Chapter Text
Clouds covered the moon. Leaves stuck to cobbles, still wet from the day’s earlier rain. The scent of brine and the call of seabirds filled the air. Soren drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders and hurried on.
All around her the Docks Ward wended in a gloomy, endless twist of muddy roads and back alleys. The night air kicked up a thick mist that obscured objects and people more than a block away. At this hour most folk kept to the taverns and warehouses, either drinking or wishing they were. She’d begun her search at the wharf and steadily made her way inland, turning wherever her feet chose to take her. Soren passed windows glowing a soft orange from inner candlelight, full of patrons, ale, and laughter. Once or twice she glanced up to the second story level of a building to see couples engaged in lovemaking. But such comfort was not for her.
No, Soren thought as she leaned against the side of a building to fish a pebble from her boot, she’d had the brilliant idea of going after the Dockside Slasher. There was no plan, really, other than she fit the profile of the murder’s other victims; just an elf, walking alone.
Most of those killed already had been sailors or tradesfolk, but no adventurers. Perhaps it was a foolish assumption, but if she could help, if she could make a difference with her skills, then Soren hoped to put an end to this. She shuddered to recall the touch of Rezmir’s knife and rubbed at her throat. Each of the Docks Ward victims had been decapitated. It was not a fate she wanted to tempt a second time, yet here she was, doing just that.
Pulling her boot back on, Soren paused in lacing. Something, some sixth sense, tugged at her attention. Try as she might, however, she couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Her soles left prints in the mud as she hurried on.
High, high above the street level, in the lee of a large gable, several pairs of glowing red eyes watched Soren cross the street and disappear into another alleyway. Another set of eyes glowed across the gap between buildings. Signals flashed in the otherwise impenetrable gloom.
She is searching for us. Do we follow this one?
Only a brief pause elapsed before the reply came. Fetch the others. It is time for the hunt!
Grins answered all around, savage and full of the light of hatred.
~
Remy held up her hands, one corner of her mouth twitching nervously. “H-Hey there, I, uh, I don’t know any Victoro--”
“Mr. Victoro wants to see ya regardin’ family matters. Now, be a good girl’n come along nice and quiet-like.” The half-elf seized her by the collar and brought her close enough to his face that she could smell the beer on his breath. “Nuthin’ ta worry about, Miss. We’re professionals.”
“You certainly don’t smell like professionals.”
The half-elf snarled. Behind him cobbles and buildings clattered by. Shouts filled the air as people threw themselves out of the way of the careening vehicle. By the sound of arguing in the driver’s box, there were clearly at least two goons. Remy felt the opposite side of the carriage rock heavily in response to one of the men jumping down. Sure enough, the shadow of a large half-orc obscured the window. One tug was enough to tear the door from its hinges. It threw up sparks as he tossed it to the ground.
“Boss says we gotta bring ye in,” growled the half-orc around his rather impressive tusks. “Didn’t say nuffink ‘bout if yer legs was broken when we deliver ye.”
“You know, haha, you make a very compelling argument-- oh my god, is that your mother?!” she gasped, pointing dramatically behind the half-orc.
He spat to the side and grunted out an unconvincing chuckle. “Me ma’s been dead these past five years. Nice try.”
“Your loss.” Remy shrugged.
“What?”
The half-elf clapped a firm hand on her shoulder from behind. “Don’t make this difficult, now.” He chuckled as Remy hung her head. “Tha’s right. We’re just gonna take a nice, quiet ride--”
Quick as lightning, Remy threw her head backward. The curve of her horns slammed against the half-elf’s temples with a sharp thock . She seized the half-orc by the collar and whipped forward, smashing her forehead directly into his nose. The movement had her seeing stars but she didn’t dare stop.
Some instinct had her kicking out, the well-placed blow catching the half-elf between the legs. He jerked back, losing his balance. A sharp, high-pitched noise left his mouth as he tumbled out of the open carriage door and hit the cobbles at speed, rolling out of sight.
The half-orc, blood streaming down his face, coiled his fist for a vicious punch. It hissed by Remy, narrowly missing her in the cramped quarters of the carriage. Strands of her hair ruffled in the breeze.
No one so far had remained standing after being hit with one of her headbutts. Remy laughed nervously. She smashed the hard ridge of her brow line into his face again, a third time. At last, his grip loosened enough for her to shake herself free.
She leapt out of the door, hanging onto the top rail. The wheels threw up sparks as they clattered along the uneven cobbles. Her black hair whipped out behind her. “Sorry!” she called as a promenading couple had to throw themselves out of the way of the high-speed carriage.
A curse from the driver’s box caught her attention. The thug driving the carriage hauled on the reins with all the expertise of a mason in an alchemist’s shop. “Slow down, ye daft beast!” he shouted, yanking hard.
The morgan mare gave a defiant whinny. She tossed her black mane, eyes wild.
In that frothing mouth and deadly hooves Remy saw her best means of escape. A quick glance behind told her that there was another carriage in hot pursuit, more of Victoro’s men no doubt, ready to do whatever damage they had been paid to do--plus a little extra on the side.
“Pardon me.” Remy flipped herself up into the driver's box.
A moment later the man went flying. His head cracked on the poles and breeching on his way down, tangling his arm in the straps. The thug hollered and flailed as the trace twisted his arm.
That got the mare’s attention. Her iron shoes sent up sparks on the cobbles as she clattered to a halt. A shrill whinny left her mouth as she reared. “Unhand me at once, you brute!”
Despite the rush and the thunder of the carriage under her, Remy had to shake her head hard to clear it. Had the horse just--
“Jus’ wot I bloody need,” the half-orc growled, pulling himself up on the opposite side as Remy. “A bloody talkin’ horse.” His big, meaty hand clapped down on the driver’s box, making the wood splinter.
