nobles of Athkatla; a marriage of names, land and wealth might be difficult to untie— Sarevok laughed and draped a dragon’s scarlet cloak on his ugly, unloved wife’s stiff shoulders, before hitting them genially, comrade-like, as he would her father. The mantle fit the green of the half-orc’s complexion, and reminded Imoen of druids’ fiery swords in a bygone swamp.
Then, as Kriemhild went forth on some or other errand of her own, her husband turned to Anomen Delryn again. “Well, Delryn,” he said, amused. “My wife satisfied herself with a cloak. The scales are still on the dragon. My sister—” He looked at Imoen; who shrugged, and said, “I have everything I need, brother. It’s only the jewels for me.”
Sarevok turned back to the man. “And you, squire? Have you found something to your taste here?”
As a jest, it was as weak as there might be; within a few days, the blood-smeared gold would be all Anomen’s, even if he did not know it— As a turn of phrase, it was less happy yet; for, suddenly, the man was looking at Imoen’s brother with eyes so unguarded that she must think sadly: If you two had only met when he had grown up a bit more, and you had grown down a lot more, brother; then, you two might now be friends, or even lovers; and I’d love him for a brother-in-law; if, once grown up, he would still want you—
Her brother laughed lightly; in the man’s face, because he was unable to tear his eyes off it. “You don’t, I see. Honour and glory it is, then, for you, squire.”
Then, Imoen tugged him on the sleeve. “Sarevok—”
-----
The sword was grand, sharp and beautiful; and buried so deep in the gold that, but for the sheer brilliance it was bathed in, they would not have noticed it at all.
The radiance was such that her brother must narrow his eyes and, with a firm, resolute snarl, must fight with all his strength not to look away from it as it still grew in strength as they uncovered the blade; he stayed his hand while they brushed the last pieces of treasure off it.
Now, the three of them were crouched around it, and eyeing it contemplatively.
“‘Tis—” Anomen started, wide-eyed, and promptly grew silent.
“I wonder how it got in here,” Imoen said, and thought, And he doesn’t even see the most important part.
“Some fool of a paladin attempted to slay the dragon with it, and made a gift of it to him instead,” Sarevok rejoined curtly, scratching his beard absently; then, he looked up, bright-eyed, at Anomen. “Well, Delryn? It’s yours. Take it. I do hope that you will prove wiser than the previous owner,” he added, amused; and Imoen thought that her brother must definitely be recovered already from his little dragon-riding incident.
“‘Tis a knightly sword,” Anomen put forward, reluctantly, reluctant to take his eyes off it.
“I’m sure that you will soon find someone to give it to you properly,” Imoen assured him. “When you’re made a knight.”
“Dubbed a knight,” her brother corrected lazily, looking away from the radiance. “Though, if you want an accolade, squire, my sister can give you one. Beware, though: I’m still tender after the one she conferred on me.”
“Brother,” Imoen warned him, watching the procession of feelings on Anomen’s face. He wanted the blade; he did not want to covet it; ‘twas a knightly blade, and he should accept it from his master’s hands; but his master was dead; and—
The one admonished sighed imperceptibly, slid across a floor of gold, circled a squire with his arm, struck him lightly on a shoulder, and growled softly into his ear, “Be thou a knight— If thou willst, squire,” he added when, at last, an intimately familiar, utterly irate and righteously indignant redness of cheeks superseded the squire’s surprise at the sacrilege. “My sister has the right of it, Delryn; if you will not claim it, wrap it, and present it to your superiors; and they will return it to you, on the midday after your night of solitary vigil, when you are dubbed a knight in the main hall of the Radiant Heart, on the eyes of all— Or they won’t.” And if they don’t, Imoen added to herself, I’ll join the crusade Sarevok will wage against the Most Noble Order to put right this wrong.
