In The Cards

If there is one thing more dangerous to his friends and companions than a megalomaniac clever and cute wizard with a Cunning Plan, it has to be a raving insane and delusional wizard with a Cunning Plan. Boy, am I glad I didn’t fall for one of those!

Excerpt from ‘Ruminations Of A Master Bard’

Sarevok was starting to wonder if perhaps he had been cursed at birth. Well, apart from the entire ‘Spawn of God of Murder’ thing, and that was a blessing more than a curse wasn’t it? Of course it was. Except for the fact that it also involved having siblings. Especially one particular, annoying, constantly-in-the-way, mess-up-my-best-plans, redheaded half-elf of a younger sister. She had to be part of some kind of curse. She couldn’t possibly cause that much aggravation otherwise, could she? Sarevok was starting to see his irritating sister everywhere now. Grinning from behind his reflection in the mirror. Waving at him from strange windows. Dancing around the rim of his plate as he was trying to eat, something that did not benefit his appetite. Why, only a short while ago he could have sworn he glimpsed her across the street from the Iron Throne building, laughing at him.

If I don’t manage to kill her soon I’ll probably go insane, and then what kind of God of Murder will I be? That won’t do at all. She’s near. I can sense it, vague as the impression is. I must find her and kill her soon. Only then will I be free to pursue my grand destiny. At least those really expensive ogre assassins I hired should pay off.

The warrior’s broodings were interrupted by a knock on the door, and one of the servants entered, carefully carrying a large box, wrapped around with an elegant red bow. “Pardon me, sir,” he said. “Didn’t want to interrupt, but this just came for you.”

“What foolishness is this?” Sarevok asked suspiciously.

“Don’t know sir,” the man nervously assured him. “This girl came up and delivered it. She said you’d know her.”

“Oh, did she? What did she look like?”

“Er…really red hair. Half-elven, not bad looking. Really strange yellow eyes sir, very weird, almost like…like…” The poor man trailed off, staring into Sarevok’s unblinking golden orbs as rivers of cold sweat started running down his brow and neck.

“Yes?”

“Like…like…like…”

“I’m waiting.”

“like…like…like…like…”

“Oh, just get out of here,” Sarevok growled, shoving the man out the door. As he shut it, he could still hear the stunned servant repeating ‘like…like…like…like…’ as he staggered away.

There was a faint smoky smell rising from the box, reminding Sarevok vaguely of bacon. But why would my sister be sending me… Then the lid came off. Sarevok stared at his best ogre mage assassin, the one that had cost him 500 gold in advance. The dead, glazed-over eyes of the ogre mage’s severed and badly burnt head stared back at him, reminding him a little of fried eggs. There were a few seconds of absolute stillness. Then there was a great roar of rage, and the still smoking head hit the wall, making a disgustingly greasy stain. “SHE KILLED MY OGRE MAGE?!” Sarevok roared. “WILL THERE NEVER BE AN END TO THESE INDIGNITIES?” And as if it isn’t enough that she’s completely destroyed my new ogre mage, the one I’d hardly ever used, she tops it off by making fun of me!

YOU SHOULD NOT ALLOW THAT, MY SON. His Father’s voice sounded accusatory and even disappointed. It seared him to the bone. THE GIRL MUST BE PUT IN HER PLACE. UNLESS…

Unless what?

UNLESS HER PLACE SHOULD HAPPEN TO BE ABOVE YOURS. UNLESS SHESHOULD HAPPEN TO BE MY TRUE HEIR.

NO! She isn’t! I’ll you show you my worth, Father! You know that. I will slay anybody to prove myself to you. Anybody. You know that.

ANYBODY? AN INTERESTING OFFER, MY HEIR. I MAY JUST TAKE YOU UP ON IT LATER. BUT FOR NOW, I WILL BE SATISFIED WITH THE DEATH OF YOUR SISTER. ASSUMING YOU CAN HANDLE THAT.