The mare managed to shake free the man tangled in her straps. She reared once more, powerful hooves coming down with heavy purpose. Bloody splattered across the road. A passersby screamed.
Remy looked several times in quick succession between the thug and the horse. “You know, haha,” she laughed nervously. “On second thought, let’s take a raincheck, yeah?”
The half-orc snarled and swiped for her. His fist met only open air.
Remy leapt for the mare’s back and nearly met the same fate as the last man. She wrapped one hand around the backband and pulled out her rapier with the other. “Hi, sorry about this!” she called over the mare’s frantic whinnies. “I’m a friend!”
“Brigands!” the mare cried, rearing again. Her deadly hooves pawed at the air. “This explicitly goes against my contract! Un hand me, I say!”
Clinging for dear life, Remy hacked at the connecting straps. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The constant jolts kept knocking the half-orc back in the driver’s box. Behind him, though, Remy could see the second carriage bearing down on their position. Right now, this horse was all that stood between her and a place at the end of Victoro’s ritual dagger.
“Hey, girl, listen--”
“It’s Maxeene ,” the mare snorted. “Waterdhavian Chapter President for Equine Labor Rights.”
Remy gritted her teeth as a few of the straps came loose. She tossed her rapier between her hands and started frantically hacking at the straps on the opposite side. “Just my luck, a union horse,” she grumbled.
“I’ll have you know--”
“Maxeene, I don’t care if you’re Laeral-goddamn-Silverhand, we--” The loin strap finally gave. Its tension slapped Remy across the wrist. She cursed. “We are under attack!”
The mare shook her head, nearly whipping Remy in the face with her black mane. She pranced roughly, shying away from the collision trajectory of the other carriage.
It screeched to a stop, three human males jumping down from the footmen’s step and the driver’s box. “Get ‘em! Mr. Victoro wants the tiefling alive!”
Maxeene gasped, the sound sharp and high. Her brown eyes rolled, showing their whites. “ Union busters!” she cried.
“Yes, yes exactly!” Remy clung to whatever vestige of sanity was going to get her out of this predicament. “Union busters! You-- we’ve got to get out of here!”
One of the men, a fellow who had clearly never handled a horse in his life, rushed at them from behind. In the same instant, Remy’s rapier cut the tracing strap, severing their connection to the carriage. Only instinct saved her.
The entire world pitched forward as Maxeene sprang onto her front legs. Her hindquarters exploded into motion with all the force of a smokepowder bomb. The poor fool who’d been within striking distance received the full impact of Maxeene’s equality-driven wrath. He flew through the air as if launched from a trebuchet. A sickening crunch followed when his body met the cobbles, a full depression of a hoof in his caved-in chest. He did not get up again.
“I didn’t know horses could kick omni-directionally--” Remy began.
Maxeene whinnied again, shying away from the half-orc, who leapt for her reins. Her next, very well-placed hoof, caved in his entire knee. He went down screaming.
“The movement!” Maxeene gasped, shaking obsidian strands of mane from her eyes. “Friend! Remove my blinders. We must warn the others!”
Not daring to disagree at this point, it only took a few flicks of Remy’s rapier for the blinders to fall away entirely. “Warn who--”
“No time!” The moment her blinders fell away, Maxeene surged forward, taking Remy along for the ride--
--whether she wanted it or not.
~
It was not that Soren noticed someone following her, exactly. Her boots splashed through puddles, splattering mud against the worn leather. Every other step her bow bumped softly against her backside. In the thick sea mist, every corner seemed unfamiliar, every barrel became--however briefly--the outline of a would-be attacker.
Something had raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
It was the silence, she decided. Quite without meaning to, the length of her stride increased. Not even the Docks Ward was so quiet at night. There were taverns, late business, deliveries, friends wandering about town, beggars, and, of course, elves--who kept no schedule but their own.
Foolish! Here she was, a woman, walking alone. Only a dragon would think that a single killer, regardless of skill, could not possibly pose a danger. Stupid, stupid! What on Toril had she been thinking?
She was being hunted.
Only when Soren rounded a corner rather too quickly to find herself in a dead-end alleyway, did she realize that she’d been herded, as well.
Out of the corner of her eye, on the roof of the warehouse above, she spied three small, skinny-and overall familiar-- outlines. They crouched at the top of a pulley beam that led down to a pallet and tied-down crank on the ground. The three orphans; Nat, Jenks, and Squiddly, peered over the eave like wayward young gulls, ready to fly into bravado or retreat at any moment.
Before Soren could call up and demand to know what they thought they were doing, and didn’t they know there was a killer on the loose, she became aware that her uneasy feeling had not originated with them. She whirled around, just in time to see a man all in black materialize out of the fog.
They were nearly of a height, she and he. He dressed in serviceable ebony leathers piped in silver. A Lantanese pistol and a shortsword hung at his hip. The emblem of a spider adorned the front of his chestpiece. A pair of blazing, glowing red eyes stared back at her. Before he even reached to lower his cowl, Soren knew what she would see.
“Drow,” she breathed, hackles rising in fear. On all of Toril there were few sights more terrifying, few people more sadistic or deadly than the drow of the Underdark. Sacrificers, mad evangelicals of the highest order, slavers, cold-blooded killers, all of them, to a man, dedicated to their wicked spider goddess.
“Very good, pretty little faerie,” the drow growled with a savage grin. His thick accent gave his voice an almost beautiful, musical quality, despite the hatred in it. “What is it doing, wandering all alone?”
Soren’s gaze caught the flicker of more shapes behind the drow. At first her heart leapt that it might be rescue, some well-meaning fellow citizen--until she saw the red pinpricks of light that informed her just how dire her predicament had become. Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. “Wh-What are you doing in Waterdeep?”
The drow at the front began a slow, predatory circle, forcing her to look away from his incoming friends. He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “We are the Bregan D’aerthe, the scourge of the Sword Coast. We do what we please, for coin or pleasure.”
