Chapters

Finding Home Again

The rebuilding of Elturel was a long and arduous task, setting constant challenges before the interim leaders of the Golden City. Thousands of refugees flooded back to their home and the seedy underbelly quickly establishing itself like nothing had changed (except the sky high prices they enjoyed during those first few months). Power hungry nobility clashed with the sudden appearance of mysterious individuals bearing documentation ‘proving’ their entitlement to vast swathes of land.

Despite these difficulties, the city slowly but surely climbed back on its feet, helped in no small measure by determined leadership of Torgrun Halestormer, one of the few surviving Hellriders, who cut through red tape and egos like a man possessed. He also achieved something of a miracle by getting Baldur’s Gate to fund much of the rebuilding—some cursed him assuming Elturel would be forever in the Harbour City’s debt, but others whispered that Halestormer had forged an alliance with Ulder Ravengard, though none could fathom quite how.

Ravengard himself was feted as a hero in Elturel, the saviour of the city, and many begged him to stay on and rule. But he immediately declined, denying he played any role beyond protecting those few who survived in the High Hall during that unspeakable time. Ravengard returned to Baldur’s Gate and didn’t take long to re-establish himself as Grand Duke, ousting the pretenders who jostled for his seat in his absence. Duke Thalamra Vanthampur was posthumously convicted of high treason, though the truth of just how close her scheming came to dooming Baldur’s Gate to the same fate as Elturel remained a closely guarded secret. Ravengard was a changed man after his experience standing as the last bastion for the desperate citizens of Elturel. He quickly ousted the more corrupt members of the Flaming Fist, turning to Spider for advice on just where to draw the line (‘A little bit of graft goes a long way,’ the crafty rogue was heard to say). And despite fierce resistance from the elite, he managed to usher in an era of détente, if not full friendship, between the two great cities of Baldur’s Gate and Elturel.

In the wondrous city of Candlekeep, the archmage Sylvira Savikas and her most trusted scholar, Zandeyr Grawarith, continued their scholarly study of the many planes of Hell, focussing on the upheaval in Avernus. The redemption and ascension of the Archdevil Zariel had thrown the first plane into chaos, opening a power struggle that continued for many years as Bel and Tiamat, amongst countless others, vied for the favour of Asmodeus and the throne of Avernus. They noted wryly that the Blood War continued unabated and undecided, despite the Devil’s lack of leadership. “The more things change…” Zandeyr chuckled. Both recalled the six brave—or insane—adventurers who had briefly visited before descending into Hell. “An unlikely collection of individuals,” Sylvira mused, “Yet there was something about them, some intangible quality that makes me not surprised—and yet frankly astonished—that they succeeded.” Many years later Lulu returned to Sylvira, revealing the true history of those six for the first time, captured in great detail by Master Zandeyr before being filed deep in the bottomless libraries of Candlekeep.

Over time rumours of six heroes who were the true saviours of Elturel started to circulate in the streets of both cities. High Hall survivors talked in awe of glimpses of these six, and eventually even Ravengard was cajoled into revealing what he knew. Some started to compare the mysterious six to the fabled Stormwatch, a yin to their infamous yang (Donald Tebbett, copyright enforcer for the Stormwatch legend, was quick to quash any such comparisons. “Where are these so-called heroes?” he scoffed whenever asked. “I would like to ask them about how they managed to destroy Elturel so completely as they ‘saved’ it.”) But there were huge gaps in the stories, and the tales told left many sceptical of their providence. For who could believe that a fallen angel could be redeemed by mere mortals, even if they were variously described as giants, bears, fortune-tellers, Jakkari zealots and a lowly street-urchin. The introduction of a tiny, flying, golden elephant to the tale sealed the tall-story status for many.

And yet each year, under the (now singular) golden sun of Elturel, a group of six anonymous strangers gathered in a small clearing in the Elturgard Woods. There they hugged each other welcome, before enjoying a sumptuous feast prepared by a goblin with a pet spider, and heady homebrew from a leather-winged Elturen Rider. They were regaled with tales from the sandy East as told by a golden-skinned holy man, and adventures in the frozen North from a giant short on words but long on wisdom. A near-naked shaman sung of his many children with particular attention on one known only as Betrask, bringing shivers to his entranced audience. As the hours flew and dusk turned to dawn, the gathering would conclude with a reading from a charming man—sometimes woman—who left them in peals of laughter and tears of joy.

