28
Astarion spun around on the balls of his feet to face the enemy. For a moment, he gazed across the cavern, and then his eyes dropped, and he saw the former servant of Mask, the priest powerful enough to raise an army of undead, the priest who…only came up to Astarion’s belt buckle?
“Yes, yes,” the undead halfling said, levitating just past the edge of the roof. “You were expecting someone taller.” A dark veil covered his face, but green fire flickered in the eyeholes. “Get it out of your system, I’ll wait.”
“I assure you, I had no plans to say anything so unoriginal.” Astarion spread his hands and put on his most winning smile. “The Inquisitor, I presume?”
“I think it sounds better than ‘the sole survivor.’?”
“Quite, quite. I apologize for the intrusion. In fact, I was hoping to speak to you.”
Find your next love story.
Look up Lokepub on Google and browse the novels.
The priest tilted his head. Wisps of hair still clung to it, though the only truly luxuriant growth was atop his bare feet.
He wore a black cassock embroidered with dark red, a pattern of swords and masks chasing one another in an endless procession around the hem.
When he moved, Astarion caught glimpses of brightly colored motley underneath.
“If you wanted to speak to me, there are easier ways than to destroy my creations. Do you know how long it takes to raise a mummy, if you want it done right?”
“That was the paladin’s doing, not mine. Your creations threw me into a cell with him. I would have preferred a much more subtle exit myself.” He let his face assume an appropriate solemnity. “I have often had reason to offer thanks to Mask…Brother Shadow.”
The priest’s veil hid his expression, but a note of wariness crept into his voice. “You would claim to be a Shadowmaster?”
In point of fact, Astarion had never aspired to be any kind of clergy, although Mask might have been his choice had the matter arisen. No vows of poverty, for one thing. “Alas, no. I sought to enter his service once…in early Kythorn, in the Year of Shadows. You can imagine how well that went.”
The priest snorted at the reference to the Time of Troubles, when the gods had been cast to earth. “Indeed. So, what, then—you came here looking for instruction? Are you telling me you wish to become a servant of our god?”
“If such a thing is possible. You were the only remaining cleric that I could find.”
Astarion let his gaze travel across the cavern, as if admiring the priest’s domain.
Where the hell were the adventurers with his distraction?
This is an inspired story I’m spinning, but at this rate, I’ll be ordained before they get here.
Honestly, he was surprised that the priest had been willing to talk at all, but then again, halflings were a gregarious people, and the man had been trapped down here for decades with only skeletons for company. It was possible he’d made the mummies simply for conversation.
“Tell me why I should trust you,” the priest demanded.
“I would advise you never to trust anyone,” Astarion said in Thieves’ Cant.
And then, because even if Mask was dead, it was possible He still had a sense of humor, an explosion rocked the cavern. Clouds of dust roiled up, and pebbles fell from the ceiling. In the distance, Astarion could hear a familiar voice shouting, “For the Badger!”
The adventurers had arrived.
* * *
—
Astarion did not bother with finesse. The instant the explosion distracted the priest, he flung himself off the roof of the building, clutching for the wall on the way down. His palms stung, but he caught himself halfway and crawled the rest of the way down at a slightly more controlled pace.
Another explosion shook the cavern, accompanied by the sliding crash of falling masonry. A high female voice drifted across the intervening space. “That’s right! Nothing beats rock!”
“This is why I don’t trust adventurers,” Astarion muttered to himself. “They’re all a few pints short of a bloodbath.”
He reached the ground just as the female voice began laughing maniacally.
Under normal circumstances, Astarion would have treated that laughter as a warning sign akin to a bull pawing the ground or a dragon mantling its wings and moved as quickly as possible in the opposite direction.
It was a sign of the poor choices he had recently made that he was moving toward it instead.
He made it down a cross street before a group of skeletons rounded the corner, also heading toward the noise.
With an oath, he turned to the nearest semi-intact building and went up the wall.
When he looked down, he saw most of the skeletons were still running, though two had stopped and begun making half-hearted swipes at his ankles with their swords.
“Stop that, you ossuarial rejects.” Astarion pulled himself onto the second floor of the building and fell over a decrepit windowsill. When he peered cautiously outside, he did not see a priest levitating furiously in his direction, which was all to the good.
It was clear that he was going to have to stay above street level. Astarion muttered to himself, took off his boots, and hung them by the laces around his neck. He really hoped that den Suriel didn’t see him like this.
The second story of the ruined city was extensive and included a number of old bridges and walkways between houses. In theory, Astarion could have just walked along those connections.
In practice, every third cobblestone either was missing or wobbled alarmingly underfoot.
Progress was slow. He had to test every step, usually twice.
Astarion made it partway over one street before an ancient timber support crumbled into literal dust beneath him.
Fortunately, the sounds of falling rock and cursing elf were covered by another explosion.
Astarion made a mental note to tell Lief that the crazed gnome deserved a bonus, but since he was clinging to the far wall by his fingertips, he promptly forgot it.
He went up walls and down walls. He dropped through floors that no longer fulfilled the primary function of floors—i.e., preventing people from dropping through them.
On at least three occasions, with no other clear path, he waited for a break in the waves of skeletons and ran across the street.
The occasional falling brick shaken loose by the explosions only added to the experience.
“Delightful,” he panted to no one in particular. “I’m having so much fun.” A skeleton raised its sword, and Astarion kicked it in the knee. The bone made a satisfying crunch. It hopped after him, but it moved rather more slowly. “Becoming a vampire had better be worth it.”
When he stole glances upward, he saw the open air of the cavern etched with bolts of light the same sickly green color as the lanterns.
The priest was trying to hit something that danced in midair, something whip-quick and hard to make out.
Astarion didn’t know what it was, nor did he particularly care.
Another druid trick, perhaps. Or maybe he’s turned himself into a giant bat. More the fool he.
“For the Badger!” rang through the cavern, accompanied by a flash of burning light. Astarion flung his hand over his eyes to shield them.
Wait a minute, he thought, blinking away afterimages. Why is den Suriel all the way over there?
He raised his head cautiously from his position on a broken piece of roof. The gnome’s maniacal laughter came from the direction of the exit, but den Suriel was somehow a full third of the way around the cavern. Why is he there? Is he looking for me?
Is he trying to get himself killed?
Astarion had a sudden memory of the aasimar saying, More like a blaze-of-glory wish.
And if he gets himself killed here, then he doesn’t break his oath, and he doesn’t have to kill me, either.
The smart thing to do was to head for the exit anyway. There was not a doubt in Astarion’s mind that he should take the blood and run.
He nevertheless seemed to be turning and climbing in the direction of den Suriel.
It’ll be easier to loot the body and steal his wondrous elephant this way, he told himself as the light of Lathander blazed, brief and brilliant, against the cavern walls.
* * *