The other men who came slowly, silently, out of the fog, all wore a similar uniform. She could read nothing on their faces, visages hard as stone. But their eyes…
…their eyes were hungry.
“You’re the Dockside Slasher.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been killing all those people.”
He smiled. A panther who knows he is about to eat. “Yes.”
“Why?” Soren couldn’t help it. She took a step back, yielding ground.
The man looked positively animal, so naked was his bloodlust. He was a bit of a broad fellow, with a handsome, if severe, face. A long scar ran down one side of his jaw. There was a high song of sharpness and metal as he drew his shortsword. “Because,” the drow said, venom mixing with beatific certainty, “your kind disgust me. ”
Soren swept the expressions of the other men and found no allies. No, they were all here to kill, to satisfy some perverse drow need for bloodshed. Her sweep passed by the cargo platform. If she could just get there and cut the cord on the pulley crank, the descent of the ballast would whisk the platform upwards. She might just be able to ride that to the rooftops and, if she was lucky, escape.
Bregan D’aerthe. Soren tried to focus in on her memory, to recall something. Anything.
Wait, yes--there it was! A Harper briefing? No, a paper on Renaer’s desk! A dossier she had caught him reading that very morning on her way down for breakfast.
Disgraced noble sons and common men, all castaways from their place in the highly competitive world of drow society. They were a mercenary company, rumored to take any work, no matter how dastardly, always selling their services to the highest bidder. Once signed into a contract, once a target was given, they executed their mission with ruthless efficiency. With a leader shrouded in the greatest of secrecy, they weren’t the sort of people Soren wanted to get mixed up with under the best of circumstances. Even a good drow was merely a neutral ally waiting for a chance to strike, should the situation turn in his favor.
Soren had lived nearly eight centuries, most of it alone after her younger, hoard-collecting days. Mirror-Lake and its mountain cave had ever been her solitary home. If there was a drow on all of Toril who was truly a kind man, Soren had never heard his name.
The flat of the drow’s blade propped up her chin. Its razor’s edge so close near her throat that Soren hardly dared breathe. “Still, you are…” His red gaze flicked up and down, appraising her form. “...adequate. A fine prize for a decent addition to my purse.” A single dusky finger touched her cheek. Soren couldn’t tell what he hated more: her elven appearance or his own lustful response. “Perhaps you would make a good pleasure slave in Menzoberranzan.”
A chorus of low, chilling chuckles passed through the gathered men. “Which will it choose, I wonder,” the drow said, his lip curled in vicious superiority. “Death--”
“--or service?”
Later, Soren wasn’t certain how she’d managed to move that fast.
She spat in his face. His flinch gave her enough time-- just enough--to reach the platform and cut the rope to loose the ballast.
In a hissing of hemp cord and the clunky whizzing of its salt-rusted pulley system, the ballast fell two feet before stopping entirely. The platform beneath her feet failed to move so much as an inch.
Nonplussed, Soren blinked.
“Haha,” she said, meeting the gaze of the enraged drow.
The gathered men moved as one, the click of their Lantanese pistols the only sound they made. On all of Toril, there was nothing so silent--or so deadly--as a drow. It played out in slow motion; the crouch before the lunge, the aim before the volley. Red eyes burning, burning into her. She might be able to kill one, seriously injure another, but she couldn’t take on a whole mercenary strike team all by herself.
At that moment, several things happened all at once.
The lead drow sprung, sword cutting through the mist like a dervish. Soren saw it arcing towards her. Her own coin-gold eyes looking back at her out of the sword’s reflection.
A rowdy cheer went up from the rooftop, followed by a wild clunking.
“You know,” Soren stalled nervously, “maybe we could work something o--!”
The ballast dropped like a two-ton brick. Halfway down, Soren felt her arm nearly jerk out of her shoulder. The drow’s sword caught the edge of the platform, splintering wood, as it shot into the air.
Soren fully expected to light upon the roof with all her natural grace. Instead, the hissing rope hit another knot, jerking her wildly before falling again.
Knowing she wouldn’t get a second chance, Soren leapt, half propelled by the platform’s momentum and half by her own. She clotheslined into the side of the eave. All the breath blasted out of her lungs, her chest burning.
The jump landed her right in front of Nat, Jenks, and Squiddly.
“Wow!” Squiddly exclaimed, his face as excited as it was terrified. “You’re gonna die!”
Soren scrabbled for purchase on the grey shingles. A resounding crack of smokepowder filled the alley. A moment later Soren felt searing pain as a bullet grazed her shoulder. Whizzing by with dizzying speed, several other lead shots missed her by mere inches.
The roof would be safe, they wouldn’t be able to follow her up--
“Wow!” Jenks echoed. “They can fly, too!”
Fear lent Soren strength. By the time she’d scrambled, in a very undignified way, to her feet, the kids had backed up.
Squiddly brandished a child’s bow with a toy arrow fitted in the notch. “Leave this to me, I can take’em!”
Nat flashed an urgent sign.
“Uh, Nat says we should--” began Jenks.
“There’s no time!” Soren shouted, seizing Squiddly by the arm. Another Lantanese bullet went streaking by her head. One glance over her shoulder was enough to confirm that the drow were, in fact, levitating towards them at all speed.
“RUN!”
~
Remy clung on to Maxeene for dear life. Sure, maybe the horse needed to come to terms with the way things actually worked, and maybe it wasn’t really polite to judge, but she was fairly certain that all horses, if not this specific horse, needed a psychiatrist.
The Chapter President for Equine Labor Rights had a great deal to say on their wild canter through a maze of back service alleys. As far as Remy was concerned, ‘union’ was just a fancier way of saying ‘guild’. But she did admit that ‘collective bargaining’ had a bit of a decent ring to it.
Besides, as long as Maxeene was in the process of trying to convince Remy to be a sympathizer to The Cause, she kept running. And as long as Maxeene kept running, Remy stayed alive.