Over time their numbers dwindled until there were none, but always and forever a small golden elephant would return to the spot and pay a quiet, heartfelt thanks to her six friends.

Bili the Bear

BILI, THE BEAR

Written by the ancient and renowned Candlekeep Scholar,

Master Zandeyr Grawarith, Esq.

Seventh Edition Thirty-Second Printing

FOREWORD

This is a collection of wild and strange fairy tales all come from storytellers of folklore, fables, myths, and legends from the northern lands of tundra, between Icewind Dale. the Reghed Glacier and the Sea of Moving Ice.

The book retells stories of a half-elf, shape-shifting shaman of the barbarian Bear tribe, called Bili ‘Bear’ Tengervaald, Son of Wolvig, son of Günvald, of the Reghedmen. Each tale involves Bili as the hero of the story, with him either changing into a bear, fighting his enemies with his axes, or casting spells to vanquish some villain, and by the end of each conveying a moral that teaches a lesson.

Each fable is usually an entertaining tale featuring Bili as a bear that can’t talk when in that form, behaves as person. Because of his humanlike qualities, as a bear, he often does show how foolish or wise his companions can be at times as part of the lessen. The book can be found on the shelves of every village keep, town library, and many taverns throughout the lands. It is considered by some to be essential bedtime reading to all young children everywhere.

There have been a many scholarly debates as if the stories are fictitious or have a historical basis but generally whilst many may that this may be a popular and beloved children’s book, and could be considered a work of fiction, and that any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, may be purely coincidental. It is with great veracity that as the author I can claim to having once entertained the subject of these tales and his companions as Bili, the Bear on his visit to Candlekeep.

Edition Notes

Each short story is a fable and were originally presented out of order in early editions, but it was reorganised in later printings, that they were more suited to be placed in a chronological order. Some stories are a beautiful, like the Hag-Lover which shows how Bili sees beyond the ugly visage of a fair maiden who is unable to be with child, and so embrace her and he himself gives birth to a lovely fey baby daughter. The fables are often used to teach children about nature, morals, life lessons, and impart the wisdom of the ages in an engaging manner… Bili has many companions on his adventures, such as Spider a goblin chef with a pet familiar, a giant named Mak, a warrior priest named Torgrun, a hairy bearded-lady mystic named Madam P, and Morad, a holy desert knight who is blind sometimes. There are legendary weapons and armour, and some of the adventures are set in infernal realm of Avernus. Each usually involves some sort of moral conundrum or faced with a unique challenge that activates a child’s creativity.

In some of the early editions several of the stories where not very clear or slightly confusing about the teaching of the story such “Bili, Rescuer of the maw demon Kostchtchie” or “Bili the Baldur’s Gate Cannibal” but subsequent in future editions with slight corrections have fixed the fable’s ambiguity around the lesson. Many of the later stories seem to involve the Bili’s raising his daughter Betrask, but the very last story in the book, has never been updated or changed and is just called “Bili, The Primal Bear” and is only a few page long that talks about Bili changing into a massive Dire Bear and going into in a deep cave, it mentions stars twinkle upon the dark ceiling, and Bili curling up on a pile of dry leaves, dreaming of all the tales of his adventures, his Bear tribe, his daughter, and his companions before he “enters into the endless hibernation of the forever winter until he is needed again”

