The dream repeats.
He is alone, on the street of an indistinct city, Baldur’s Gate, and Beregost, and Athkatla, and Trademeet; and those quondam Sembian cities, Ordulin and Saerloon and Selgaunt, where he had once survived—
He walks ahead; he leaves the city; he is in a forest. The forest, again, is the sum of all forests: it is the forest outside Trademeet. It is the forest outside Candlekeep. It is the dark forest outside Imnesvale. It is the Cloakwood, and the Wood of Sharp Teeth. It is the forest which is his earliest memory; the forest where his mother took him to kill him.
There is a temple in the forest, and this, again, is every single of the many temples he has visited in his life; or one of those he may yet visit, when the right time comes. The door opens, and there is a sibling: always one of those he killed; sometimes one of those he remembers. Sometimes it is the dwarf Imoen’s sister Gorion’s child; then, because he killed her in Baldur’s Gate, that temple, his home, the dream-temple resembles.
They fight, and he loses. Each time, each night, night after night, he fights his Father, and each time, each night, night after night, he loses.
-----
…At least Mazzy is talking to him. Even if she is currently—not yelling: speaking very pointedly—at him.
-----
He awoke before dawn, to Minsc’s and Boo’s grinning faces.
“Take the rodent away, or I will sic my eagle on it, Rashemi,” he warned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes and swiping his hand down to his chin, where his beard started to grow back; the fingers, as usual, turned out covered in blood after this procedure. His whole head thumped with the repeating, rhythmic, familiar pain; not for the first time recently, he thought that he should have at least had the good sense to get drunk before getting the hangover.
The barbarian, perhaps sensing his lack of heart in the threat, was undisturbed. “Boo and I heard that the little men want to learn heroing!” he said in a loud whisper which sounded like a roar, “I will help Imoen’s brother! Minsc will lead, teach and inspire! Shall we go?”
Speaking of the little sister— To the left, Kriemhild, smelling of juniper and fir needles, dressed in armour, sitting arm’s-length from his head, guarding him. Had she wanted to, she could have easily crushed his head while he had slept; only the orc wife’s complete subservience to her husband had protected him. Suddenly, he must again rethink the issue of manumitting her. “Husband,” she said, almost unafraid, in greeting.
To the right, the delicate smell of a white wild rose behind one pointed ear: Aerie emerged from the cold, grey mist of pre-dawn, standing in her wood-brown, hooded cloak like a little, precious porcelain figurine of a fairy tale shepherdess, leaning against a staff, with her other hand on her pregnant belly, with her eyes closed, a-pray. For a while, curious what the prayer was, he watched her lips. Ilmater, give me a well of tears to atone for my sins—I shall not hide it; land is not fruitful without moisture, I am not holy while I remain without a tear—
Imoen, nowhere in sight. He smirked: the headache melted away, slowly, as it was wont to, after sitting for a moment.
“Aerie,” he said, fairly satisfied with the dawn of day, “I must borrow your staff.”
-----
In the thick, cold mist, the workout with the villagers was just as he had expected: the complete fiasco of the true amateurs trying their hand at an art and a science beyond their comprehension. Given that its goal had not been to teach anyone anything, the result was fairly satisfactory; until he saw Mazzy Fentan’s unsmiling face.
Now, they are inside the Widow Jacobs’ hut—Imoen looked adequately happy, earlier, but he saw her only in passing—and he explains, trying to remember his calm, “Aerie agreed to heal the bruises.”
At which, the miniature excuse for a paladin looks at him with pure loathing. “What favours Aerie receives from her gods, she had better use for the party’s benefit.”
Gods? “I agree,” he replies. “That is why I used healing potions from my private stock instead.” Orcish ones: the taste effectively prevented hypochondria.
Mazzy is furious. “Why did you do it?”
He shrugs. “To provide them with a distraction; to improve their morale; to give them a sense of power and control; to discipline them. There is no need for meddlesome casualties in our way, halfling.”
“They are not your troops, Anchev!”
A snarl: she would have done the same thing, had she had the opportunity to do it first. “I see no reason to undermine your position, Fentan. You saved my life, I believe.”
Mazzy is furious at him, fundamentally, because he exists, and specifically, because he exists in her close vicinity. He is an enemy; and, tall, male and charismatic; what some call a natural leader—he is also a threat: the short, halfling Mazzy must have fought long and hard for her respect. It is curious how she will deal with him; she should force him to leave.
