Masquerades

Twenty-Four Verovan’s Hoard

Thistle Thalavar paced anxiously on the roof of the southern tower of Castle Vhammos. Her heart was heavy, her mind uneasy. The evening was not turning out as she had imagined it would. In the daydreams she indulged in all day, Victor had been amazed when she proved she really did know how to reach Verovan’s treasure. He had recognized how clever she was and had considered her his equal. He had made her his confidant on all matters of state. Once again he had declared his love. In her fantasy, they had spent the rest of the evening in one another’s arms.

In reality, when Thistle had used her grandmother’s feather brooch to open the magical portal into the treasure hoard, Victor, although pleased, had not seemed particularly amazed. He had accepted the feather brooch as her token with a warm kiss, but he had been unable to hide his annoyance when he discovered he himself could not use the token to open the hoard. When Thistle explained that only someone of Verovan’s bloodline could use the brooch, the croamarkh had bristled.

Thistle realized with sickening dread that Victor was sensitive to the fact that she was descended of royalty and he was only a noble. Even worse, no matter how loyal and loving she was, the nobleman did not like having to rely on her to reach the treasure.

The final disappointment came when, instead of spending the rest of the evening alone with her, the croamarkh had asked her to wait on the tower while he assembled his forces to help clear out the treasure.

Now Thistle waited alone, trying to convince herself that Victor was still worthy of the treasure because he would use it to make Westgate a city of beauty and justice, admired by all. She suspected, however, that he was not the lover she had dreamed of.

The interdimensional portal to Verovan’s treasure hung twenty feet from the edge of the tower. By stroking the spine of her feather brooch Thistle could cause the portal to open just a crack. First a section of the sky would ripple, causing the stars to shimmer. Then a searing white light would flash out from the eldritch rent in the planar fabric. As soon as the girl removed her hand from the brooch, the portal snapped shut, leaving her standing in the dark, beneath the starlit sky. If she held the pin long enough, the portal grew into an oval eight feet across by twelve feet high. Once the portal was completely opened, it sent out a dark, arcing bridge to the edge of the tower.

Thistle stroked the feather brooch, causing the sky to flash as if with heat lightning. Something hissed in the darkness behind her, and Thistle turned around slowly, more curious than startled.

Dragonbait stepped out of the shadow of the tower battlement. He had been hiding there since Thistle and Victor had arrived at the castle. He had seen how Victor had played on Thistle’s affections and had watched as she had demonstrated how to use the feather brooch to reach Verovan’s hold. Thistle had arrived with Victor giddy and carefree, but now she was solemn and melancholy. The saurial hoped that meant he could now convince her to come away from the tower—for he was growing nervous for her safety—for the safety of all of Westgate.

Each time Thistle stroked the feather brooch, cracking open the portal, the paladin’s shen sight sensed a bolt of lightning and went momentarily blind, leaving him with a stabbing pain in the back of his head and a throbbing sensation in his teeth. His shen sight was being overloaded by some great evil that lay beyond the portal—within Verovan’s hoard. Whatever it was, Dragonbait did not want to risk its release over the city.

The paladin motioned for Thistle to come away from the battlement and go with him down the tower stairs.

“I can’t,” Thistle replied. “I promised Victor that I would wait here for his return.”

Dragonbait made the sign for danger in the thieves’ hand cant.

“I know all about the dangers,” the girl said. “Grandmother first told me the tale of Verovan’s hoard when I was six, just in case she died suddenly and I became the keeper of the key.”

Thistle turned away to look over the tower battlement as she explained the history of the key to the paladin. “King Verovan’s greed is legend,” she said. “He was so obsessed with hanging on to his treasure that he exchanged a piece of his soul with a lord of the Abyss to create a planar pocket to hold his treasure hoard. When Verovan died, the lord of the Abyss ordered his minions to loot the king’s hoard. Their lord gave them the piece of Verovan’s soul encased in amber so they could use it with the key to open the portal.