CHAPTERS

Bili the Elk Rider
Bili the Baldur’s Gate Cannibal
Bili the Eater of All
Bili the Breeder
Bili the Hag-Lover
Bili the Minotaur-Dancer
Bili the Boone-holder of Mooncolour
Bili the Blizzard Summoner
Bili the Rescuer of Hedrun the Ice Witch
Bili the Blessed of Auril
Bili the Releaser of the maw-demon Kostchtchie
Bili the Father-Mother and Bear baby birth
Bili the Twice-blessed progeny
Bili the Thrice-cursed bearer of woes
Bili the Birthmother of the child born of Bear and Fey and Celestial.
Bili the Skywriter and the Hellturel Heroes
Bili the Lightning-Caller
Bili the Father-Mother Bili
Bili the Titan-Romancer
Bili the Witness to Zariel’s redemption,
Bili the Saviour of Elturel
Bili the Survivor of the underworld
Bili the All-parent of blessed Betrask
Bili the Guardian and protector of Betrask
Bili the friend of Grace, wearer of the brightly coloured rainbow scarf
Bili the Primal Bear (Unfinished…)

Aziz Morad

The dwarves had travelled for many weeks into the desert. It was a not a trip anyone envied but only in the sands of Jakkari could be found Shingar, a rock which was also a liquid and prized by all weaponsmiths but especially the Dwarves as it made the kiln so hot that a sword could be made unequalled except by enchantment.

After many parleys they sat in the Caliph’s tent and accepted his hospitality. They would be allowed five days to explore and mine — their 48 barrels could be filled in exchange for things hard to find in the desert but most especially herbs and spices and salt.

Now was the time for hospitality and after a feast of dates and roast rabbit all bathed in ghanoush and tzatziki, and plenty of sips from the old bag which held a devilish red liquor not unlike Shingar, the dwarves asked about the Jakkari and their people. Eventually talk rounded to the undying devotion to the desert God Al’Akbar.

“Tell us why He demands your Faith?” the dwarves asked.

The Caliph pointed to a young man, just getting his first beard and the man spoke clear and strong: obviously the keeper of their stories.

Their was once a young man of our tribe who was full of ambition and vigor and from early on it was obvious he walked with Al’Akbar’s grace. When he was of age, as all Jakkari men do, he left the village to become a full man and bring back a gift to the Jakkari. But above all that, the adventures were so he could prove himself to Al’Akbar and become a Paladin, a Holy Warrior: A Voice of Al’Akbar and deliver his Message to the sands.

It is said he met many different people and they became his friends: a dwarf who was of Torm but also a Devil, a Goblin who could control spiders, a man who was also a woman and who could call fire from her hand and when she wished you dead the last thing you would hear would be a bell, A man who walked as a bear so much that he sometimes thought was he a bear dreaming of men, and a half giant so full of rage and bravery that it is said he ate ice cubes while fighting in Hell!

This warrior was blessed many times but at every turn he would give the blessing away: a Jakkari rider who freed a unicorn mount, a Holy Warrior who spurned the most powerful Holy weapon in existence, a Shield so powerful it contained a devil and an angel….this man, Al’Akbar would not raise as a Voice but as The Voice: He would be Aziz, The True: a living avatar of the God…a man who would without use of sword or shield or mount would turn a Devil and make an Angel. But at a cost — blinded and no longer human he was power and utterly beautiful and terrifying. It was said just his Voice could kill.

He adventured for many years. Saw the entire world and did much Good. He had a soft spot for the coast where the water fascinated him but eventually he returned to the Jakkari and brought him with a gift unlike any: the tear of an Angel.

At this the Caliph brought forth a gold chain and below it was a gem, a light, a source — it shimmered and it was hard to look at but at least a few Dwarves thought they would go to war just to touch such a creation, though that thought faded as quick as it appeared.

The Caliph ended the story by saying that soon after, the man who loved Al’Akbar more then anything and who the God exalted above all — asked to be released and to be just a man again. His eyesight went back to normal and while still handsome he looked more mature and many wrinkles formed where he smiled with his eyes, the shimmering of his skin faded and he took his place in the Tribe

The dwarves knew the story was over and let the drunken haze surround them as they had many hard day’s labour in front of them

The next day they made the camel train ready and the dwarves made sure their gear was ready for the trip into the desert.

As they began to leave a man in a long jihab with just a dagger at his hip came and started blessing them in the name of Al’Akbar. His beard was strong and tied three times which meant much honor and strangely the blessing was in Dwarvish and included a devotion to Torm because as he said Al’Akbar was not a jealous God and could share a blessing or two. At that three children ran and grabbed his arms and dragged him towards a tent and so he looked back and waved and the Dwarves swore that it was as if his skin was gold — and then he was gone.