“But this,” Sarevok growled lightly over the squire’s shoulder, very much like a demon set on seducing a pure soul, “this here is a tool of war. It does not want to lie in vain; it has lain here, useless, for too long already. It wishes to be used. It wants to punish. It wants to castigate. I feel its thirst; it wants to destroy me—”
The squire frowned. “But I don’t want to fight you,” he said honestly, turning his head to face the other man.
Sarevok, merrily, replied across the shared breathing space, “Then pray to your god that we do not meet again, Delryn. When you are a paladin, and we meet, we shall fight. And you had better be well armed then,” he added, with a smirk, a spark, and a slight, inviting nod in the sword’s direction. “It is a paladin’s weapon; it will serve you well, if you keep it. Take it; for yourself, or, if you insist, for another. But take it.”
Then, he let the squire go, as if that one burnt him like the holy weapon’s touch, and returned to his previous spot, watching the man with an utterly amused glimmer in his eyes; Anomen lowered his head, sighed deeply, and said, “There is something I must tell you, Anchev—”
“But I don’t want to hear it,” Sarevok interrupted him calmly; and then, pressed, urgently, “The sword. Take it or leave it. It is your choice; make it.”
“Fine!” Anomen Delryn shot at him angrily. “I shall take it. And I shall deliver it to the Prelate Wessalen and Sir Ryan Trawl, to make of it what they want.”
“Fine,” he heard in response; as dry and unfeeling as, perhaps, it should be.
-----
They all left Firkraag’s lair in a mood much fouler than the one in which they had first entered it. Before long, Sarevok was barely civil; perhaps the presence of the holy weapon around him cast a shade on his thoughts; or, perhaps, it merely illuminated their inherent darkness. Either way, soon, with every passing moment, he resembled to Imoen less a happy, bright and brilliant creature, and more a heavy, dark storm cloud, about to burst forth with pent-up murderous tension and pressure. Anomen was burdened by his mace and his shield and a weapon whose true weight, among the party, only he would ever bear or know; and he was growing increasingly confused and irritated by the Son of Murder’s sudden evil humour, and the way all his attempts to communicate were soundly, monosyllabically rejected.
And Imoen, though she knew that half a year since, they would all be very different people, and no one would think of this short outing at all, and least of all the knight, who, by that time, would have everything he had ever dreamt of—was still, slightly, sad. One wished to make a human out of a machine and a beast and a god and a brother, and one ended up being a cruel bastard oneself; just as whatever human there was found in the meantime must, in the end, be a cruel bastard, again.
Paladins had this way of inspiring the best in people. It was, perhaps, as important a function they fulfilled as the tangible one, fighting; they were supposed to inspire with their example, remind people of some basic goodness and innocence most people believed they simply could not afford; or, sometimes, they believed they had never possessed. The trouble was that paladins were people, too, and that, sometimes, under too much pressure, they forgot themselves; and that Sarevok’s best was still rather terrifying—
It will not be long now, she thought. And, half a year since—or a week since—we will all be very different people. Happy people, perhaps.
-----
The familiars were missing still; but Kriemhild joined the party in the orcs’ caves, carrying a small bundle of her possessions; shortly, and without one jest, one tease or one superfluous word, they led the horses outside; and Imoen saw Firkraag up close again.
He was still massive, still worm-like and still beautiful; he lay at the feet of the ledge, taking up nearly the entire end of the gorge, because his wings were unfolded; the party barely found a path around him, and the horses did not like his sulphurous and smoky smell.
Once they circled him, they halted; the horses would graze as the party skinned the dragon. Sarevok, promptly, without looking at anyone, started to climb the beast: the leg and the elbow and the wing and the back.
Imoen frowned: Anomen followed her brother, dashing almost, leaving her and Kriemhild and the holy sword and his own weapons behind.
“Anchev—” he pled, breathless, once he was on the wing, and Sarevok on top of the carcass, and as, without paying the squire the slightest heed, he knelt and furiously started to pull out his own unholy blade from the dragon’s neck.