“If I knew, for one moment, that there were any meaning to your words…” she now shakes her head: the short, auburn mane of stiff, wiry hair tied into thin strands bounces. Mazzy smells of camomile and armour polish, wears rust red under her golden armour, and keeps her left hand perpetually on the hip and the hilt of her sword as she makes small gestures with her right one; he sits down behind the table to lower himself to her height, and interrupts her, calmly, “Why should I care for your little band, Fentan?”
“Why, indeed?” she demands of him, with hidden pain and unhidden anger in her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be—” She shakes the hand; Imoen did not tell her anything, then, of his matters; she finishes, “—somewhere else? Why must you have come with us?”
He smiles, and, trying to focus what natural charm he has on the small, unhappy face determined to reject him, replies, truthfully, “I am on leave.”
She puts the right hand under her chin, with the index finger on her lightly, sceptically puffed-up lips, and repeats, “On leave.”
“As it so happens,” he repeats in turn, “On leave. With three beautiful women. The presence of my wife, my sister, and a hamster-possessed barbarian spoils the picture somewhat, I must admit, and the locale might have been chosen with some greater care—”
The unsmiling dame is not amused. “Stay away from Aerie.”
“She hates me.”
“Good. And Nalia.”
“She may have found some affinity with my sister, I believe. Before you ask, Fentan, we exchanged exactly four words before you started to scold me this morning not unlike, if I may say so, an irate mother her wayward son after a night of drunken revelry— You want the real reason? Fine,” he says, and now his voice, too, loses all traces of amusement. He tried; now, he spreads himself much more comfortably, taking much more of the limited space of the small room of the Widow Jacobs’ hut, and asks, “How much do you know about the Bhaalspawn prophecies?”
“Nothing,” she replies, quite making a point.
The prophecies have ruled his entire life, even when he had not yet been aware of them; very well. He does not know much of halflings, either; certainly, dead, they do not differ much from humans.
“It does not matter. All that can possibly be of any concern to you, halfling, is that my kin—Imoen’s kin—we are all slated to die. Not in that vague fashion in which all the dithering, little mortals are slated to die. We are born murderers, and will die in murder.”
“Imoen is a good person.”
“She is. Many of us are, I believe. You have not seen her kill.”
Mazzy digests the news for a brief while, tapping absently the finger on her lightly opened lips; her husband must have loved the unconscious eroticism of the gesture— He carries on, “—Do you want to know how Tethtoril, the First Reader of Candlekeep, the citadel where the prophecies are kept, interprets them?” He tells her; and then, as the thought strikes him, adds, “For all we know, what is happening here is the work of one of my siblings. There was one in Trademeet.”
“The one who skinned Raissa?”
A flash of memory: a skinned Raissa, a skinned Semaj; a brief smile. “No; but you are close, halfling. His partner.”
Mazzy Fentan takes her time to think, which does not bide well; eventually, carefully, she says, “I understand. But what does this have to do with my party?”
The delicate part, then. “Who, do you think, will stand against the tide of murderers and their inevitable persecutors, halfling? The holy orders, yes. But in the likes of this fleapit?” He shrugs. “My siblings must die. It is in my interest that they die as quickly and efficiently—” Mazzy’s face changes, and the hand on the sword hilt twitches, almost involuntarily.
“Do you know why you are here at all, and not rotting in prison waiting for your execution, Anchev?”
The disgust from the beginning of their conversation returns; now, that she thinks she has her grip on him, Mazzy Fentan loves to loath him even more than before. “I have spoken with Imoen, yes.”
“I do not like you,” Mazzy announces at last. “You are everything I have always fought against: a man large in body and small in spirit, a man who enjoys tormenting those weaker than you—”
This is only half of the reason, my lady Fentan, he thinks without malice; unaware of his private amusement, Mazzy speaks on, “—I believe that the girls are wrong to think that you deserve any sort of—of a second chance. They are all still young, Imoen is your sister, and Nalia and Aerie worship Ilmater, which, from what I know of human gods, is as often wisdom as it is madness…” She takes a deep breath. “But they have shown you mercy. And you— What you are suggesting—”
She sputters for a moment; then, she shakes her head again, and asks, “If the Bhaalspawn must all die, then why shouldn’t I start with you, for Imoen’s sake?” Another shake of the head. “But I will not. I will not, and that is why I am a better person than you will ever be. Think about it, Anchev. For Imoen’s sake, if not for your own,” she says as she starts towards the hut’s door. “We leave in twenty minutes.”