Spider

Along Came a Spider

Baldur’s Gate, 10 years after the raising of Elturel from Avernus.

A month ago…

“He’s late,” said Samael sounding very agitated.

“It’s fine. I know a proper killer when I see one and I don’t reckon I’ve seen a better one. He’ll get it done.” replied Spider, doing his best to be reassuring.

The goblin crouched at the edge of the large, intricate, summoning circle on the floor of the former temple to Zariel in the catacombs beneath what was the Vanthampur villa. His hand rested idly on the backpack on the ground beside him, Samael’s comforting hairy bulk clinging to his shoulder. The strange, but oddly pleasant smell of arcane incense laced with brimstone filled the dimly torchlit chamber. Across the circle from them loomed the effigy of the angel. Despite the fact it was now headless, Spider couldn’t shake the feeling it was staring at him.

“If this goes wrong, we’re fucked. Bel will be pissed, there’ll be nowhere to hide,” the panic in Sam’s voice increasing.

“Sam, calm down. We’ve been through this a hundred times — the plan is solid. Bel is on board, he’s got deniability, he’s always hated the smarmy prick, and he hates being spied on by his boss even more. Feonor’s happy, she gets on with Bel, and she’s ready to take over. She’ll get him here.” Spider pointed to the ground, “Zandeyr made the circle — he knows his stuff.”

“Yeah but…”

“For shite’s sake Sam,” the goblin groaned, “you wrote the contracts yourself. We’re covered with the payment in advance thing. Besides…” His exhortation was cut off as he noticed the first runes of the summoning circle begin to glow faintly. “See, I told ye’.”

As the goblin and the imp watched, the runes, and soon the entire circle glowed with a burning heat. A hot, dry and familiar wind swirled around the chamber, howling and growing in intensity. Spider flattened himself against the wind, his strong fingers finding purchase in cracks of the stone floor. Samael, in turn dug his eight legs into Spider. Soon, the two were being blasted by biting sand, the noise grew louder, now accompanied by a cacophony of screams. Then, just as Spider was about to lose his grip, all was silent and still again.

Spider stood, put a hand to Samael on his shoulder, and beheld a rag covered figure resting on one knee, head bowed, at the centre of the now blackened circle. After a few heartbeats, he heard the ring of two smoking gems as they hit the stone floor. As he watched, the figure slowly slid its hand across the floor, took up the gems in a clenched fist, stood and blinked his eyes.

“Bannor, is it then?” Spider questioned, looking at the thin, grizzled, dangerous looking collection of muscle and bone before him, and resisting the gut that was telling him to summon his Shadow Blade just in case.

The man’s eyes gained their focus, he looked at Spider and nodded.

“And the job’s done as requested?”

Bannor nodded again, and moved towards Spider, reaching into his torn tunic.

“Shit!” screamed Samael in Spider’s head, causing him to flinch unintentionally.

Bannor stopped momentarily. “Nice work Sam,” thought Spider, “there goes my dignity. He’s just going to show us proof ye’ eejit.”

“Sorry Bannor, your reputation precedes you, don’t mind us.” Spider said calmly, beckoning him over.

Bannor handed Spider a small blood-stained bundle of cloth. Spider carefully unwrapped the cloth and smiled on seeing its contents. “Excellent. Well done you!” Spider exclaimed. “As per the arrangement, your previous contract is voided now obvious reasons, you’re in the clear. Regular lifespan and looks like you got a bonus new set o’ peepers. Grand!”

Spider lifted the pack and handed it to Bannor, who opened it to inspect the contents. “There’s clothes there, should be the right size, some soft leathers, a bunch o’ gold of course, couple o’ good knives — wasn’t sure what’d be coming up with you — oh, and I was told you like a nice red.”

Bannor pulled the bottle of wine from the pack and handed it back to Spider. He slung the pack over one shoulder and stood waiting.