There was no response; and so, the squire tried again. “Anchev—”
“What?!” Sarevok roared at him, suddenly afoot, facing the man, with brightly burning eyes and a greensteel knife in hand. Anomen, unfazed by the display, and unmindful of what had happened the last time the taller man had been his other self, repeated, with a step towards him, “Anchev—”
Then, a brief whizzing sound was heard, and Sarevok roared again, “What?!” The pain was still there in his voice; but now, mixed with disbelief as he was eyeing the crossbow bolt which had pierced his, now knifeless and insensitive, hand. “Who?!” he snarled, casting a blazing look in the direction from which the shot had come: the turning in the gorge. “What son of orc dares?!”
“I have been called many things in my life,” a cultured voice with the quintessential Athkatlan noble’s accent replied, “but an orc, never. Sarevok Anchev, I presume? Allow me to introduce myself: Ryan Trawl, of Athkatla’s Radiant Heart.”
There was a brief pause, just enough for the audience to fill in all the absent titles.
“Consider yourself under arrest.”
-----
It was, Imoen decided, a testament either to the force with which Anomen Delryn had smitten her brother, or, perhaps, to a bud of decency growing in a very arid ground, that, given such a noble, lengthy introduction, Sarevok did not use it to haste himself silently, move the few steps to Anomen, and treat him as a human shield.
Or, possibly, it was the result of a cool calculation of his chances against the some fifteen to twenty true paladin knights, on horseback and foot, who now turned the bend in the gorge; which was a dead end for one without wings.
The paladin Sir Ryan Trawl himself was riding a dark horse; he had a simple helmet on his head, a simple plate on his breast, and an empty crossbow in his hand. He made a curt move with it, and commanded, “Don’t move, Anchev, and don’t try any tricks. Delryn, get down.”
A rather delicate moment ensued as Anomen cast a desperate, partly pleading, partly apologetic, look, towards certain quarters; then, as he received absolutely no response; and then, as he started to descend the dragon, slowly, reluctantly, much unlike the way he had just run up the carcass in full armour; yet Imoen almost sighed aloud in relief as she saw him then, as he truly was. In the end, Sarevok’s presence in Anomen’s life had not tarnished the armour of the squire’s Helmite faith; at most, it had lent it some golden brilliance.
Her brother, too, was relieved; for now, his squire was secure and he had an enemy and he could shed all his private, confused thoughts, because Ryan Trawl, in Sarevok’s own unwillingly admitted words, was not an utter fool; which meant that he was such an enemy that he must concentrate all his wits to be able to destroy him, and think, not feel.
The paladin was now saying, as Anomen approached him, “Perfect. It is almost exactly like the elf said. I’m surprised. He did not appear to be a particularly trustworthy sort, and these tales of dragons in the heart of Amn…” His eyes flickered briefly to Firkraag, before he continued, in the same succinct tone, “I believed him only because he knew your name and call, Delryn. Well done.”
Whassgoin’ on?
Imoen scanned her surroundings until she located the source of the voice: a pink nose was peeking cautiously from under a giant, reptilian wing.
Where have you two been gone? she demanded. Fine guardians you are.
T’say g’bye. Wha’ wi’ the chick—
And the last time? she pressed on, annoyed less at the cat than at herself for her complete lack of common sense. How could Sarevok and she have been so stupid as to leave Coran and Anomen alone together even for a moment? Not that anyone would have suspected that, what with Coran being Coran and Anomen, Anomen—
It was a joke of cosmic proportions, really; she wondered who the woman was. But it explained both Firkraag’s warning and Anomen’s misgivings; and, above all, it explained the Order’s presence here, now, when Sarevok and she expected it only, at the earliest, on the morrow.
Jus’ a walk, the cat replied circumspectly as she watched a shadow of amusement encroach on her brother’s face as he, too, realised what had happened here and what utter, utter fools they had both been. Whassgoin’ on? Pangur repeated, clearly unsettled by the whole commotion.