“My grandmother’s grandfather, Gen, was the king’s third cousin. Gen was an adventurer, a paladin, like you. Luckily, he was in Westgate when Verovan died. He sensed the evil things swarming to the royal castle and followed them. He waited until they had opened the portal and had rushed inside. The minions of the Abyss left the key and the piece of Verovan’s soul on the battlement with a single guard, a true tanar’ri. Gen battled the tanar’ri and destroyed it. Then he smashed the amber, freeing the piece of his cousin Verovan’s soul, but the piece of soul flew to what it loved most—the treasure. Once the soul was separated from the key, the portal closed. Gen fashioned the key into a brooch, hiding it in plain sight, making a green feather the trading badge of our family’s house.”

Dragonbait shook his head at the girl’s foolishness. If her ancestor had seen fit to leave the portal closed, why couldn’t she do likewise. A lifetime of city dwelling, even in so dangerous a city as Westgate, had left Thistle innocent of the greater powers of evil.

“Grandmother warned that the treasure might not be worth the price to be paid for opening the portal, but I believe Victor should have the treasure. He will do good things with it,” Thistle insisted.

Dragonbait shook his head again and wished this girl understood Saurial, so that he could lecture her on Victor Dhostar. He considered dragging her from the tower, but with the battle raging downstairs, the noblewoman was probably safer up here.

Thistle stroked the feather brooch again, releasing a streak of light from the portal and delivering another momentarily blinding blow to the paladin’s shen sight. The saurial snatched Thistle’s hand and pulled it away from the brooch.

The girl looked puzzled. She hadn’t a clue as to the source of the paladin’s anxiety.

There was nothing left to do, Dragonbait realized, but guard Thistle until Alias came to the roof. The swordswoman could tell Thistle about Victor’s crimes. He leaned back against the battlement and waited patiently.

The paladin was taken unawares by the sudden appearance of Victor Dhostar. The nobleman manifested on the roof with some magical spell. His robes were torn, and he was bruised and bleeding.

Catching sight of him, Thistle ran to his side before Dragonbait could hold her back. “Victor, you’re hurt!” the girl exclaimed. “What happened?” she asked as she tenderly touched a bruise on his face.

“There’s a battle going on downstairs,” the nobleman explained. “Night Masks and Durgar’s men. Kimbel has framed me. You must open the portal so I can hide from my enemies.”

“Victor, you did not give me a chance to explain fully before. There are evil things trapped inside with Verovan’s treasure.”

“Thistle, there are evil things in the castle down below, coming after me. If you loved me, you would not argue. Now open the bloody portal!”

Dragonbait stepped forward and hissed, but Victor had grabbed Thistle by the waist and aimed a dagger at her belly. “Don’t try anything foolish, lizardman,” the nobleman said. “Open the portal, Thistle, quickly.”

Thistle’s face colored with anger, and for a moment Dragonbait thought she might argue with Victor. The moment passed. Thistle collected what was left of her dignity. Giving the nobleman a chill look of disdain, she touched her hand to her brooch. Light spilled out on the tower as the portal grew. A crystal bridge, as dark as the sky, arced over the battlement.

Victor clasped his hand about Thistle’s so that she could not remove it from the brooch. “You first,” the nobleman ordered Dragonbait.

The paladin looked aghast at the portal. The waves of evil spilling out sickened him, but now he sensed something worse. Hunger. Something within Verovan’s hoard was eager to devour whatever came its way.

“Move it!” Victor screamed, poking his dagger into Thistle’s side until she whimpered. “I haven’t got anything to lose by killing her,” he snarled.

Dragonbait climbed up the bridge and made his way toward the portal. Victor followed, dragging Thistle after him. Just as he reached the other side of the bridge, the paladin drew his sword. He was not going to be devoured without a fight. Victor did not seem to object. The nobleman’s eyes had the look of frightened prey, and his mind seemed to be occupied with other thoughts.

Alias dashed up the stairs three at a time and burst out on the roof of the tower just in time to see Victor pull Thistle into a magical portal hanging in the sky beside the tower. The swordswoman leaped up on the battlement and stepped onto the bridge leading to the portal. At that moment the bridge began to retract, knocking Alias from her feet. She grabbed hold of the end of the bridge and hung on for dear life, knowing better than to look at the ground hundreds of feet down.

When the end of the bridge came within a yard of the portal, Alias swung herself backward into the planar pocket with only moments to spare before the bridge vanished. The portal snapped shut behind her tumbling form.