“Right, not much of a talker then. OK, follow me.” Spider turned and led Bannor off down the corridor. “We’ll get you down to the docks and put ye’ on a ship to anywhere you want to go, although your mate Zandeyr was hoping you might come see him in Candlekeep…”

The Upper City, Baldur’s Gate.

Last night…

Patriarch Redlock was startled out of his reverie over the evening’s sacrificial ritual when his carriage hit a hole in the cobbled street. Peering out the window he saw the grand buttressed walls of The High Hall. As his cab left the square, his face contorted into a sneer of disgust as he passed the former Vanthampur villa. The iron wrought sign above it’s gates, a constant source of irritation, stated “Bettingsthwaite School for Orphans”. His mood worsened when he noticed a blood stain on the cuff his imported silk shirt.

A short time later, upon entering his darkened bed chamber, he cursed to himself promising to severely discipline the house maid who had forgotten to leave a lantern on by his bed.

“Home at last Redlock, you took your time,” a voice spoke from the darkness.

“What! Who is that? Show yourself” commanded the Patriarch his hand resting on the pommel of the dagger at his belt.

In response, a flame burst into life, it’s light revealing it’s source.

A grinning goblin with green skin — Spider

Crouched upon the armchair in the corner was a goblin holding the flame in the palm of its hand. The creature flicked its wrist, sending the flame to the lantern at the bedside, lighting it and the room dimly. Noticing movement, Redlock’s eye’s returned to the armchair, crawling up over its high back was an unfeasibly large, hairy, red and black spider.

“I think he’s shocked. You think he’s shocked?” the goblin said.

Still stunned and momentarily bemused by what he was seeing, Redlock wondered if the question was rhetorical until another voice, higher pitched, emanating from the spider replied, “Oh, he’s shocked!”

Redlock, an extremely bright and cunning man, if one of very questionable moral character, in short order realised who this was based on rumours that floated around Baldur’s Gate. “The Goblin King,” he said unconsciously, before regaining his composure and straightening into an imperious stance.

“Heh, I’m never sure whether to own one or not. Baldur’s has never taken kindly to people calling themselves kings” mused Spider. “It’ll do for now though Patriarch.”

“Will it?” scoffed Redlock, hand now gripping the pommel of his dagger. “Might I ask then, your highness, what in the Hells are you doing in my house?”

“Hells! Funny.” remarked Spider. “You were born here right Patriarch? So was I, although despite my fine appearance, I’ve always lived in the Lower City. Anyway, I love Baldur’s, greatest city in Realms, no doubt. She welcomes folk from all over and tolerates all sorts — look at me. She’ll make you rich so long as you respect her. Sure, she’s a harsh mistress with hard lessons, but she’s always looked after me, so I’ve always done my damnedest to look after her…”

“Is there a point to this?” Redlock interjected, his tone impatient and laced with a cold anger. “Or should I just call The Watch right now haul your stinking carcass away?”

“The point is that Baldur’s Gate will tolerate a lot of questionable behaviour, Lady knows I’m guilty of plenty of that. And there aren’t many actual rules, especially for the high and mighty like yourself. Shite, you live your comfortable life of respectability in the Upper City, while you earn most of your coin being a smuggler and a pirate.” Redlock’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. “There are two pretty big rules though, and all of you Patriarchs know ‘em — no kids, and NO devil worship. So, the point, Redlock, is despite multiple friendly warnings, you broke the second rule and I’m going kill you for it.”

“Kill me?” Redlock snorted. “I’m no easy mark like half the fools that live up here, I earn my money. If you were going to kill me, you should have come at me from the dark as soon as I walked into the room, but you didn’t. Instead, you sit and dare to lecture me you disgusting green-skin. No, I’m not the one who’s going to be dying. Abraxas!”

At that, the bedroom doorway was filled with the scaled, spined hide of a Barbed Devil, its fanged teeth bared in a evil smile. “Kill these things,” Redlock commanded. The devil took a step forward.

