But there were more ways to beat an opponent, Kaerion thought as he launched himself at the smiling figure. He was bleeding from his wounds, but it was draining away the poison, and Kaerion was slowly gaining back some control of his body. His sword whistled as its keen edge cut sidewise in an attempt to lay open the man’s stomach. The smile fell from his opponent’s face as he was forced to roll out of the way of the attack.
Kaerion followed through as quickly as he could, not wanting to give the unarmed man a chance to regain his footing. A second cut with his sword should have laid open the man’s bowels, but his opponent’s agility saved him again. Instead of a deathblow, the sword had made a shallow cut on his hip.
Pressing the attack, Kaerion noted with satisfaction that his opponent was giving ground. Soon, he’d have the man backed into an alleyway. With little room to maneuver, the pockmarked man would not be able to dodge the deadly strokes of his blade.
A few more moments, Kaerion thought as his sword wove a net of steel, driving back his opponent.
There!
Kaerion raised his sword, intent on cutting a deadly swathe of steel across the man’s body—
And struck nothing but air.
The monk had run up the side of the nearby wall and used his momentum to launch a flurry of kicks at Kaerion. Each one shot pain through Kaerion’s already battered body. Another kick caught him straight in the chest, and he found himself knocked backward out of the alleyway.
Kaerion rolled gracelessly to his feet, but already he could feel the presence of his opponent, waiting to rain death down upon him. Kaerion knew he was at the last of his strength.
The twang of a bowstring cut through the night, followed by the hiss of arrows. His opponent cast a baleful eye toward the source of that sound, and Kaerion watched in disbelief as his opponent’s hands moved quicker than his eye could follow, knocking aside the incoming missile. Two more followed soon after, and Kaerion knew that Gerwyth had arrived on the scene. Unbelievably, the pockmarked man deflected two more missiles. The fourth, however, caught him in the shoulder, and he let out a grunt of pain.
In the distance, Kaerion could hear the sounds of the city watch heading toward the embattled inn. His opponent must have heard it too, for he ducked back into the alleyway, safe from the deadly arrows.
“This is far from over,” the man growled at him in a rough voice. He brought both hands together and began a low-throated chant. The air rippled beside him, shadows within shadows. He cast another hard look at the fallen fighter and then stepped into the moving shadows, disappearing as if he’d stepped through an unseen door.
Kaerion groaned and struggled to his feet. By the time he made it into the alleyway, it was clear that his opponent was gone.
When the upper storey of the Platinum Shield exploded in a burst of flames, Durgoth knew that his henchmen had encountered some difficulties. Just how great these difficulties were didn’t become clear until he saw both Sydra and Eltanel fleeing the inn. Rage and frustration at their incompetence ruled him for just a moment. He wanted to strike down their fleeing forms then and there.
Mercifully, the moment passed. Durgoth knew he could deal with their failure later. What concerned him now was the sheer strength of those who unknowingly sought the same thing as he: the Tomb of Acererak. His distraction had been dealt with very effectively. The presence of that other god still shook him deeply, and he marveled at the faith and power of anyone who could wield such holy might. This was no motley collection of treasure-hungry adventurers arrayed against him. Surprised and unprepared, they had still beaten back a carefully planned attack.
Perhaps, Durgoth thought, there may be a way to use such strength. Possibilities began to spin in his mind—plans and plots as cunning and twisted as the man who created them.
The sound of combat caught his attention, and he looked out from his vantage point in the darkened alley, smiling as he caught sight of Jhagren locked in battle with some sword-wielding brute. At least, Durgoth thought with some satisfaction, he could still count on the monk to succeed at his tasks. Though Jhagren’s opponent looked imposing, blood ran from several deep wounds, and it was clear that he was no match for the monk.
Durgoth watched a few moments more. He found himself slightly disappointed when the whistles and alarms of approaching sentinels drew closer. The presence of the elven archer had just made the battle interesting.
“Ah, well,” he whispered to the chill night air. “We shall all meet again. Very soon.”
He faded into the darkness of the alleyway.
8
“The Scarlet Brotherhood… here?” Bredeth’s voice, grating at its normal volume, was pitched just short of a shout.
Majandra winced at the harsh tone, but managed to keep her face impassive. It was clear that the night’s events had rattled the young noble, and she had no wish to antagonize him further. Dark bruises stood out vividly on the man’s cream-tinted complexion, and several cuts crisscrossed both arms.
Despite herself, the half-elf was impressed that the young warrior had acquitted himself well during the battle. Perhaps, she thought, he won’t be a complete liability on the journey.
“How could those damnable assassins have found out about our plans?” the young noble asked in a slightly softer voice. “And why would they take such an interest in us?”
“The Brotherhood has its eyes and ears in every major city,” Phathas replied from his chair in the corner of the room, “and we have made little secret about our intentions. In that, we may have been a bit foolish. As for their interest, well, I believe that a united and healthy Nyrond would be a severe impediment to whatever dark schemes they are hatching.”
Majandra listened to the old mage’s words, trying to look attentive, but concern for her mentor kept clouding her thoughts. Despite the healing prayers of Vaxor, dark circles ringed the deep hollows of the wizards eyes, and his face seemed shrunken, almost ghoul-like in the firelight—weathered flesh stretched taut across the skull, like the cracked skin of an ancient drum.
Tonight’s attack had drained them all, but it seemed as if the battle had taken something permanent from the old mage. Vaxor had dealt with the sentinels and the hysterical rambling of the Platinum Shields proprietor. Even after leading the weary group to the spell-sealed chambers of the Royal University, Phathas seemed strangely silent, bent beneath burdens only he could identify. Now, as they sat within the relative comfort and safety of the university walls, the bard watched in dismay as those burdens continued to consume the flesh of her beloved teacher.
“Something just isn’t right,” interjected Gerwyth, as he drew himself out of the shadow-spun corner of the chamber. His lilting accent caught Majandra’s attention, turning her mind away from dark thoughts. She was surprised to find that despite the evening’s exertions, the elf appeared unruffled. Though he had discarded his usual cloak and wore his studded leather armor openly, the elf would not have drawn comment had he been attending a banquet, such was the effect of his still-immaculate waves of golden hair and unearthly beauty. His eyes reflected back the golden light of the fire, shining like emeralds in the small room, and if not for the grim set of jaw, one would have never known the ranger had fought a pitched battle just hours ago.
“Despite the fact that the attack was well planned,” he continued after a nod from Phathas, “it did not feel like the Brotherhood’s handiwork. It was too… straightforward, if you ask me.”
“I agree,” Vaxor’s deep voice resonated in the chamber. He turned to the silent figure of Kaerion, staring idly into the fire. “Are you sure that you encountered a member of the Scarlet Brotherhood? Perhaps it was someone else—a different group trying to shift blame onto the Brotherhood?”