The swordswoman gasped and choked as she breathed in the mists drifting along the floor. The vapors shone with a yellow radiance and smelled like sulfur. They swirled so thickly, they obscured the floor. Alias could see no walls, and overhead there was only darkness.

A few feet away, Dragonbait stood as alert as a hunting cat. The tip of his tail and the tip of his sword twitched in nervous apprehension. Alias noticed that the mists, which swirled about her legs, seemed to swerve away from the paladin.

Victor, clutching Thistle about the waist, stood off to one side of the portal. He tore the feather brooch from Thistle’s gown and slid it into a pocket of his robe. Alias stumbled to her feet and moved toward the girl, but she halted when she saw the dagger Victor pointed at Thistle’s throat.

“Where is the treasure?” the croamarkh demanded.

“What difference does it make, Victor?” Alias snapped. “You’re never getting away with it.”

Victor smiled slyly at the swordswoman. “No one knows where I am. No one saw us enter here. In a few hours they’ll have given up the search, and I can leave with Thistle. “You and Dragonbait, though, will have to remain within. Might as well get used to it.”

Alias glared at the nobleman, desiring vengeance more than ever. The man had tried to take her life only hours after proffering his love. If not for Mintassan, she and Dragonbait would both have been dead. Mintassan and Dragonbait had counseled her against killing the noble, and she had agreed to turn Victor over to Durgar. Now, however, seeing him threaten yet one more innocent, Alias wanted to tear the nobleman’s heart out. Yet she realized she had to remain cool.

“Why don’t you let Thistle go?” the swordswoman suggested. “You don’t need a hostage now that you’ve escaped.”

“But I need to keep you and your lizard friend in check,” he argued, pulling the girl closer to him.

Alias noted that at least now there was nothing in Thistle’s eyes but contempt for the nobleman. The girl maintained a dignified silence.

Dragonbait began moving deeper into the planar pocket.

“Where are you going?” Alias asked.

“I sense evil everywhere,” the paladin explained in Saurial, “but there is a stronger mass in this direction.”

“Don’t we want to stay away from anything like that?” Alias demanded.

“There is not much point to that now that we are in this place,” the paladin replied solemnly. He continued onward.

Alias followed after the saurial. Behind her she heard Victor ask again, “Where is the treasure?”

“Maybe there isn’t any, Victor,” Alias taunted. “Perhaps the Thalavar clan frittered it away over the past century.”

“No, Grandmother said no one had ever touched it,” Thistle replied. “It must be here.”

Alias rolled her eyes, wishing the girl had been savvy enough to agree, or at least say nothing. Then the swordswoman halted in her tracks. She had come upon an island in the sea of mists, a great glowing yellow sphere, larger than a man. Just beneath the surface of the sphere, misty shapes writhed and flowed. The swordswoman reached out and touched the sphere’s surface. It was as smooth as glass and warm to the touch.

“It’s a giant pearl,” Thistle whispered.

Dragonbait stepped out from behind the sphere. He spoke to Alias in Saurial. “At its core I sense great greed.”

“The piece of Verovan’s soul?” Alias guessed.

“Probably,” the paladin replied.

“What’s surrounding it?” the swordswoman asked.

Dragonbait pointed to the mist on the floor. “A pearl might actually be a good analogy,” he said. “The soul shard is like a piece of grit in an oyster. These creatures have coalesced around it to soothe the irritation it causes them,” Dragonbait replied.

Alias looked down at the mist. “You mean this mist stuff is living creatures?”

“Unformed manes,” the paladin whispered.

Alias swallowed hard. She would have leaped above the mist if there had been anywhere to leap to. “Manes? Are you sure?” she asked in Common.

Dragonbait gave her an aggrieved look. To remind her that he was an authority on evil would be to state the obvious.

“Manes?” Victor asked. “What’s a mane?”

“They’re what the lord of the Abyss sent to loot Verovan’s treasure,” Thistle explained.

“But what are they?” Victor growled.

“The form the dead take in the Abyss,” Alias explained. “Dragonbait says the mist is unformed manes.”

Victor whirled about, dragging Thistle with him, as if he could shake the mist away. Alias noted there was considerably more of it drifting about the nobleman than around herself.