“Hold up Abraxas,” said Spider raising palm, staring dead-eyed at the devil. It halted, bemused by both the lack of fear in the goblin’s voice and that it had spoken to him in perfect Infernal tongue. The spider, no, not a spider the devil realised, seemed similarly unconcerned.

Spider shifted his gaze back to the Patriarch. “You’ve got a pair on you Redlock, I’ll give you that. Signing a contract with a Hamatula is ambitious for a beginner.”

Redlock’s confident expression faltered, “Abraxas, I said kill them” he repeated. The devil took another step forward.

Spider stood up in the armchair, as he did so, shadowy tendrils wafted around one arm forming into a long blade. With a flick of the wrist a shuriken of blackened iron laced with glowing red hellfire appeared in his opposite hand. “Abraxas,” he said flatly, returning to Infernal tongue and presenting the throwing star for the devil to see. “Take a second. You know what city you’re in right? I’m being pretty fucking polite here even giving you this chance to realise who you’re talking to — call it professional courtesy. I know you’re doing your job, collecting souls for the war. You’ve gotta try, I get it. But this arsehole is goin’ to die tonight, and the only choice you have to make now is whether you’re goin’ to join him. So, you can come at me now and I’ll put you down, then him. Or you can help me do my job and walk out o’ here.”

The devil tensed, its natural spite compelling it to attack. “Look me Abraxas,” Spider growled coldly, “Am I lying?”

Redlock, more than a little confused and incensed about a conversation happening without him, barked at the devil, “Abraxas, I command you to rip this goblin apart!”

Spider stood, his eyes locked on the devil’s, then Abraxas wheeled around behind Redlock and pinned his arms. “What?! No! What are you…” he exclaimed, futilely struggling against the devil’s vice-like and painful grip.

“Smart choice,” said Spider to the obviously enraged but compliant devil. “Your pride’s goin’ to sting for a while, but I’m not telling anyone.”

“The problem with people like you Patriarch,” said Spider,” is you’re clever enough to have all the angles covered, but not clever enough to realise when you don’t. Why in Hells would you make deal with something when can’t even speak their language for shite’s sake?”

Redlock straightened his back in the devil’s grip and composed himself, “You won’t get away this goblin!” he spat defiantly. “There are more of us, they’ll make you pay, your death will be slow and painful…”

“Make me pay?” Spider asked Samael as the spider crawled up on to his shoulder.

Samael cackled, “I wonder if he’s talking about the others who sold him out, then paid us not to kill them before they had time to leave the city permanently?” he replied.

Spider smiled, though Redlock saw his grin turn truly malign when the goblin addressed him again. “OK formalities. Patriarch Redlock, you’re guilty of the crime of devil worship within the walls and holdings of Baldur’s Gate, by decree of the Grand Duke Ravenguard and the ruling council, you’re sentenced to immediate summary execution. Any last words?”

Resigned to his fate, but excited about his future, Redlock replied haughtily “Go ahead goblin, kill me, I will be rewarded when my soul reaches the plains of Avernus!”

“Left or right Sam?” Spider asked.

“Ahh…left,” came the reply.

“Bel himself,” Redlock continued, “will gift me wi…” he was cut off by Spider’s lightning fast wrist flick that left black iron shuriken buried in his left eye socket, killing him instantly. The barbed devil released its grip and the Patriarch’s body crumpled to a heap on the floor.

“Sure,” said Spider to the corpse, “give him my regards when you see him… in a few centuries.”

“And you…leave it,” Spider told Abraxas as he saw the devil eying the throwing star. The devil growled, staring at him with a hatred born of the ages. “Yeah, yeah, suck it up — you’ll get over it. Now pack your shit, you’ve got until dawn to get out of town, or I’ll kill ye’. Your Baldur’s Gate privileges have been revoked. Off you fuck then!”

The pair were mid conversation when they appeared in a cloud of dark mist in the well-appointed sewer tunnel running beneath the now former Redlock mansion.

“…I’m telling you, I’ve never met a Hamatula who had literally nothing so say, normally you can’t shut ‘em up.” Sam nattered.

“Don’t ask me, you’re the imp, how should I know Sam? Personally, I thought he was too angry to speak.”

