31
It took several subjective eternities before they reached the exit.
The only saving grace was that once their creator had been incapacitated, the skeletons stopped moving.
But it was still a long, slow walk, moving at the pace of a man who was not quite mortally wounded, and it was made no easier by the crowds of skeletons standing frozen in their tracks.
Astarion’s shoulder ached from being wedged into den Suriel’s armpit, and his neck ached from twisting it to keep an eye on the silent skeletons.
He felt as if they were moving through an exhibit put together by some morbid sculptor.
Sometimes they had to take a roundabout path to avoid coming into contact with the skeletons, but Astarion didn’t begrudge the effort.
It seemed horribly plausible that if he actually touched one, the whole crew would suddenly come rattling back into motion, and den Suriel was in no shape to fight.
He might no longer be bleeding to death, but he was still deathly pale, and the effort he expended to hobble along on his injured leg must be excruciating.
To their credit, as soon as the adventurers saw the pair limp out of the shadows, they rushed to help.
The barbarian woman practically picked den Suriel up, and the druid began chanting the words of a healing spell.
Astarion rubbed his shoulder. Acting as the aasimar’s crutch had been more painful than any of the scrapes he’d picked up in the cavern.
“Do you require healing?” the druid asked Astarion when den Suriel had a little more color in his face and was standing up straight again.
“Thank you, no. I try to make a point of not getting hit. But why did you let him go off alone?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, with mixed results.
The gnome snorted. “Didn’t realize he had. Birdie here”—she jerked her thumb at the barbarian woman, who looked sheepish—“thought a building was looking at her funny and tried to headbutt it.”
“I was berserk. And it had the windows arranged, you know, sort of like eyes…”
“Anyway, by the time we got her pointed in the right direction again, your knight friend was gone.”
Astarion was still furious, but he bit his tongue.
He wasn’t the one paying them, and it would be far too easy for the trio to decide that he and the wounded paladin didn’t really need to survive the experience.
Also, he could see how the intelligent thing to do would be to hold the exit and hope den Suriel returned.
Fine. I understand it. I don’t have to like it.
The gnome, who was still fiddling with something that smelled like fireworks, glanced up at him. “Are you sure you’re okay? Your eyes are awfully red.”
“Terribly unfortunate, isn’t it? I was cataloging a friend’s wine cellar, and of course you know that excess light is simply death to good wine, so I acquired a potion of darkvision to make things easier. I simply assumed that it should be used as eyedrops, as would have been sensible, and, well…”
Astarion spread his hands. “The healers assure me that it will wear off in a month or two.”
Den Suriel gave him a look. Astarion gave it right back. There was no reason these three needed to know what he truly was.
“You do lie when it suits you,” the paladin murmured once they were on their way again and the adventurers had taken the lead.
“If they knew the truth, they might well be in danger. My master doesn’t like questions. Or loose ends.”
“Are you telling me you’re lying out of the goodness of your heart?”
“If it makes you more comfortable, you may tell yourself I’m lying because I’m fundamentally lazy. Killing those people would be effort.”
Den Suriel shook his head but couldn’t quite hide a smile.
“I’ll tell you something absolutely true, though, my dear paladin. I’m dreadfully tired of all these wretched little passages. I feel as if I have done nothing for the last tenday but stagger about, stepping on broken bricks and getting dust all over my clothes.”
“It will be good to see the sky again.”
“Forget the sky. I want to see a hot bath. With bubbles.”
“Bubbles?”
“Don’t say it as if it’s a wasting disease. What, are paladins not allowed to have bubbles?”
“Tyr and Lathander have been curiously silent on the subject.”
“What about the Badger?”
“He’s more of a symbolic ideal. I can’t say that bubbles came up much in seminary, though.”
“I would personally refuse to worship any deity who did not allow their faithful to take the occasional bubble bath.”
“We’re very punchy, aren’t we?”
“It’s been an extremely long evening.”
The evening, as it turned out, was nearly over. By the time they reached the river stairs, it was nearly dawn.
“The sky’s lightening already,” den Suriel said. “Can we get to the Rat’s Run in time?”
“In time for what?” asked the gnome.
“We must be at the Rat’s Run by dawn.” Den Suriel glanced at Astarion, clearly struggling for an explanation. “It’s…err…complicated?”
Astarion studied the soft gray smear of light just visible behind the rooftops. “It will be awfully close…” He turned to the druid. “I don’t suppose you can wild shape into a horse?”