“You worship Arvoreen,” he sends after her, and, startling her into a halt, adds, “Who, from what I know of halfling gods, demands that you be vigilant, make war, and protect your people. Should you not plan beforehand how you will protect them when the time comes? There are halfling Bhaalspawn, Fentan.” There must be, though he does not remember if he killed any; there haven’t been any in the dreams, yet.
Mazzy Fentan refuses to deign him with a reply before she walks out. He follows her, a moment later; and, once outside, is beset by a blissful bird. Liar.
She forgot the question. I made no offer. And it was the truth.
Liar. Why are we really still here, master?
I am curious. Bored of your cat, Altair?
No. Happy! We have more time… An embarrassed little hop and half-flap of wings. You will see your one again.
I should not.
-----
The reason why they do not leave within twenty minutes is Minsc.
They are all gathered in the heavy mist on the small meadow behind the Widow Jacobs’ hut; Imoen is content with Pangur, Aerie, Kriemhild and Nalia, Minsc is chopping wood—thump, the axe falls; thump, the axe falls—and Sarevok himself is flying Altair.
The women make quite the colourful group, in all senses of the word; and, when Mazzy Fentan returns dressed head to toe in dwarven-made golden armour, Minsc lets go of his axe and announces, “Minsc was waiting for the little knight!”
“Yes, Minsc? What is it?” the halfling replies, with the rare, gentle smile she reserves only for him.
The Rashemi stumbles for a moment, and Sarevok, ephemerally, wants to hit him to push him into thought; eventually, he says, slowly, “Minsc had a dream.”
“A dream,” Mazzy repeats. “What was the dream about, Minsc?”
“Mairyn,” Minsc says, reverentially; and falls silent.
“Mairyn,” Mazzy repeats again. “And who or what is Mairyn, Minsc?”
“Mairyn is the spirit of the forest!” Minsc says. “Mairyn said that the wolves from the forest are gone. But they forgot to take their shadows with them!”
Mazzy has doubt clearly painted on her little face; Sarevok frowns, tears away from the vague musing of how the spirit of this dark and prickly forest must look like, and says, “He is correct, halfling. I saw these wolves yesterday. There is no doubt that they were shadows.”
Mazzy shoots him a pointed look, and asks, “And why, pray tell, you failed to mention this yesterday, Anchev?”
“We failed to communicate yesterday,” he replies easily, because they did: Sarevok had never been so thoroughly ignored in his life. Mazzy made it clear that his presence was undesirable, and he decided to comply with her wish, for the interim— Meanwhile, as he speaks, Nalia mutters, “Well, it is not like you would listen.”
Mazzy’s bewildered, betrayed attention now turns to her second-in-command, “Excuse me?”
“I said,” Nalia replies, louder, “that it is not like you would listen. You didn’t even ask me what I learnt from Jermien—he’s that Cowled Wizard,” she explains, clearly for the party’s sake. “And he told me that the tale of Umar is more than just a tale. The Cowled Wizards have evidence that the Umar Witch actually exists! Except that the tale got muddled somewhere on the way, because she is not a witch, but a lich.”
“A lich,” Mazzy repeats.
“Yes,” the redhead replies, now with all her hackles up, “A lich. She hides for a century, and then wakes up, kidnaps three people—exactly three each time—drains life from them, like a vampire, perhaps, and returns to sleep. They have the husk of one of her victims from a century ago over in Athkatla.”
“They do.”
“That’s why Jermien came here, actually. To prove her existence. But he says that he would have to see the body of a victim to compare it to that one they have on display there. And he says that, according to eyewitnesses’ reports from the previous time, animals should not be taken. He says she might have changed her signature, or something… I didn’t really understand this part…”
“Well, that settles it,” Mazzy replies, suddenly satisfied. “The Umar Witch kidnaps only humans. Three humans. If she exists, she is not behind it. If. If this Jermien had not invented this tale. He might have come here simply to escape the wizard in-fighting. Did he, by chance, tell you what he was going to do about the witch once he found her?”
“Well… He started… constructing… a golem…” Nalia says, and, promptly, on seeing Mazzy’s doubtful face, falls silent; next to her, Imoen frowns, and, looking at him, mouths, “In-fighting?”
“Later,” he replies, in the same manner; Mazzy looks around her party and sighs heavily, “All right. Does anyone else have anything to add?”
Minsc and Aerie start speaking simultaneously; Mazzy sighs again, makes a curt gesture with a gloved right hand; the left is, once more, resting on the hilt of the sword—and says, “Minsc?”