She risked a glance back over her shoulder and immediately wished she hadn’t done so. Victoro’s men had horses of their own, steering them--albeit not quite as well--down the twisting streets. They were gaining on her.
Keep Maxeene talking, that was key.
“Does your organization include ponies as well as horse--ah, other equine folk?” she panted. Sure, she’d seen plenty of horses. But ridden one? Not in a million years.
“No!” Maxeene snorted, as if that were the most ridiculous suggestion. “Their body is smaller, so the Devil is greater within them.”
When Remy had escaped Baldur’s Gate, she’d done so by scarpering from the scene as fast as possible. Once on the outside, she’d hidden in the first available barrel, only to find that it was full of fish. Not daring to risk capture by the Flaming Fist, she stayed put until the barrel itself was rolled onto a merchant ship bound for Waterdeep. It had taken days to get the smell out of her hair and her clothes. Needless to say, operating a horse was as foreign to her as wings on a kobold.
They careened around a corner just in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding a crossbow quarrel. It smashed into a brick just shy of Remy’s head. The tiefling thief had enough time to redirect her attention forward, to the wide gap in buildings ahead of them. Maxeene charged ahead, heedless of the broad intersection directly in their path. Even from here Remy could tell that the evening rush hour was in full swing.
“Uh, Maxeene--” Remy tugged on the leather strap in front of her, desperately trying to bring the insane mare to heel. “Now would be a good time to slow down!”
“Negatory, comrade!” Maxeene whinnied, tossing her black mane. “Now is as good a time as any! Today, we are mere heroes, liberators of the masses; tomorrow we shall be union men!”
“What does that even mean--”
The mare bent her head into the run, her discordant strides becoming one coordinated motion. Maxeene’s hooves picked up the pace, and she closed on the intersection like a vengeful god. Behind them, Victoro’s men gave a shout as the mare soon outstripped them.
Maxeene and Remy burst out of the side street and into the congested crowd. Passersby cried out in alarm. Folk carrying packages rushed to get out of her way. A dwarf toppled over, spilling a sack of barley. Several carriages rattled as their harnessed horses whinnied in distress at the sudden noise and panic.
“Now is the time!” Maxeene declared, giving an impressive rear that nearly sent Remy tumbling off her back. “My comrades! My brothers!”
Remy clung to the mad mare for dear life. No sooner had she found her center of gravity, tail whipping through the air, Maxeene did some other daft thing, and the tiefling had to flail wildly to avoid being thrown to her death.
“What in Tymora’s name are you doing?! ” Remy shouted.
One look over her shoulder confirmed that Victoro’s thugs were still in hot pursuit, taking advantage of the road block the crowd provided.
Twisting around and around as Maxeene pawed at the air, she caught sight of an alley on the opposite side of the road. Remy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Everybody MOVE!”
“Workers of the world, throw off your chains!” Maxeene cried, heedless to the parting mass of bodies.
“Now is NOT the time!” Remy shook the belly strap and gave Maxeene a few hard kicks. “We have to run or we’ll be killed!”
All around them mare and geldings began to buck and snort. Drivers, passengers, and riders gave shouts of fear, some scrambling to vacate their carriages.
“Come ON,” Remy hollered desperately. The clattering of their pursuers’ hooves rang on the cobbles. Too close. “The movement can’t succeed if you’re captured!”
That got through to the mad mare. “Excellent thinking, comrade!” Maxeene wheeled about on her back legs, giving one last rousing whinny as she and Remy disappeared down the empty alley. “Resist the harness! Resist the bit! You have nothing to lose but your bridles!”
Remy laid low over Maxeene’s neck as they turned sharp corners. Yells and shouts of condemnation echoed after them. “Hurry, hurry!” she urged.
Maxeene scrabbled around another tight turn, onto a wider side street. “Good sir,” she cried, “make way! Make way for progress!”
“Oh fuck me.” Remy raised her head, fighting to see past Maxeene’s whipping mane.
There, making his way verrrry slowly across the empty intersection, was an old monk with a walking staff. Remy had to blink twice. Were his robes made of gold? He looked to be at peace with all the world and all the creatures in it, going along at the most sedate pace possible. Around his shoulders chittered and flew seven gold canaries.
In the split seconds before the distance between them closed, she tugged on Maxeene’s strap again. “Jump, for Tymora’s sake, JUMP!”
For the first time, the mare obeyed her. Not breaking her stride in the least, Maxeene bunched her powerful muscles and launched herself into the air.
Time slowed for Remy.
She squeezed her eyes shut. How would she explain to Soren that she had been piloting a crazy equine beast at just the right time to mow down a defenseless old man? The sensation of flying, weightless for a moment, engulfed her.
The old monk continued his walk as if he did not at all see the danger that sailed precariously close to his head.
Maxeene’s hooves shed dust as they crested the monk. The outer edge of her iron shoe came within a razor’s width of one of the canaries in flight. Wind from their passage ruffled the hem of the man’s robe.
As Remy felt them begin to descend, her eyes unscrunched. They hadn’t hit him! Maybe they’d get through this alive yet! Her eyes opened, only to be met with a dark shape that filled her whole vision.
Remy had not even a second to wonder at that before her face met the shop sign at full gallop. White-hot pain exploded in her skull and then all over her body as she tumbled, limp as a ragdoll, to the ground.
~
“Good thing we found you!”
“Yeah, you’re safe with us, now!”
Soren didn’t have a second to spare to glance at her pursuers. They were drow; deadly and efficient. Truth be told, she wasn’t certain if she was trying to escape slavery or death. Did it matter, with the drow?
She windmilled her arms, crossing a narrow gap between buildings. Shingles cracked under the impact of her weight. Soren ran on, accompanied on all sides by the orphan children. If they weren’t so very clever and very, very fast, she might have mistaken them for being helpless.