She did not reply; because Anomen Delryn, meanwhile, said, “Thank you, Sir Ryan.”
His voice was of a note which made the paladin start for a moment; promptly, though, Sir Ryan Trawl recovered, and said, “Yes. A dragon. An outlaw. A—second Bhaalspawn.” He shot Imoen a look, more curious than hostile, if only for the moment. “All in all, almost exactly like the elf said. I only do not recognise the half-orc,” he finished, turning his horse to face Kriemhild. The woman, for now, was petrified from fear at the sight of the holy warriors; Imoen wondered how much longer.
“‘Tis the Lady—” Anomen started to say; and so, quickly, Imoen interrupted him. “She’s my brother’s wife.”
“Wife?” The paladin eyed the woman from the height of his horse; and, suddenly, Kriemhild stopped looking half-human in her scarlet cloak, and started to look like a sorry, ugly beast draped in a red curtain. Imoen gritted her teeth, and said, “The marriage was witnessed by two humans, one of whom is a squire of your own order. It is as legal as it can possibly be.”
“I see. Far be it for me to deny a man the right to a wife,” Sir Ryan Trawl replied. “And, mayhap, it is an appropriate wife for the man— I do hope that you made sure that your widow will be properly provided for, Anchev,” he said, turning to the man standing on the dragon’s carcass.
“She will,” that one replied, now with poise and calm. “If I am to be executed, all my possessions go to her, as you are well aware, paladin.”
“Save your weapons in the moment of capture,” the armoured man adjoined smoothly, casting a meaningful look at the hilt of the Edge of Chaos, still buried in Firkraag’s neck. “That one will be destroyed.”
The hilt of the sword was about a palm’s length from Sarevok’s injured hand; by now, it must have recovered from the initial shock, Imoen thought; and, once she did, she yelled, “No!”
Both men looked at her. “Ah,” the paladin said. “The adamant champion strikes again. Your turn will come in a moment, girl. I do not sense any evil from you, but your presence in that outlaw’s company requires an explanation—”
There was a brief cough. “Forgive my interruption, Sir Ryan,” Anomen said, “but ‘tis a matter which can be easily settled—had better be settled—now. My lady Imoen is innocent of whatever charge will be planted against Anchev. She has found herself in his presence by pure accident only. I can testify to this—I shall vouch for her, with my word, before the courts and before the gods, if ‘tis necessary—”
The paladin shot him another startled look, this time much longer, much closer and much more in-depth. “I see,” he said in the end. “If you are prepared to vouch for her, Delryn, then I will accept that, as I must. I can only hope that you have not been misled into trusting one unworthy of your credit.”
Imoen smiled, for Anomen had been much assured and barely flustered as he had spoken to his superior, and, at that moment, deserved the epithet of an adamant champion himself, and neither in mock nor in jest. She would have smiled wider if not for the furtive look Anomen stole in her stone-faced, vindictive brother’s direction when he was finished; and for what she was about to do now.
“Thank you,” she said graciously to Sir Ryan. “I’m really innocent of whatever you’re about to accuse my brother of. What are the charges against him, by the way?”
The man frowned. “In Baldur’s Gate, high treason, warmongering, wilful and malicious conspiracy, reaving, robbery and murder. Also, business misconduct, tax evasion—”
“I think that we can omit the secondary charges for now,” Imoen interrupted him, privately wincing. The list was, she must admit, impressive, even for her, who had been aware of all its items already; but then, Sarevok rarely did things partway. “I get the general picture, I think. He’s to be tried in Baldur’s Gate then, isn’t he?”
The paladin frowned again, and she almost cursed. She was walking a very thin line here, given that only Anomen’s word and reputation was protecting her now— “No,” Sir Ryan Trawl said at last.