I can. I can. You’ll see. Sarevok’s mouth set in a grim line. He had worked too hard for this, for far too long. And nobody would be allowed to stand in his way, not now when he was so close to reaching his goal. Come to me then, little sister. And we shall see who laughs last. Yes, when you face the new Lord of Murder we shall certainly see…

Unfortunately, Sarevok’s ordeals this day were far from over. Yet another one of those accursed parties with the most prominent nobles of Baldur’s Gate was coming up. Sarevok knew it was necessary, in order to gather the political power he needed. He still didn’t like it though, and he wished that he could simply have let Winski go in his stead. That would not do however, the mage assured him. It was Sarevok the masses wanted, and Sarevok they had to get. He was becoming very popular with the commoners as well by now, and facts mixed with carefully planted lies and exaggeration had made his reputation soar sky-high. Sadly, this meant the added complication of being forced to fend off droves of tittering girls, eager for a powerful and wealthy husband, particularly a big and strong one. No doubt this party of Duke Entar Silvershield’s would be swamped with them, the same as the others had been. The duke even had a daughter of his own, a young, unmarried one at that. What was her name? Sky? Something like that.

The only woman I want is Tamoko. I wish those nobles would get that through their thick skulls. He had wanted to bring his lover with him to this affair tonight, and let Silvershield be damned if he didn’t like it. The warrior woman had refused however, calmly stating that she would get no pleasure out of it and that her presence there would be of no use to him, might even cause him inconvenience. I don’t care. I would suffer anything for her sake. Surely she must know that? At least once I ascend I won’t have to concern myself with these kinds of petty matters…

And so now Sarevok’s grim figure towered over the brightly dressed nobles at Duke Entar Silvershield’s estate. He looked much like a man-eating bear sitting sourly in a cloud of fluttering butterflies, and his temper matched that of the bear very closely. The Duke’s daughter had turned out to be just as silly as he had suspected, a naïve little girl obsessed with the state of her hair, nails or dress. Fortunately she didn’t seem hell-bent on becoming Mrs Sarevok Anchev. There were far too many girls who had that same idea, simpering all around him. And Sarevok had to speak to them all…and be polite to them…and dance with as many as he possibly could.

A ball was simply his kind of place, Sarevok decided. Give him a battlefield any day. He would much rather cleave his enemies in two with a single strike of his sword than be forced to make conversation with girls who kept agreeing with every word he uttered in order to please him, and who didn’t seem to have a single original thought in whatever they kept beneath their elegantly styled hair. It certainly couldn’t be brains.

If only he could have worn his favorite armor. At least then he wouldn’t have had to bother with keeping the boredom and annoyance he felt from showing on his face. Sarevok slowly passed along the long line of giggling girls, feeling his mind go gradually numb. Then he suddenly frowned. Something was…odd. There seemed to be a gap in the horde of females, an empty space. No. Not entirely empty, but the cluster wasn’t quite as thick there. He quickened his step a little. Whatever was going…on?

There were some very strange women standing near the buffet tables, all of them heavily veiled as if to protect their modesty. The first one, a stout figure in a frilly red dress, was rapidly shoveling food into her mouth. At least Sarevok presumed that it went into her mouth, but since the veil obscured her face he really couldn’t tell for certain. She was extremely short and didn’t quite reach his knees.

The second woman was slim of form, skinny even. She wore a hideous sheath of golden brocade and a lot of heavy gold chains, and a wide hat from which a glittering veil hung down to obscure her face. As she noticed Sarevok looking in her direction she raised a hand covered in rings to her mouth and let out a high-pitched giggle. Nothing unusual about that this evening, but that giggle sounded very strange to Sarevok’s ears, and more than a little deranged.

Finally there was the third girl, and it was around her that the crowd really thinned out. This girl was built like a gladiator gone to seed, tall and very broad, and also very flat. Somebody had apparently been insane enough to suggest that she wear a shockingly pink dress, covered with lace. It wasn’t a flattering outfit, since it made her look like a walking wedding cake. And not even a particularly tasty wedding cake. An enormous head of flowing golden locks obscured her face, and Sarevok was willing to bet that it was a wig. Worst of all, there was an overwhelmingly strong smell of perfume surrounding her, as if somebody had poured an entire bottle over her head. Despite that, there was the faint smell of something else beneath, and not something pleasant either.

Sarevok’s eyes narrowed. He thought he could recognize that smell, and for a second he started reaching for his sword. Then he remembered that he was at the damned ball, and that the Sword of Chaos was not the sort of accessory well-dressed gentlemen of Baldur’s Gate wore to balls, as Winski had previously put it. He did have a small knife, but that was it. Still, it would have to do. Quickening his stride he set course for the woman in pink, his blood suddenly burning hot with murderous fury.