“What on Toril are you three doing down here?” she panted.
Jenks brightened up. “We were following you!”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah!” piped Squiddly. His whipping red tail gave him the best balance out of all of them. “We know the upper city like the back of our hands! We were gonna catch the killer!”
Jenks grinned. “We were gonna be heroes! Then there were six instead of one,” he added sheepishly.
“But it’s dangerous, ” Soren pointed out, vaulting over a steep gable. Her larger, adult body had to work harder to calculate her strides to match the children’s; what could and could not take her weight. If only she had her wings!
“Duh!” Squiddly rolled his eyes. “That’s why we’re rescuing you!”
Nat ran at the head of the group. In all honesty, Soren was following the lanky Illuskan girl through the maze of rooftops and chimney stacks. She fired off a series of quick signs, not bothering to check if the boys--or Soren--received them.
Squiddly punched the air with both fists. “YES!” he crowed. “Peanut Butter Run!”
“Aw,” Jenks frowned to Soren’s left. “But, but!”
“Wait,” Soren gasped, running along a steep ridgeline. “Peanut Butter what? ”
Ignoring her, Jenks made a face at Squiddly. “But that’s my Dock’s Ward stash!”
“Sod off!” Squiddly shouted from Soren’s other side. “I know you’ve got some in your robe!”
“ What ,” Soren said sharply, “is a Peanut Butter Run?” She ducked just in time to avoid a clothesline strung between two buildings. Her brown braids fanned out behind her. Always one for practicality, she secured her shortsword the moment she could spare a glance down at her scabbard.
“It’s what we do to get away from the Watch!” Squiddly said, not seeming too frightened by the six drow only a dozen yards behind them--and gaining fast.
Jenks reached into his robes and pulled out a glass jar of peanut butter. “But Squiddly ,” he whined. “This is my special jar, it’s only for emergencies!”
“Anytime you get hungry is an emergency!” the young tiefling shot back at his friend. It was a well-trod rib, and neither of the lads yelled with anything other than brotherly annoyance. He glanced at their leader’s flashing fingers. “Nat says just do it!”
The skinny Illuskan girl only looked back once, trusting in her companions to follow instructions. She put on a burst of impressive speed, her bare feet practically spitting roof tiles as she turned a hard corner.
Soren soon saw why. The moment Nat ducked left, the ranger suddenly saw that a larger road separated this building and the next. There was no way to jump it, yet they would have to cross if they were to escape the Bregan D’aerthe. She banked left at the last moment.
Jenks took up the rear. With a sigh of “Aw, man!” he tossed the jar of peanut butter behind him.
It shattered on the roof tiles. Tinkling and cracking, the glass fell away. A large smear of peanut butter covered the roof in front of a blind dormer.
Running slightly slower so that Jenks could get in front of her, Soren’s head snapped around at the sound of an angry shout.
The lead two drow cut around the corner at top speed. What fear did they have of one lone elf and three surface children. How much trouble could they really be?
Soluun Xibrindas, leading his fellows in this merry hunt, gave a savage and hungry smile. The wood-elf’s look of fear was almost as sweet as the death he had imagined for her. They had managed to beat a hasty retreat from Baldur’s Gate-- before the Absolute Crisis got into full swing--and he had not had the free time he was accustomed to, to hunt and kill as he pleased. Not that the Captain knew anything, of course. Soluun and those of similar mind were all sworn to the highest of secrecy, especially Teryn Duskryn. If their…‘recreational activities’ were discovered, Soluun had all the support he needed within their little clique to implicate Teryn instead as the catalyst for these games.
A few crack shots of his Lantanese pistol and Soren gave a cry. Blood ran down from where the bullet had clipped her shoulder, staining the back of her moss-colored tunic. Soluun’s grin grew even wider.
Run, iblith, while you can. Her fear really was delicious. Perhaps he would savor it; have a bit of fun before ripping her life from her body. Would she scream when he took her? Weep as he and his fellows used her for their pleasure? Soluun could not suppress a dark chuckle. He hated surface elves more than he hated anything else. Oh yes, he would make the ranger beg for her life while he fucked her. And only once release was reached, only when her freedom seemed imminent, would he make the final cut.
Soluun drew even with the dormer, Teryn Duskryn hot on his heels.
One moment, he was happily undressing the wood elf with his gaze, and the next thing he knew, both feet flew out from under him.
Teryn crashed into Soluun with a violent curse. He scrabbled for balance on the peanut butter trap, but only for a moment.
In a heap of dusky limbs and web-patterned armor, both men went tumbling off the roof to land in the street below.
Soren looked back over her shoulder as Squiddly gave a vicious, exuberant cheer. “FUCK yes!”
“Language, young man!”
The remaining four drow ignored their fallen companions. The hunt was on, and between their drumming blood and the sight of their prey, they would stop for nothing.
Nat leapt out from the roof onto a taut ratline. She scampered across the street from on high, the boys and Soren close behind.
Soren was not certain the ratline would take her weight, but now was not the time to be doubting her guides. “Do you three know everything about the city?” she managed to ask once they were safely across.
“Everything worth knowing!” said Squiddly.
“Yeah!” said Jenks. “Like where to find the best pies!”
Soren smiled briefly. “I hesitate to ask,” she said, losing her mirth as she watched the Bregan D’aerthe begin to cross the ratline with more precision than she’d been able to manage.
“Nite Nite Fatty’s!” the boys cheered together.
They had gained a decent distance. Nat jumped over to a lower warehouse roof. Instead of heading alone the ridgeline, she veered across the middle. Soren followed, boots clanking on the sheets of tin.
A large square shape revealed itself in the dark, situated just beside a flat hatch. Nat skidded to a halt, motioning Squiddly to take the lead. As soon as all three had passed her she slammed open the latch on the square box, revealing the dovecote inside.