“No?” she said, opening her eyes wide, biting her lip, and sounding as girlishly disappointed as she dared; and earning herself odd looks from both Sarevok and Anomen. “Why not? I mean—”
“Your ‘brother,’ girl—if you must insist on calling him so—is a sly, devious and wily man,” Sir Ryan Trawl interrupted, slightly gentler, even if, by now, he was rather visibly irritated. He must have envisioned the moment of arrest somewhat differently, without the arrestee standing smugly on top of a red dragon, and his innocent sister innocently asking questions of the arrester. “We do not want to risk his escaping on the way to Baldur’s Gate; and there is no need to extradite him. Some of his crimes were intended also against the nation of Amn, and the Grand Dukes will be satisfied if he is punished here, even if some of the charges will not hold in the local court. He will be tried, judged and executed in the nearest city. Trademeet.”
Under a giant wing, a nose and whiskers moved in sudden comprehension. Execut’d? Kill’d, he means? But… The chick?! My chick!!!
“Fitting,” the paladin Sir Ryan Trawl, meanwhile, continued, entirely unmindful of a cat’s tragedy, “given that, apparently, not few days ago, he tried to insinuate himself into the position of that city’s saviour, too… A murderer is rarely capable of altering his method, I’m told.”
Imoen filed away the information that Sir Ryan could not have been well informed in that particular field, since he was unaware that Sarevok had had a companion with him when he had entered Trademeet; and that that companion had had a very particular colour of hair; meanwhile, Anomen Delryn asked, betrayed, “He did?”
“Why, yes,” the paladin replied coolly, “He appeared there, out of nowhere, several days ago, with the exact precise means to relieve the starving city of a trade embargo—” A long, deep and rolling sound interrupted him at this point; on top of the dragon, Sarevok was laughing, heartily, at his expense.
“Halt and desist, paladin,” he told the enraged man once he was finished, “I would not that I be arrested by a fool; and you, I believe, would not that your people lost any respect they still have for you.”
“It is not for you to decide what I do or do not, outlaw!” the man on the dark steed warned the man on the dragon. “What say you?! What have you for your defence, Anchev?!”
“I,” said that one, devastatingly, “saved your city to retrieve my horse.”
Imoen snorted. Given that those around her were all paladins, and could usually tell, with more or less precision, whether someone was telling the truth— There was smile and laughter in Anomen’s eyes.
Sir Ryan Trawl ground a most unchivalrous word, and demanded, “And the slaying of the Lord Firecam and his troops?! Have you any convenient explanation for that, too, fiend?!”
“No,” Sarevok said coldly, without a trace of his former amusement. “I did not swear not to kill my enemies, paladin. They attacked me; I defended myself. It was not my fault that you sent too few against me— Incidentally,” he added, brightening and eyeing the armed crowd gathered under the dragon, “I cannot say that I am not flattered by the attention bestowed on me at present. I do hope, Trawl, that you have not deprived the unfortunate citizens of Athkatla of their only protectors against vampires for my private sake?”
“Bodhi’s coven is destroyed,” Sir Ryan Trawl snapped. He was losing control of the situation, and he clearly knew that, and did not enjoy that knowledge.
Sarevok, amiably, drew the stake into his radiant heart. “And Bodhi herself?”
“Escaped,” the paladin commander fired at him, acidly; then, with a brisk move of the crossbow, ordered, “Off that dragon, Anchev. Now.”
And with that one move, Sir Ryan instantly recovered control.
-----
There was an expectant moment; at the end of which, Sarevok Anchev shrugged and started to descend a dragon; leaving behind his sword, embedded deeply in the dragon’s neck; and his greensteel knife, which he had let his sister call, for the fun of the confusion, the Chaos Blade.
There was a moment of general consternation as, when he set his feet on the ground, a blurred grey-and-rosy ball darted from under a reptilian wing, clung to his leg, dashed up his back and sat on his shoulder; where it promptly started to wash its left forepaw.
Now, remember, Imoen admonished her spy, you’re to look cute.
Cute?! the indignant cat replied, Cute?!