“Why so uncomfortable, Victor? That’s what you’ll end up as when you die,” Alias declared. Dragonbait made some comments in Saurial, and the swordswoman chuckled. “Pardon me, Victor,” she said. “Dragonbait says you are not chaotic enough to end as a mane in the Abyss. More likely, you will be a lemure in Baator, though it is possible you will become a larva, since your selfishness is so great.”

“Why are the manes unformed?” Thistle asked in an anxious whisper.

Alias listened to Dragonbait’s reply in Saurial, then translated. “They have existed in this place for over a century with nothing but a bit of Verovan’s soul to gnaw on. So they’ve gone misty to conserve their energy. As soon as they sense there’s something here to devour, they’ll begin to take shape.”

“They’ll eat us?” Thistle asked with a whine in her voice, her sophistication finally crumbling beneath the weight of her fear.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Victor snapped. “She is making all this up. Trying to get me to leave so I can be captured. I want to know what’s happened to the treasure,” he demanded.

The saurial tapped his sword on the floor.

“Dragonbait says we’re standing on it,” Alias explained. Curiously, she knelt beside the saurial, where the mists were thinner, and examined the floor. “He’s right,” she replied. With her dagger she pried up a brick of solid gold and held it out for the others to see. “The floor’s paved with these, and there’s another layer beneath this one. I wonder how many layers.”

Victor motioned Alias and Dragonbait to move back. Dragging Thistle down with him, he knelt on the floor and investigated for himself. He pulled up a second brick of gold and stuffed it into a pocket of his robe. He smiled coldly as he stood up. Bits of mane mist clung to his back and swirled now as high as his hips, but the nobleman did not seem to notice.

Alias exchanged a look with the paladin. She was tempted to say nothing, but Thistle was still the nobleman’s hostage, and what endangered him endangered her.

“Victor, are you going to wait for those things to draw first blood before you come to your senses?” the swordswoman asked, pointing to the mists swirling about the nobleman. “Let Thistle open the portal so we can get out of here before we’re eaten alive.”

“I am not some foolish peasant you can deceive with your adventurer faerie tales,” Victor snapped. “It is just mist.” A strand of mist swirled about the nobleman’s head. Victor swatted at it irritably, then tried to back away from it. His eyes widened, and Alias saw fear in them. He seemed to be struggling to move.

It was Thistle who verbalized the problem. “My legs!” she shrieked. “Something’s holding on to my legs!”

Victor let out a scream as though he’d been hurt. He released Thistle and slashed with his dagger at the mists about his legs.

Alias seized the opportunity. She threw herself at Thistle and managed to jerk the girl away from both Victor and whatever was holding her. The swordswoman and noblewoman tumbled backward on the floor. They came to their feet, choking on the mist, but free of Dhostar.

Dragonbait moved forward to help the nobleman, but Victor straightened, thrusting out his dagger to warn him back.

The paladin snarled and stepped back. The mist still seemed to be evading him, so Alias pushed Thistle in his direction. Then she turned to deal with Victor.

The nobleman backed away, apparently having stabbed to death whatever had hindered his movement. There was blood on his hands and dagger, but some of it, Alias suspected, was the nobleman’s own. “Victor, we can’t stay here any longer. Give Thistle the key,” she ordered.

Victor smiled coldly. “Not a chance,” he said.

“Victor, we could be swarming in manes any minute. We can’t fight them all. We’ll die. You’ll die.”

“You’ve destroyed everything I have worked years for. At least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I had my vengeance on you, bitch.”

Alias shook with fury. She drew her sword and took a step in his direction. “You can give me that key, or I can slice you in half and loot it from your body.”

Victor pulled the feather brooch from the pocket of his robe and held it up. Alias reached her hand out. The nobleman laughed, and flung the brooch away. The piece of jewelry arced over Dragonbait and Thistle and disappeared into the mists. It made a tiny clatter when it hit the floor.

“You’ve gone mad,” Alias growled. To Dragonbait and Thistle she said, “You’d better start looking for it. Hurry. I’ll keep Dhostar still.” She raised the tip of her sword to the nobleman’s throat.

Dragonbait took Thistle’s hand and led her in the direction Victor had thrown the brooch.

“Maybe you should give them a hand,” Victor joked.

Alias kept her sword leveled at the villain’s throat.

“Then again,” the nobleman said with a smirk, “I don’t suppose that will be necessary anymore.”