The moment the drows’ heavy footsteps rattled the roof, the unhappy doves burst out of their cage. Scratching feet and a flurry of angry beaks beat about their faces.
Rough laughter left Nat’s mouth as she sped off to catch up to her group. Soren gave her a passing pat on the shoulder as the young Illuskan girl zipped into the front position again. A few signs tossed Squiddly’s way and he saluted her smartly.
“Aye, aye ma’am!” he replied in his usual chipper fashion. He twisted around, running backwards for a few strides. The young tiefling blew a raspberry at the pursuing drow. “Nyah! Slowpokes! Can’t catch us!”
Another bullet screamed through the air, this one missing Soren by inches. Her shoulder throbbed from where Soluun’s shot had grazed her. Still, she dared not stop. Every breath seemed ripped straight from a forge, and her pulse pounded just as hard. One drow was enough trouble, but four? Nevermind six! She licked chapped lips. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach.
What if there were more?
“Heads up!” Squiddly said.
Soren pulled her attention back to the task at hand. Ahead, striped fabric covered a rickety-looking balcony. Nat zipped across it, her feet perfectly placed on the thin supporting beams underneath. The children must have crossed it many times, judging by the grimy footprints at four separate intervals. Soren made it in two strides.
She looked back just in time to the very welcome sight of the four drow men crashing straight through the awning. They smashed into the little balcony below, breaking that as well. In a clatter of wood and daub the drow tumbled through the first balcony, a second balcony, a hoisting cable, and three separate lines of laundry.
Nat skidded to a stop and triumphantly tossed her black hair out of her eyes. She perched on the side of the roof and folded her arms down at the unlucky drow. Jenks and Squiddly joined her, looking extremely pleased with themselves.
“What did I tell ya?” Squiddly said proudly, puffing out his tiny chest. “Peanut Butter Run. Gets ‘em every time.”
The pile of drow, wood, and plaster groaned indignantly.
After a moment, one of the men managed to haul himself free. His burning red eyes glared up at the group, a reminder that the hunt was not over. Only the round had been won.
And then, perhaps not even that.
They began to extricate themselves, shoving boards aside in an effort to stand when a shrill whistle pierced the night air. “Assassins!”
A stout Watchman stood at the end of the road, his figure and helmet outlined by a rare street lamp. He had clearly heard the crash, and upon rushing to investigate found four of Lolth’s very angry children in an undignified heap. But a drow was a drow.
Brandishing his truncheon, the Watch officer started forward. His whistle cried over and over again, calling other guards to his position.
The Bregan D’aerthe did not stick around to answer any inconvenient questions. They bolted into the night, Waterdeep’s finest at their heels.
“Well,” said Soren after she’d caught her breath, “What do you all say I treat you to an all-you-can-eat dinner at the Yawning Portal? And you can tell me everything you know.”
Squiddly put his arms around Nat and Jenks’ shoulders and gave them a squeeze. They did a triple-way secret handshake before Nat turned to Soren and stuck out her hand. Was it the ranger’s imagination, or did Nat actually look happy?
“She says,” said Jenks, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”
~
“Hungry little shits, aren’t they?”
Soren shoved playfully at Durnan’s shoulder. “You’d be starving too if you lived on the street,” she said. One of those rare smiles tugged at her lips.
The ranger leaned on the bar, watching as Nat, Jenks, and Squiddly inhaled a proverbial smorgasbord of everything the Yawning Portal had to offer. She propped her chin in her palm, nearly head to head with Durnan the bartender. Normally stoic folk who preferred actions over words, in the scant few tenday that Soren had spent in Waterdeep, she had found a friend in Durnan.
“I’ll leave this unruly lot in your capable hands,” he said, wiping out a mug with a clean rag. If Soren hadn’t known him so well, she would have said the old badger was smiling under his substantial mustache.
Squiddly leaned in with the others as Nat signed to them. He turned to Durnan, wiping sauce off his face with the back of his sleeve. “We want the hard stuff!”
“Yeah!” echoed Jenks. “Since we rescued Soren an’ all.”
Before the ranger could answer him, Durnan simply said, “Coming right up.” He turned away from the crowded murmur of the taproom. Deft fingers fetched three mugs from hooks on the bar ceiling. The children watched intently as Durnan took the mugs to a keg and poured from the spout.
He came sailing back and slid each foaming mug expertly down the bar and into the children’s waiting hands. “Don’t drink it too fast,” Durnan grumbled in his usual way, “or it’ll put hair on your chest.”
“Whoa!” said Jenks at the same time that Squiddly said, “Sweet!”
Another customer called for Durnan’s attention. As the bartender met Soren’s gaze, he winked. “Just a bit o’ sweet cider,” he whispered. “The little ones’ll be just fine.”
Soren nodded her approval. A bandage had been expertly applied by one of the Bonnies to her shoulder wound. Her leaf-patterned cloak hid the rest.
She swept her gaze across the taproom. There, in the corner, looking only a little worse for wear, sat Threestrings. He plucked out a melody on his broken lute, flirtatiously engaging the attention of a pretty woman. Other than the Harper, only Yagra Stonefist, Remy’s friend, caught Soren’s eye. A slim, blond elf in a blue doublet sat across from the burly half-orc, blithely playing cards with her in front of the fire.
He matched, nearly down to his buttons, Remy’s description of Davil Starsong.
Before Soren could let her curiosity get the better of her, she felt a tug on her sleeve. She looked down to see Jenks, his cheeks smeared with cake frosting. Almost on instinct, she took a rag off the bar and wiped his face clean.
“Miss Soren?” he said, a bit uncertain. “Nat says we’ve received suf--suffic--enough payment to talk with you now.”
Soren leaned to the side and looked in askance to Nat, and then Squiddly. “Payment?”
“Cake!” Squiddly proclaimed. “And desserts!”