The druid looked annoyed. “I can wild shape into any animal I’ve seen. That doesn’t mean I want to be ridden through the streets.”
Astarion opened his mouth to say something either mildly offensive or mildly obscene, but den Suriel was faster. The paladin put a hand on the druid’s shoulder and said, in that magnificent golden gravel voice, “I know you serve nature, but to serve nature is to serve life, is it not?”
The druid rolled his eyes and allowed that this was so.
“If you allow this, you will be saving both a life and a soul. I will owe you a debt, my friend, and my people do not forget their debts.”
Stronger men than the druid would break under that voice.
“Very well. If it’s that critical that you reach the tavern by daybreak…”
He stepped away from them and shook himself, his body rippling, and then he was a tall dappled horse reared up on his hind legs.
His front hooves clattered when they struck the cobbles.
Astarion flung himself at the animal’s back and got a leg over. No saddle. No bridle, either. He took two handfuls of mane and hoped that the druid didn’t intend to leap any walls.
“Thank you,” he heard den Suriel say, and he turned just in time to see the barbarian woman give the paladin a boost onto the horse’s back. “It’s been a long time since I rode without stirrups.”
“My pleasure.” She slapped the druid’s rump. “Now, get moving!”
The druid put his ears back at that, but he broke into a rapid trot. Astarion clung to his mane, and den Suriel clung to Astarion, and the druid eased into a canter and tore through the sleeping streets of Baldur’s Gate.
Had Astarion not been in imminent danger of turning into a pile of ash, he would have gotten off and walked.
Riding bareback was uncomfortable at the best of times, let alone with a man in plate mail clinging to you.
It was better than being burned alive, but only just.
He bent low over the horse’s neck, wincing with every stride.
No more pleasant for the horse than for me, I imagine. There had to be all manner of metal bits digging into the druid’s hide, even if the armor didn’t have a…What would you call that, anyway? Butt plate? Ass plate? Something like that?
The horse took a corner at a brutal pace, driving all thoughts of terminology out of his head and causing den Suriel to clutch frantically at Astarion’s waist. The druid snorted irritably.
“Hey! You can’t ride in the city!” shouted a Flaming Fist mercenary as the druid nearly ran him down.
“Apologies!” den Suriel called back. “Paladin! Matter of life and death!”
“Fucking paladins…”
They raced the dawn from district to district until at last the horse came to a skidding halt outside the Rat’s Run. “Good boy!” den Suriel said, patting the animal’s neck. “Good horse!” He rummaged through his pockets. “I’m sure I’ve got a sugar lump in here somewhere…”
“I have a name,” the horse said, shrinking back into the shape of the druid. “And I do not eat sugar lumps.”
“I’ll buy you a drink, then.”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Err…” Den Suriel held the door open, and Astarion dove into the shadowy interior. “I’ll make a donation in your name to the church of Mielikki?”
“That would be acceptable, yes.”
“I suppose it takes all kinds,” the paladin said when he caught up to Astarion.
“Does it, though? Really?”
The Rat’s Run was quiet at dawn, or at least as quiet as it ever got.
The sailors had mostly either passed out or been dragged back to their ships.
The remaining patrons were either professional drinkers or had just gotten off work.
Astarion rarely saw the place at this hour and was grateful for the griminess of the windows.
Sunlight oozed in like a viscous liquid rather than stabbing like a spear made of flame.
Astarion tossed a coin to one of the bartenders. “Food and hot water sent up to the room, if you please. I believe I have priest splatter on me.”
The bartender’s lip curled. “That is a remarkably disturbing phrase.”
“It’s a remarkably disturbing sensation.”
They reached the room. Both men sank down onto their respective beds and let out nearly identical groans.
“Badger’s balls, but I hurt,” den Suriel said, mostly to the ceiling.
“My arms feel like I flew for an hour, then climbed about fifty walls, then carried a man in plate mail.”
“It’s half plate. And I walked, more or less.”
“That’s not what my shoulder says. Are you calling my shoulder a liar, sir?”
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“Depends. Is your shoulder going to challenge me to a duel?”
Astarion pretended to consult it. “It says its seconds will call upon yours. I think it means my knees.”
“It’s out of luck there. I’ll be lucky if my knees can get me to the bathtub.”
Someone tapped on the door. Both men groaned again. “Come in!” Astarion called. “If you wait for us to open it, we’ll all die of old age.”
It was Lief, carrying a tray. She set it down on the desk and surveyed them both. “You two look like death warmed over.”
“Am I warm?” Astarion asked vaguely. “I don’t feel warm…”