Behind her Alias heard a hiss, then a growl. Alias whirled around and backed up quickly so that Victor would be at her left hand instead of her back. Advancing toward her was a halfling-sized creature with pale white skin, a bloated torso, and razor-sharp claws and teeth. Pus dripped from its mindless white eyes.

Alias waited until the mane was just within reach of her sword. With a single stroke, she cleaved the Abyssal creature in two, and it dissipated back into a stinking mist. Alias gagged from the stench.

“My, how valorous,” Victor taunted.

Alias did not reply. Her attention was focused on the hoard of creatures rising from the mists, all as disgusting as the first. Ten, twenty, thirty, she counted to herself, knowing there would be more.

“Too bad it’s vaporized,” the noble continued. “You could have had it mounted—show off your—” Victor went silent.

Alias sensed the nobleman backing away.

“Dhostar, stay at my back,” she barked. “It’s our only chance.”

Whether Victor chose to abandon the swordswoman or simply panicked, Alias would never know. Whichever it was, the nobleman turned and ran. Alias glanced over her shoulder and saw him trip and fall into the mist.

More manes rose up, surrounding the downed noble, then leaped upon him, rending his flesh with their claws and teeth. Alias had turned away to keep her eyes on the larger hoard of manes approaching her, but Victor’s screams filled the air all around the swordswoman. The nobleman’s death gave her no satisfaction, but neither did she feel any regret.

With ice in her heart, she charged a flank of the manes, swinging her sword fast and hard, felling instantly each creature she struck. They were not tremendously powerful monsters, but Alias knew better than to be heartened by her victories. They could reform again within a day. The real strength of manes, however, lay in their numbers and their mindless compulsion to attack regardless of any danger to themselves. It was only a matter of time before enough manes formed to overwhelm her. She could choke on the poisonous vapors of their dissipating corpses, or slip on a patch of their slick blood and find herself beneath a mound of their bodies, or just grow exhausted and fall unconscious.

The longer she kept the monsters interested in herself, though, the longer Dragonbait and Thistle would have to find the feather brooch so they could escape.

As the manes closed in on her, Alias worked at felling their flanks so that she could not be surrounded. She was beginning to regret that they did not remain corporeal. She could have used their bodies to make a defensive wall.

In the nightmare of endless slaughter Alias began to lose track of time. A few of the beasts had managed to evade her sword long enough to slash at her back and arms or sink their teeth into her legs. The wounds were all minor, but they burned like fire. She tried not to think about how much she was bleeding.

Then came the moment she knew she was doomed. Her legs would not move—something held them frozen. She slashed downward with her sword, but the blade thunked against something hard at her hips. She looked down to find herself encased, just as the shard of Verovan’s soul had been, by the mist of unformed manes, which had hardened into a pearl-like shell.

The swordswoman switched her weapon from hand to hand, trying to keep the manes from reaching either side of her body, but she was blind at her back. One of the monsters sunk its teeth into the back of her neck, and it took her several awkward stabs before she managed to dislodge it.

“Alias!” Dragonbait shouted.

Alias twisted her head, her heart pounding with hope at the sound of the paladin’s call.

The paladin came rushing toward her, his sword blazing with fire, cutting down manes like a farmer scything hay. Once at her side, he wheeled to protect her back. “We found the key and opened the portal. I sent Thistle out. I think the sooner we leave, the better.”

“I’m stuck,” Alias explained, “like the piece of Verovan’s soul.”

Dragonbait tapped on the casing about the swordswoman’s legs.

“I didn’t know manes could go hard like this,” Alias said.

“The manes that make up this mist are not like ordinary manes. This planar pocket, or the years they spent trapped in here away from the Abyss, has altered them,” Dragonbait said. He smashed his sword against the casing, without effect. The scent of violets wafted from the saurial’s throat—the scent of his fear.

“Alias, listen carefully,” the paladin ordered. “These manes are hungry for more than your flesh. They want to devour your essence—your spirit and your soul. But they can only do that if they can find a weakness—” The paladin paused to slash through another wave of manes, then continued. “They look for open wounds on your soul and spirit and drink from them like flies. You have to rid yourself of those things that make you bleed inside—”

“What’s going on?” Mintassan’s voice called out. The sage was drifting across the mists, flying just high enough to remain out of reach of the manes. “Lady Thistle’s outside, holding the portal open. She said you might need some help.”