“Of course. Cake.”
The four of them found a table out of the way on the second floor balcony. It was a dim little corner, and Squiddly pulled the small candle closer so that he could lean into its underlight and look as mysterious as possible. “All right,” he said, “shoot.”
“When Remy and I first met you,” Soren began, looking between the three of them. “You said there was a gold dragon in the Sea Maiden’s Faire last year. Tell me everything.”
The little buggers really did seem to know everything, Soren thought to herself later that evening. She could see why Remy found them endearing.
It had begun to rain. Soren pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders as she hurried down the long block that would take her to Neverember Manor. Given all that had transpired that evening, it somehow didn’t feel safe to return to Trollskull Alley. She turned the children’s information over in her thoughts, picking facts and perceptions out of youthful exuberance.
So the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors had collected the young Cassalanter twins and spirited them off to safety. No one had a clue where Amalia or Victoro had got off to, but as long as they stayed out of the range of her bow, Soren could not find them in order to deliver them to justice. Remy’s article would be run in the paper this tenday outing the Cassalanters as cultists of Asmodeus. That would have to be enough.
As for the gold dragon, the Ragamuffins knew little. It had come with the Sea Maiden’s Faire last year as one of its ‘exotic’ attractions, a juvenile captured in Chult. That had raised Soren’s hackles. Dragons were hardly beasts to be shown off as though they were trick ponies or mere carnival attractions. Captain Zardoz Zord, however, thought otherwise. He had filled his menagerie with all sorts of fantastic creatures, dragons included. The dragon was scheduled to be ridden by Captain Zord in the parade last autumn, but before it could be forced to participate, it had set a fire and escaped into the Docks Ward.
Special wards around the city of Waterdeep protected it from dragons. None could enter the city limits, according to that ancient magic. The wards had unfortunately been erected at a far distant time, one where sections of the Docks Ward were not inside its perimeter. Since the dragon’s escape, the children told her excitedly, there had apparently been sightings of something large and golden swimming under the fishing vessels in the harbor.
Soren was relieved that, at least, the juvenile had found its way out of the hands of its captors. If the chance presented itself, she promised to give Captain Zord a piece of her mind about the whole business.
And then there was the matter of the black tom cat with the glowing purple eyes.
“It talks?” she’d said, incredulous.
Squiddly nodded enthusiastically, his wide-brimmed hat bobbing up and down. “He said that he owned the whole town--”
“--but especially the Castle Ward!” Jenks finished for him. “We found him near the gardens of Castle Waterdeep.”
Soren frowned at that. “Have you ever seen the cat do anything strange? Change shape, fly--”
“Oh! Oh! I’ve seen it fly!” Squiddly said, mushing down Jenks before the young boy could speak. “And--”
A sharp hiss from Nat cut him off. She glared hard at the boys, who immediately made sheepish apologies. The girl had met Soren’s gaze, steely-eyed and firm, as if daring the ranger to ask another question. Surely, she knew more than she was letting on, but that wasn’t for adults to know.
The cat couldn’t be a familiar, then. It was far more likely, Soren mused as she avoided dark puddles in the road, that the black tom was a wizard or sorcerer. He certainly didn’t match the natural description of any fey creature or familiar she had been able to find in Volo’s book. Either that, or a shapeshifter of some kind.
Soren shook her head. There was little point worrying about it until she could catch the cat and ask him herself.
“Apologies for the late hour,” Soren said to Renaer a little later, once she was safely out of the rain.
The rich foyer had been wallpapered in a dark green with a repeating theme of sheaves of golden wheat. Milk glass oil lamps, turned low for the evening, glowed softly in a neat line down the hallway. An archway opened to the left, revealing a warmly-lit sitting room. From her previous night Soren knew that the parlor in turn connected to the dining room that ran along the north wall of the house. A braided wool runner lay in front of the door, one that darkened as water collected underneath her.
“It’s no trouble,” Renaer murmured with a gentle smile. Instead of the dressing gown of the previous evening, he still wore his handsome, trim blue doublet. Cream-white sleeves hung just so, giving the young Harper a rather rakish air. “Can I interest you in anything? Food, tea? I’m afraid we’ve already finished dinner.”
A loud harumph interrupted them. Madrack held out his hands for Soren’s cloak, which she hastily untied. “The Master may inform Miss Chandry that this is hardly a rental establishment ,” he sniffed.
“Stuff it, old hin.” Renaer cupped Soren by the small of her back and steered her towards the parlor. “I assume another near-disaster has led you to my door again tonight?”
“Correct,” Soren sighed, sinking into one of the plush cobalt chairs.
Heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows, and the one lamp that Renaer turned up cast a ruddy orange glow over the china-blue and white room. Their shadows flickered high on the wall. By the time Soren was finished, Renaer’s copper brows had pinched close together.
“The Bregan D’aerthe,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You’re certain?”
“I noticed the dossier you had this morning,” Soren confessed. “And yes.”
“Sharp eyes.” Renaer leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.
After a long pause, Soren began to fiddle with the hem of her shirt. “...Lord Neverember--”
“Renaer, please .”
“...Renaer, have I done something to offend Madrack?” She rubbed at her arm, not meeting his eyes. “I…I’m afraid I’m not very good with people.”
That kind face of his softened. A creak and whisper of fine upholstery met her ears just before Renaer’s warm hand rested atop hers. “Don’t mind Madrack,” he assured her. “That’s just his way. He’s just been rather protective of me, well, not just recently. Ever since I was a boy.”
“From what I’ve gathered, you’re a decent fencer.” Soren raised a brow. “What need would he have to be protective of you?”
Renaer rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “...I was a…bit of a spitfire in my youth.”
“Renaer, you’re thirty .” Soren could not suppress a soft chuckle.