“Mairyn needs the heroes’ help! The Evil which nests in the old temple seeped out like sour milk from a trough and poisoned the forest. Possibly with the smell of cheese! That would be great Evil, indeed. And it made Mairyn very, very sad…” The Rashemi himself is now sad. “The heroes must go and pull the Evil out!”
Then, the Rashemi wrinkles his brow in deep thought. “Aah!” he cries at last. “Boo reminds me to tell Mazzy that the wolf Anath will help the heroes!”
The halfling sighs, nods, and asks, “Aerie?”
Aerie smiles worriedly. “The birds? Th-they are not singing. A-and there is the weather…?”
It is several hours after dawn already: the cold, thick, sun-obscuring mist should have lifted long ago. Another indication of possible undead involvement— Sarevok watches Mazzy Fentan, curious what the halfling will do now; if her decision will coincide with what he would do in her place.
She thinks for a moment, and then says, “All right. Do you know where to search for this… Anath, Minsc?”
Minsc nods, “Mairyn told Minsc.”
“Can you do it on your own?”
The barbarian straightens proudly. “Minsc and Boo can. Do not forget Boo!”
Unbelievably, a hamster squeak follows; Mazzy flashes another brief smile, and nods, “Then you—and Boo, of course—have my permission to do so. Kriemhild…”
His wife, tense and taut, is rather scared by this sudden call into attention; Imoen touches her lightly on the shoulder in a misguided attempt to soothe her, and Kriemhild barely manages to control herself instead of lashing out at his sister. Mazzy smiles at her, too, and says, “Will you go with me to the ogres, or orcs, or whoever they are? To speak with them? I will need a strong hand with me.”
Kriemhild searches for him, but he decides to offer no guidance, either way; she wavers hesitantly; she nods once, “I will go.”
“Good. Now,” Mazzy turns to the rest of her party. “Nalia, Imoen… Anchev. Under the circumstances, I don’t think that the monsters—whatever… whoever they are—are responsible. Not to mention that my host told me that he spoke to one of them, and that Madulf appeared to be rather peaceful… Still, we cannot neglect this lead. In the meantime, I want the three of you to go to Merella’s cabin and search for any clues. Even if Merella is dead, she may have noticed something before she was killed. See also if there is any map of this forest. Perhaps any references to a shadow place, or an old temple. Aerie—”
“I— I will ask around here,” Aerie says, with a grimace of determination. “And cook. Erlin Hendrick brought the chickens,” she turns to Sarevok. “W-when you were talking with Mazzy.”
“I paid him,” Imoen adds, looking at him meaningfully; and, transiently, he wonders if he is about to hear for the third time that he is to keep away from Aerie.
Mazzy lets the whole exchange pass by her pointy ears, and says, “Actually, Aerie, I was wondering if you might do something about the mist.”
-----
I know this one, master. She is praying to The Masked Leaf to protect you from evil and grant you safe passage through the forest.
To Baervan Wildwanderer? But he is a gnome god—
He frowns; but Aerie already finishes the unfamiliar prayer, voiced in the brisk, cheerful, alien language which must be gnomes’ own tongue. Then, she turns to him; or, more accurately, to the bird on his hand.
“I-I will need a feather,” she says, now to him, now to Altair.
His first instinct is, ridiculously enough, to tell her that there are nine not plucked chickens clucking somewhere around here. Judging from the look Imoen’s cat is casting at the elf, he is not alone in that opinion.
“Altair,” he speaks out loud, not taking his eyes off Aerie.
Yes, master.
His eagle lowers her head, and then patiently spreads each of her wings and her tail in turn, letting Aerie search through her royal plumage; eventually, the elf pulls out one perfect golden feather, and begins another chant.
This entreaty has a very different melody, a very slow and repetitive litany, and it is in one of the elf-tongues, and, to his surprise, he understands it; the dragon blood in his veins, which he has thought has long gone and taken its gift with it, heats up and burns him, and the meaning of words into his mind. Aerdrie Faenya, take care of us; Queen of the Avariel, watch over us; Winged Mother, bring wind to us; Lady of Air and Wind, sweeten air for us; You of the Azure Plumage, clear the sky for us; Bringer of Rain and Storms, lift mists for us… do not forget us… care for us… protect us…
For a moment, he muses about what he would like the prayers to him to sound once he ascends; but soon, a gust of divine wind, first timid, then stronger, dissolves the mist around them. They should not lose themselves in the forest now.