“Can you teleport us out of here?” Alias asked.

“Afraid not—something in the makeup of this plane resists alteration magic,” the sage explained. Upon spying the shell surrounding Alias’s legs, he gave a low whistle. “That looks bad. Perhaps it can be dispelled,” he suggested.

Dragonbait shook his head. “It’s not magical. It would be more use if you could circle us with protection from evil,” he said.

The sage must have already cast a spell to understand Saurial, for he immediately began circling the warriors, casting the protection spell Dragonbait had asked for. When he’d finished, the manes all began moving away. They lingered at the edge of Mintassan’s magic boundary, waiting for it to dissipate. The mist, too, flowed out of the circle of protection. The shell about Alias’s legs, however, remained.

Trying desperately to conceal his own anxiety, Dragonbait spoke as calmly as he could. “Concentrate on your feelings,” he instructed Alias. “Clear your heart of everything that poisons it. Verovan’s soul was cut by his greed, Victor’s by his lust for power.”

“Victor’s dead,” Alias said softly. “The manes got him.”

“I know,” the paladin replied. He did not mention that he could feel the man’s evil spirit hovering nearby, no doubt waiting to witness the swordswoman’s death. “You have to let go of your anger and hatred for Victor Dhostar.”

Alias did not reply immediately. She didn’t know how to tell the paladin that she didn’t wish to do as he bid her. She cherished her anger and hatred of the nobleman. Victor had deceived her in the worst way. She had every right to be angry, to hate him.

The saurial sighed, realizing how hard it must be for Alias to give up the powerful emotions. They had fastened themselves so strongly to her essence that losing them would feel like losing herself. She could not accept that there was so much more to her being than these poisonous, wounding feelings. He ran his fingertips down the brand on her sword arm, trying to kindle a spark of the link that bound their souls together.

Alias shivered at the paladin’s touch. She could sense his great serenity, his compassion, his tenderness and concern. She knew, though, that she was nothing like him, would never be, could never be as good. There were times she wished she were, but wishing did not make it so.

Dragonbait looked up suddenly at the manes massing behind Alias. He could feel their evil darkening, growing more powerful.

Alias struggled, but she remained trapped in the mist shell.

“Alias, please,” the paladin begged. “Let it go. I know you can do it.”

“I can’t,” the swordswoman snapped. “I’ve tried.”

“You can!” Dragonbait snapped back.

“No, I can’t!”

“She doesn’t dare,” Mintassan interjected. “It’s her only protection.”

“Protection?” Dragonbait growled. “It’s trapped her in this evil place. How is that protection?”

“If she gives up her anger and hatred, there’s nothing left but bitterness and despair,” the sage pointed out. “Why would she want to feel them?”

The paladin nodded. Bitterness, the shadow of anger, and despair, the evil without a color. He wasn’t very familiar with them, so he’d forgotten them both. Mintassan knew them though, intimately.

“Alias, what Mintassan says is true. You’re holding onto the anger and hate because you’re afraid of the bitterness and despair. You know they’ll hurt you even more. But you can shed them, too. Trust me.”

“I am not bitter and despairing!” Alias shouted. “I’m just stuck in a damned rock. Go get Durgar. Maybe he’s got some priest prayer that can break this thing open.”

Behind Alias the mist was taking on a serpent shape, and the serpent was rising up. “Alias, there isn’t time,” the paladin insisted. “Your life depends on it. Let them go.”

“I have no reason to be bitter or despairing,” Alias argued. “Victor was a monster, and I’m well rid of him. He wasn’t worthy of my love. I know that.”

“It’s not the loss of that worthless man that brings you pain,” Mintassan said. “It’s the loss of the love you felt. Your love was good, and when it died, it left you empty.”

The mist serpent began winding around the border of the spell of protection.

Alias glared at Mintassan. “I don’t have time for stupid conversations with sages. What do you know about my love? You don’t know anything except what you read in your dusty old tomes.”

“Oh, don’t I?” Mintassan replied, holding her eyes with his own. “Do you think it was easy for me watching someone I cared about fling herself at someone as unworthy as Victor Dhostar.”