He gave a genial shrug. The difference between his lifespan and hers--even had she been a true wood elf--was large indeed. “Aside from all my Harper business, being a ‘hero’ of the city and all that, well. I’m afraid my father, Dagult--”
“The previous Open Lord. Yes, I remember. He was in charge of Waterdeep when I came through the city five years ago, chasing the Cult of the Dragon.”
Renaer nodded. He got up and crossed to the side board, pouring them both a small glass of brandy. “To warm you,” he said, handing the drink to Soren. His touch lingered, his closeness held just a little too long.
“Thank you,” Soren said, a bit awkwardly.
Now it was his turn to flush, the pink spreading underneath his freckles . Renaer resumed his seat. “Father tried to have me executed.”
Soren gasped. “No!”
“Yes,” he said, grimacing. “We’d never had a good relationship to begin with. When Mother died, she left everything to me. Ever since then, Father and I have lived apart. He could never return to the manor house where all those memories of his marriage were, and I did not want to be ground beneath his boot heel. Father is…an authoritative man. He expects immediate obedience. Madrack all but raised me himself.”
“But Dagult nearly signed your death warrant?” Soren leaned in, this time taking his hand in hers. “That’s, to condemn one’s own child--” She trailed off, speechless. How could anyone hate their own flesh and blood so much as to order their death--or cause it intentionally?
Renaer swallowed at her nearness, at the tenderness of her touch. He looked away, staring hard at the crown molding. “I was implicated in a plot to murder the next Blackstaff, Vajra. Luckily, I was able to save her life instead, but it was as good an excuse as any for my Father.”
“Dragons and heroes rarely get along,” she said, “but he could have at least given you the benefit of the doubt.”
“...dragons?” Renaer cocked his head, copper hair falling in waves over his shoulder. It shone in the firelight. “I suppose he was a dragon, in a sense. The way he treated Waterdeep, her people, his treasure vault.”
Soren smiled softly. This man, this Harper…he truly cared about the city. Almost as if he were trying to make up for all the harm Dagult had done. Responsibility, honor, duty. Renaer did the Harpers proud. It was only a shame his father couldn’t see it.
“I’m afraid I spent a good deal of my youth in public houses,” Renaer admitted. “Drinking, gambling, and, er, socializing.”
“You mean whoring,” Soren spoke without thinking. "Oh, I didn't mean--"
He laughed, almost as awkward as she felt. “Yes, but that’s not my prerogative these days. I have the Harpers to help, my properties to oversee, and my home to make ready.”
“Make ready?” Soren echoed. “For what?”
Renaer looked at her then, and the distance between them diminished, and it seemed to take a long time before he spoke again. “For a wife,” he said, “and a family.”
Soren practically floated up the stairs to bed. It hadn’t just been her imagination! There was something between them, she was certain of it now. And this place, this house, wrapped around her like a familiar embrace; soft and cozy. She could almost sink into it as she settled into the guest bed, relishing the feel of a down mattress for the second time in as many days.
It was…right.
For nearly an hour she basked in that feeling, in how easy it was to be in Renaer’s presence. But all good things must end. Darkness comes after sunset, and the autumn nights were long indeed.
Soren had no sooner turned down the lamp and curled up under the covers than reality stole back in, as cold and sure as the blade of any trained drow assassin.
When this business was over, when Dagult’s treasure was found, she was going to die. Soren’s soul was spoken for, and no amount of love or passion or truth could move it from Null’s grasp. For the first time since her visit to the Wing, a twinge of regret tightened in Soren’s chest. Death was coming for her and she sensed that it was not too long a way off, either.
What right did she have, to fall in love? To begin to adore someone who would only be devastated when the inevitable greeted her.
But by the same token, should she not love each special moment, each relationship, as fully as she ever would? Here, in the last days of her life, should she not live?
Soren hugged her knees and stared into the dark. It was a long time before reverie found her, and even that turned into true sleep, as the worry of unanswered questions hopped like lightning between her dreams.
“Bregan D’aerthe, you say?” Durnan had murmured while he applied the bandage. “That’s a nasty lot, Soren. You don’t want to get mixed up with them.”
“It seemed like pure happenstance--ow!” She hissed as he tied the cloth rather tightly.
The old barkeeper shook a finger at her. “An older lass you may be,” he said in a low, gravely tone, “but I’m telling you here and now, nothing is happenstance with the Bregan D’aerthe. If they’re in the city, they’re here for a reason.”
“You make them sound like the boogeyman.” Soren raised a sardonic brow. A glance around showed that they were still alone in the back of the kitchen. Through the doorway to the bar, she could just see the Bonnies bringing plate after plate of sweets for the Ragamuffin gang.
“They are, or near enough.” Durnan kept checking the perimeter as well. He seemed…nervous, and Soren knew her friend well enough to know that nothing made him nervous. “Drow are deadly enough on their own, nevermind having a group of drow assassins.”
Soren grimaced as he tied the bandage for a final time. “Their leader is supposedly shrouded in great secrecy.”
For the first time, Durnan paused. The crows feet on his face grew deeper as he frowned. “I mean it, Soren. Stay as far away from the Bregan D’aerthe as possible. All I can tell you about their leader is that he is as cunning as a cat; as deadly as the sharpest blade; a master of puppets; and a clever tactician beyond measure. He can’t be out-maneuvered, out-thought. Not for love or money.”
“Please, Durnan,” Soren said. “You can’t really expect me to believe there’s a man out there as good as all that?”
“I can, and he is.” Wiping off his hands, the barkeeper pulled his apron back on. “That man is the meanest son of a bitch ever to walk out of the Underdark. Stay away from him and the Bregan D’aerthe, it’ll be nothing but trouble.”
Soren readjusted her shirt and cloak to cover the bloodstain. “Durnan, if this man is as clever and quick as you say, if nothing is a coincidence…what on Toril does he want with me? Why are his men hunting me?”
“I wish I knew, girl. I wish I knew.”