And no clawing people. They must like you. Try to rub on the most important one. He looks the type to like small, furry things.
T'humiliation.
It’s for the chick, Imoen reminded him firmly as the paladin Ryan Trawl, who, fortunately, was not an unintelligent man, noted, “That cat is magical. It’s a familiar.”
“My brother has taken to wizardry,” Imoen explained. “I hope that he might keep the cat? A wizard and his familiar should not be separated.”
“And, should you decide that a spell-book is a weapon, paladin,” her brother added calmly, “I advise you to recall the case—”
“No,” the paladin replied evenly. “Your wife can keep it, Anchev. And you can keep the,” his mouth twitched briefly: Sarevok with Pangur on the shoulder looked absolutely ridiculous, “familiar.”
“Thank goodness,” the Bhaalspawn replied, with almost no sarcasm in his voice. “May I speak to my wife, Trawl? Do you have an interpreter into orcish to monitor the conversation? She does not speak any other language.”
On the horse, Sir Ryan frowned yet again, unsettled by his prisoner’s composed tone, lack of resistance and reasonable request. “No, I don’t. But yes, you may speak to her.”
“I will divide our things in the meantime,” Imoen offered.
“May I help you, my lady?” she heard; Anomen, who had been watching the previous proceedings thoughtfully, stirred up, and was now looking at her with hopeful plea in his handsome eyes; she smiled, and said, “Of course, Anomen. There is a part of the gems which is yours, too, in there.”
Anomen turned to my lord Trawl. “My lord?”
“Yes, Delryn. You can go,” the paladin said inattentively, frowning as he watched Sarevok, with a cat on the shoulder, approach his green-skinned wife and start to explain to her in orcish what was about to happen to him and to her.
-----
In the bags, there were the chocolate grains and hot spices Sarevok and Anomen had found, discarded, in the orcs’ caves—as Imoen had learnt that morning from her brother, orcs, like cats, didn’t feel the taste of sweet things; fortunately for herself, Kriemhild took after her human mother in that regard— There were the gems Anomen had packed; Kriemhild’s private possessions; two spell-books and a variety of diaries; some orcish potions and Adratha’s potion-making book. There were almost no scrolls, since they had all been used up during the excursion; but there was a Calishite scimitar, a druidic staff, and an elf’s fiery sword.
Imoen put the last two apart; they would be the tithe paid to ensure that the paladins would not treat Sarevok overly badly. The rest was Kriemhild’s, and hers, and— One-fourth of the jewels belonged to Anomen Delryn.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the squire was now saying, with lowered head, and bitter self-reproach, “I—”
“You did your duty, Anomen,” she told him, putting her hand on his shoulder; he cringed, and, belatedly, she realised that she put it precisely where Sarevok had put it earlier that day, in Firkraag’s lair, over a holy sword, when he had teasingly made Anomen a knight. “You should never apologise for it. Ever.”
The squire squirmed. “Aye, my lady, but—”
Imoen hugged him in response; his short, unshaved beard was scratching her face, and the steel of the plate armour of duty was cold, hard and inhuman. “You were supposed to learn this in a slightly different way, but—”
She blinked, sighed, and tried again. “Anomen. The land is yours. Farewell. Protect my brother, will you? Don’t let them do anything to him. Please.”
A glimmer of hope appeared in the empty, hungry eyes of an unloved, lonely man who had tasted acceptance and company, and had not remained unscathed by it, for he had repaid them with fulfilling his duty; but he said only, steadily, “Aye, my lady. I shall. And what will you do now?”
Imoen smiled. “I’m off to prepare a defence.”
The squire frowned. “Defence? Is it even possible, my lady? On what grounds?”
Then, suddenly—perhaps seeing Imoen’s face—he said, “Nay. Tell me not, my lady. I—I do not wish to know.”