Alias felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her, as if she’d run into a wall of understanding. When she’d first arrived, the sage had cared less about Westgate than she had, but for some reason he’d been there to save her life. Then he’d thrown himself into her quest for vengeance. Now he stood in this stinking, gods-forsaken, evil-ridden pit of a planar pocket arguing with her.

The swordswoman flushed with embarrassment. Why did he have to tell her this?

“So the question is,” Mintassan said, “if the lowly sage survived his battle against bitterness and despair, why won’t the great warrior woman risk battling them, too?”

Alias squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep tears from falling out of them. Mintassan was right. She missed her love. It had made her feel warm and safe and happy.

But she could feel those things without it. She knew she could. Besides—she might even love again—maybe.

Dragonbait sighed with relief as the shell of mane mist began to melt from Alias’s legs and drift away from the adventurers.

“What in Mystra’s name is that?” Mintassan whispered, finally noticing the serpentlike evil wrapped about the circle of protection and hovering over them.

“The manes have found a focus,” the paladin said, “a leader to organize their attack.”

Alias spun around and looked up at the serpent of mist. She looked into its bright blue eyes. She gasped. “It’s Victor!”

“Move toward the portal,” the paladin instructed, taking Alias’s arm. “The circle of protection should move with us.”

As the three adventurers shifted their position, the serpent hissed with anger, but it uncoiled and let them pass, unable to withstand the magical constraints of Mintassan’s spell. It followed them to the portal, devouring mist as it moved, growing larger and darker.

The portal loomed ahead like a hole of darkness. Dragonbait stepped out onto the bridge and held his hand out to Alias.

As Alias stepped into the night sky over Westgate, she took a deep breath of the cool air and laughed. Mintassan flew out from the portal and swooped over the bridge.

Dragonbait gasped and spun about. His shen sight suddenly perceived a hundredfold increase in the evil emanating from the mane serpent. Mintassan’s circle of protection had dissipated when he had flown through the portal. The serpent wavered over Alias’s head and struck before the paladin could pull her out of danger.

From the top of the tower, Jamal, Olive, Thistle, and Durgar watched in horror as a huge, dark serpent swung down over Alias and coiled around her body. Dragonbait thrust his fiery blade into the creature, and Alias stabbed at it with her sword. Little bits of glowing mist seeped from the creature wherever it was hit, but the beast remained intact, healing over the cuts almost immediately with some otherworldly power. Mintassan hovered over the beast and sent five magic missiles shooting into the creature’s hide, but they passed right through the monster and fell to the ground.

The serpent brought its head down to survey the warrior woman in its embrace. Noxious poison dripped from its fangs. It opened its jaw and brushed its tongue along her face. It was toying with her before it devoured her—lording its power over her, just as Victor had when he had embraced and kissed her poison-paralyzed body.

“Close the gate!” Olive shouted to Thistle.

“If I do that, the bridge will collapse. They’ll fall to their deaths,” the girl argued.

“Durgar, Lady Thistle said the place was full of manes. Aren’t they some sort of undead?” Jamal asked. “Maybe this thing is, too. Use your power to turn it away.”

Durgar looked exceedingly doubtful of the actress’s suggestion, but he began a prayer, nonetheless, asking Tyr to compel the monster to flee.

“It’s working!” Olive shouted.

The serpent began to turn translucent, all except the tongue, which took the shape of a man and fell from the monster’s mouth to the ground far below. The body of the serpent began to turn to mist, which drifted quickly back through the portal.

Unfortunately, the part of the serpent that had been coiled about Alias was no longer over the bridge. As the coils dissipated, the swordswoman fell with a shriek toward the ground—

To be caught by the arm by a flying sage.

Mintassan set the swordswoman down on the roof of the tower just as Dragonbait stepped off the bridge. They turned to watch the last of the mist escape through the portal, fleeing from the power of Durgar’s god. Thistle flung the brooch across the bridge and into the portal. The bridge retreated and disappeared, then the portal snapped shut, leaving the top of the tower in darkness.

Olive leaned over the battlement and stared down at the ground. Members of the watch held torches aloft as they surveyed the dark shape that had fallen to the ground from the top of the tower.

“It’s Lord Victor!” one of the watch shouted.

“He’s dead! He just fell from the tower!” another guard cried out.

“No,” Olive whispered to Jamal, “he fell a long time ago.”