-----
“The Cowled Wizards are not a forte, but a major weakness of Amn’s political system, Nalia. As an independent institution, they are completely beyond any means of official control. Of course, given their current weakness, it may be a relatively easy task to incorporate them as an official branch of the government, subject to the courts’ rule—”
Accompanied by Altair and Pangur both, they are walking through the shady woods of elm and fir; the mist is gone, but the forest is dark, and so, they amuse themselves with a conversation.
“—On the other hand, their relative independence would not have held so long had there not been strong pressure in the Council of Six to keep the status quo,” he muses. It is a fairly interesting problem. “In any case, the Cowled Wizards are, comparatively, only a minor hurdle on the way to the simplification of Amn’s judiciary system—”
“The virtual autonomy of the halfling and gnome communities does not help,” Nalia sighs, “Even in Athkatla—”
“Actually, the confusion caused by the parallel structures of the civilian guard with its associated courts and the Radiant Heart with the temples—”
“Yes, yes, I know!” Nalia almost rolls her eyes. “‘The Radiant Heart is a paramilitary organisation. When it operates inside Athkatla, it undermines the authority of the guard. When it operates outside of it, it undermines the authority of the army.’ You’ve hammered that point enough, Sarevok! And you have convinced me, yes. But you never said what you propose to do about it. We cannot just disband it!”
“I never suggested it. I merely pointed out the inherent weakness of the system.”
“My brother simply does not like the paladins,” Imoen laughs. “They are too good at what they do. And it’s not easy to corrupt them.” She smiles, and adds sweetly, “Besides, dear brother, let us not forget the Shadow Thieves. Wouldn’t you say that they, too, present a major hurdle in the path of any reform?”
“Of course,” Sarevok agrees easily, watching his brown-haired sister and her friend, walking together hand in hand. Nalia, he has just decided, following that little game which started on its own in the morning, smells slightly exotically: of vanilla and tangerine.
Now, she sighs again. “Of course, as long as coin does not stop flowing from Maztica, and Amn is prosperous, there will be no strong social pressure for change. The poverty of the lower classes here is built on the blood of the native people there…”
Sarevok smirks. “On the other hand, one may argue that, since the more enterprising elements of the lower castes are drawn to Maztica, social tension is prevented here, while the coin can be put in the employ of social reform.”
“How so?”
He shrugs. “By paying for education, for one thing. Obligatory schooling dissociated from any religious structures, but fostering universal literacy and knowledge of the arcana.”
Nalia looks at him curiously. “I think that Mazzy would agree with you on that point. That’s why we organised the auction in Trademeet—”
This is what gave him the idea, but he does not say it; instead, he interrupts brusquely, “I did not say that I would agree with her.”
Nalia blinks in surprise; Imoen supplies helpfully, “You really should not believe in half the things my brother says. He can be a politician, if he wants to.” She looks at him, not without pride, and says, “If he had his way, I guess, it would be that everything’s free in love and business, and he rules everyone with iron fist. And, from time to time, organises a wee war to release the—how did you put it, little brother?—social tension?” She narrows her eyes, and casts at him an unequivocally evil glare. “It’s almost better that he prefers to be a god.”
He laughs; and, since my lady Duchess d’Arnise is looking at him with lips puckered in thought, he says, seriously, “Do you know what the most important obstacle on the path to reforming Amn is, Nalia?”
“No,” Nalia replies carefully. “Do tell, Sarevok.”
“The peerage. The system makes sense under a monarchy; but Amn is a merchants’ state, a plutocratic oligarchy… You are a duchess, and that is the most important feudal rank—but the feudal system is obsolete here. Your post should be tied to some obligations to the king and the state in return for your privileges; but there is no king in Amn, and your entire duty boils down, essentially, to paying taxes—”
“Exactly! The noble titles are mostly symbolic, now,” Nalia d’Arnise defends herself and her way of life, feebly, from the attack.
“Are they? Successful merchants are routinely ennobled and, at times, enfeoffed. The upper echelons of the military, the guard, and the Radiant Heart are almost uniformly noble. A high noble title can take you much further than a plebeian background; the system almost ensures that the most ambitious men and women turn to the Shadow Thieves, the Cowled Wizards, and to Maztica—”
“Do you remember Cernd, Nalia?” Imoen suddenly asks, “You helped him, in Athkatla, just before you left for the north—”
“Yes. Yes, I remember him,” Nalia says, flustered; Imoen smiles, briefly; Nalia returns the smile; Sarevok takes note to ask his sister what she meant by this particular question, and trumps his argument with, “And even you, duchess, will not argue your own case before the courts, but— We are here, I believe.”