I’ll KILL them! This is all I needed to top off an already disastrous day. The woman must have noticed his intentions from the look on his face. She grunted with fear and surprise, yanking at the sleeve of her giggling companion. And then, before Sarevok could react, the slim woman darted forward and grasped his hand. The short one kept eating noisily.

“Oh, how lovely to meet you at last!” the ‘woman’ cooed in a shrill voice. “We’ve been waiting for ages! Right girls?” Beneath the veil Sarevok glimpsed a grotesquely tattooed face, but before he had the time to stab the disguised wizard in the guts the man flicked a lacy handkerchief in his face, more or less wiping his mouth. “Oh, you’ve got a little itty bit of food…right there! Can’t leave it there, it might live on and multiply. Before you know it it’ll have developed a language and planning to launch a vessel for a ride to the MOON!” The strange figure giggled again. “To the MOON! And the moon is made from baatezu-cheese, and the cheese is what will conquer the WORLD when the Great Old Ones come again. Remember that, always be on guard against the cheese. The whispering voices in the walls told me that.”

Then the ‘woman’ grasped the hands of her companions and disappeared in a sudden flash of lightning, leaving a confused and angry Sarevok with a lot of pent up frustration and nobody to take it out on. In the end, he had to settle for stomping his foot, something that definitely lacked the forcefulness of chopping somebody’s head off.

Meanwhile, in the Secret Headquarters of Xzar the Necromancer, Montaron the Thief and their trusty sidekick Abduh the Zombie, the mood was elated.

“We did it!” Montaron chortled, dancing about the room in the ‘Gutted Avariel’ where they had taken up residence. As should be evident from the name, this inn was not a place where nice and righteous people stayed. At least not for very long. “We bloody well did it!” Montaron yelled again, almost cracking his head open as he cavorted by under a table. “Wizard, I take back every bad word I ever said about yer smarts.”

Xzar preened, creating a very odd impression since he was still wearing his golden dress. He’d insisted on adding heavy makeup as well, claiming that it helped him ‘get into the part’. “Oh, thank you so much, Monty,” he said. “But I never would have done it if not for Abduh.”

“Urrrgh?” the zombie said, looking up from where he was sitting on the floor, investigating the intricacies of his new set of underwear, quite as pink and as lacy as the dress was.

“Yes, yes, it’s true. Without spotting him picking his nose I never would have thought of infecting Sarevok with my own, homegrown version of the ‘Chortling Death’, the dreaded pestilence that makes you choke on your own laughter, strong enough to affect even supernatural creatures and undead. If you don’t get a cure within fifteen minutes you’re dead. He is doomed, Monty! DOOMED! Isn’t it GLORIOUS? And if the rest of Baldur’s Gate should croak as well, that is certainly worthy it. After all, you can’t make an omelet without cracking a few skulls. That’s what Granny always said, and her omelets were famous.”

“Urrrgh?”

“Yes, Abduh, of course I’ll make you some. Such a good boy you are, yes you are…” The wizard tickled the zombie beneath his jowls, making him pant with eager excitement.

“Right,” Montaron said. “Good thing ye did some practice runs first too. Why, that extra strong breed of common cold was bad enough to put a man in bed fer days!”

Xzar suddenly turned a pasty white beneath his makeup, staring at the table. There were two glass test tubes standing on it. And there was also a handkerchief, very similar to the one he had previously employed. “Er…Monty? You know when I prepared the test sample? Well, I planned to put it away afterwards, but then Abduh was feeling frisky and I had to deworm him, and what with one thing and another…I…think I might have…been a little confused.”

“What? You…you mean you don’t know if what we’ve got sitting on that table, out in the open, what we’ve been breathing in without the protection of those enspelled veils and wig is common cold or…or…Chortling Dea…”

“Ur…ur…urghehehehhehe!” Abduh suddenly chortled.

Xzar and Montaron looked at each other for a long moment, their eyes brimming over with horror. “Arrrrgh!” Xzar screamed, his voice reaching a trilling falsetto. “To the temple Monty! To the…hihihi…TEMPLE!”

As they stormed down the stairs, dragging Abduh after them, Montaron’s voice drifted back. “You know, wizard? What I said…heheheh…about taking back what I said about yer…hahahah…smarts? Well, guess what? I take it back.”

On the other side of the city, deep within the Iron Throne compound Sarevok sneezed for the first time. Sadly for him, it wasn’t the last.