-----
Then, there was another brief hug and another scratching beard as her brother lifted her, high, to his own level of seven feet of height, and she unclasped Aran Linvail’s golden, powerful talisman and slid it onto her own neck. There was no telling when the acquaintance of the Shadowmaster of Athkatla might come into one’s benefit; and she’d rather have something with which to introduce herself when she went to meet the genial man next time, even if she was now herself worth much more than a mere twenty thousand gold.
The paladins would stay in the gorge—there was the talk of skinning a dragon for scales; Imoen and Sarevok had both shrugged when Ryan Trawl had asked their permission to do so. As long as Anomen Delryn received his share of the hide, they had no objections; and nor did, after Sarevok asked her, Kriemhild Anchev. It was all, Imoen decided, a part of a tithe and mutual politeness.
She left Anomen Delryn with Sir Ryan Trawl, who was telling the squire that, verily, through slaying the dragon, Anomen had earned the holy sword Carsomyr the party had found in Firkraag’s lair, and that he would himself be glad to present it to him after Anomen passed his Trials, since Sir Keldorn Firecam, his master, was dead; and then, asked the unmoved, unflustered man for the tale behind the lock of dark-green dryad’s hair tied around his forearm—
A brief nod. “Brother.”
-----
A lone man was pacing through a room in the Asylum for Magical Deviants on the island of Brynnlaw.
Fifteen days.
A matter which could have once been solved in ten minutes had taken, so far, fifteen days. Perhaps Bodhi’s advice had been… misguided.
The man could not feel true anger; but he was vaguely… irritated. Yes; that was the word.
He looked around.
At least the construction of the installation was almost complete.
-----
In a forgotten crypt of Athkatla’s oldest cemetery, a woman standing with her hands on her hips was eyeing playfully three caskets lying in a row.
She said, mischievously:
“Parissa. Valen. Del. My daughters.”
She rolled the last word with utter delight.
-----
A brief nod. “Sister.” And the farewell was over.
Now, the sister was riding Deneb, and her sister-in-law was riding Grasshopper, and there was an eagle’s cry high in the air above them.
Imoen stretched out her arm, and cried, “Altair!”, and the eagle answered the call, and obeyed, and dove to meet the two other females, the half-human and the half-orc. Imoen could not fly a twenty-pound killer bird from her hand, herself; but Kriemhild could, and Imoen could almost speak to the woman, and to the eagle, and be understood.
She turned in her saddle when they were making the turn in the gorge, and cast one last look at the eyrie, and the red, worm-like body coiled under it, and the people swarming around it.
Candlekeep, she smiled. Back doors. Knights’ attacks.
Not many lifelong inhabitants of Candlekeep had known where the catacombs under the citadel were, or how one accessed them; her brother, who had been there in person for a very short time only, had managed to learn that.
Sarevok, for evil or, sometimes, good, did have a way of getting into places and to people. Perhaps that was why she had been so protective of Anomen; because her brother had gotten to her, and she knew, every step of the way, that, in their game of tug of war, her brother and she were evenly balanced; that, just as she was pulling him up, he was pulling her down.
Anomen had chosen rightly, the righteous path and the path of duty, and was now receiving his own punishment for it; but she— She could not.
You’re corrupting me, brother, she thought with unbearable sweetness; Now, I may not have to break the law for you, but, if I have to, I will break the law, and, perhaps, I will become an outlaw myself, because, now, I will not let the law kill you; because, now, I want you to live, not the justice to prevail.
Why can’t the justice be instead— Talion, perhaps? An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth; but, instead of a death for a death, a life for a life: a life saved for a life destroyed? A city for a city— Shouldn’t this be enough? No; it shouldn’t. But this will have to be enough; because I want you to live, and I will not let the law kill you.
There will be a castling.
But a castling, too, can go two ways. And castling to the kingside is more secure than castling to the queenside— I wonder if you will dare; because you will have to choose, at last.
I will save your life, brother; but you, in turn, will have to choose what to do with it.
I will not live with you if you do not choose right.
End of Part IV: Knights’ Attack.