-----
Merella’s house is a fairly large cabin with steeped roof; it is solidly built from raw timber, blackened by the sun and the rain, underpinned with large, flat, grey stones, and overgrown with wild wine; there are shutters on the square windows, because the windows are glassless in this wilderness. It fits the place and the mood of the dark forest, as is the wont of the houses of those with ties to nature. He has not forgotten Adratha’s cottage, or the druid village.
The shutters are, unsurprisingly, torn off all the windows; unsurprisingly, the furniture inside is broken; but, surprisingly, there are no traces of blood. Imoen’s cat walks around, putting his pink nose into the hut’s every nook and cranny. Eventually, he jumps onto the table, stretches, and yawns.
“Yes, Pangur,” Imoen says, with a frown and a sigh. “Just like in the village. No blood anywhere. It’s almost as if those wolves charmed her to leave,” she adds; and then, asks him, “Can’t some vampires turn into wolves, brother? I think they can?”
“Yes,” he replies. “However, those I saw were shades and shadows, sister. They did not appear to be anything else but wolves.”
“Minsc said that that ghost of his told him that they used to be real wolves,” Nalia d’Arnise concludes. “Well. Let’s start searching.”
They do; but the search is not long. For one thing, there is a letter on the table, right under where Pangur is sitting.
17 Mirtul
“Three days ago,” Nalia comments.
To anyone who is reading it,
I hope that, if the inhabitants of Imnesvale were intelligent enough to send anyone here, they also chose someone who will understand the importance of this message, and deliver it to a literate person.
“By the way: can the halfling read?”
“Yes. But not fluently. That is why she sent the three of us here.”
“And here I thought that it was because she prefers to deal with Kriemhild rather than with my brother.”
To be brief: Merella is my old friend. I remember that, once, she mentioned an old temple in this forest which had to be sealed off after some foolish wizards or priests meddled with things they had better left alone. My guess, given the clear implication of the undead in this business, is that some other cretin of a mage broke those seals. Probably to see what would happen. It is their style.
“His style, I like.”
“You would, brother.”
“I don’t think I really like the way he talks about wizards.”
Merella, as I said, is my old friend. The last traces of human feet lead away from the house. If there is a chance that she is still alive, I must follow on it. However, my advice to you, whoever you are, is not to act on your own, but to find priests to exorcise the grounds. There should be some in the Understone—the villagers should know the details.
Valygar Corthala
-----
As the three wizards, having perused Valygar Corthala’s letter, start to comb through Merella’s hut in search of any map, or book, or journal which might help them, another search for a lost tome takes place, far away, in the catacombs of Athkatla’s oldest graveyard.
Korgan, proud battlerager of the Bloodaxe clan, swears, pulls his axe out of the skeleton, kicks it to make sure that it be absolutely, positively dead this time, and no comin’ back, no sirrah—
Then, he looks around, suspiciously, from under his helmet, at his current company, those pansy longlimbs, Shagbag and Scrooloose, now both whitewashed. There been two others with them. Seems he chopp’d’em together with the skeletons. That be the blood on ‘is axe. Skeletons don’t bleed. Har. Har.
This whole job be a rotten deal, and that be the start an’ the end of it. Come first, the vampires. Who’e’er heard of vampires in Athkatla? But nay, not one body be willin’ to risk a head for a book in a tomb. Korgan ‘imself least o’all. But the job be paid well.
Then, when, at last, he finds these two, and those two others—what be their names? No matter. They be dead—turns that the vampires be real. An’ there be bloody paladins crowdin’ his workplace. Pimlico’s gettin’ worried, threatening to off the coin for the delay—
But the worst part of all be that constant bloody feeling that he be bloody watched.
Korgan gargles, spits, snorts and, to cheer himself, thinks of what he’s going to do with the coin when he gets it—there be a new, barely used halfling lass from up north over at Nin’s in the Coronet, and Lehtinan’s always lax with the cat’s-piss he calls beer. More, there be slave fights to bet on. There be nothing as wenches, beer an’ gore after a good day’s massacre.
Pimlico’d better pay him well, he reckons. His axe be yearning to hit something that bleeds, not these rotten skeletons. T’think of it in depth—
There is a delightful, pearly laughter, and a playful voice calls out from the darkness, “Come, mousey, mousey…”