Sam laughed, “Yeah, I thought he was going to pop a vein!”

Spider smiled, “I’m just glad he went quietlike and we didn’t get into it, I promised the girls I wouldn’t get banged up before tomorrow night.”

“That’s right Dad, you did” came a voice from behind them.

Startled, Spider spun so quickly Samael almost lost his eight-legged grip on the goblin’s shoulder. “Lady’s sake Grace, you scared the shite out of us!”

A rogueish woman with long, dark hair — Grace

“Oh, I’m sure,” Grace smiled, making a show of rolling her eyes. “That hasn’t worked since I was a kid!”

“Made you smile though, didn’t it?” Spider winked.

“Yeah, yeah” Grace bent over to hug Spider before giving Sam a kiss behind the eyes. “So spikey!” she exclaimed, “I swear I’m going to take a brush to you one day Sam.”

“No way” Sam retorted, “I need those hairs where they are. Besides you love it!”

“Hmmm. How did it go upstairs then? Did I hear Hamatula?” she asked.

“Oh that, easy peasy,” Spider chirped as he began walking down the tunnel. “Redlock’s no longer with us, the barb will be gone by morning with any luck. I left a ‘Devil Worshipper’ sign on his chest as warning. You know, the standard stuff.”

“Standard stuff!” Grace scoffed, walking by his side. “Did you just leave him up there? Nine-Fingers isn’t going to be happy when she finds out.”

“Of course I did, otherwise what’s point of a warning. Ravenguard’s fine with it. As for Nine-Fingers, if she was doing her job properly, I wouldn’t have had to kill him. Shite, if she did her job properly her territory wouldn’t have shrunk to just the upside of the wall now would it? She’ll keep. Anyway, I thought you had a show tonight? Don’t you have adoring fans hoping to see the finest actress of her generation? What are ye’ doing down here all kitted out?”

“Why am I here? I’m making sure you, father, and your rapscallion imp friend, make it unscathed to the big dinner tomorrow. Besides, the understudy has been gagging for a shot on stage, so I’m sick this evening. Uncle Albert saw the show last night, that’s what matters — I think he was suitably impressed.”

“Of course he was! How could he not be? How did he look?”

“He looked well. Happy, I think, in that slightly melancholy way he does.” Grace replied.

“Was Morad with him?”

“Yes, they arrived in town together a couple of days ago, he looks as shiny as ever. Don’t change the subject, what about Redlock’s assets?”

“Assets is it now?” Spider beamed, “She’s got head for the game this one! Chip off the old block.”

“Thanks Dad, I love you too. And?”

“The Jeweller has already got the paperwork ready. Ravenguard will take the house and sell it for the city, or gift it to someone he needs in his pocket. Nine-Fingers well get the stuff in the house, minus a couple of nice things I spotted while I was there. We get the ships and whole smuggling operation, result, if say so myself. Those pirates hated him anyway and were more than happy work for their own kind o’ people, for a larger cut naturally — price of doing business. Happy?”

“Well that seems tidy enough, I am happy… to see age hasn’t addled your brain yet.”

“Addled! The cheek of her Sam, did you hear that?” Spider could feel Sam grinning in his mind. “I’m still in my prime, best years ahead of me girly. Did we hear from his worship?”

“Yes well, we finally heard back from Uncle Torgrun. The Stormwarden expresses his sincere regret at not being able to attend, his duties mean he is unable to leave Elturel at this time…”

“Yeah, I get the picture, heard it all before. It’s been a decade for fuck’s” he caught himself, “Sorry, for Lady’s sake, and he still thinks Elturel’s goin’ to get carried off by devils or get swallowed into the earth if he leaves for a couple of weeks! Stormwarden too, I told him that title made him sound like those old showboat dragon-killing tossers in Waterdeep, now he’s stuck with it.”

“You finished ranting? I know you’re disappointed your friend isn’t coming” Grace said calmly. “He also reminds you about the excessive robbing of pilgrims during their visits to the city.”

“Excessive? Right, tell Max again I want the guild to cut right down on the pilgrim thievin’. You can also tell him that if I hear about this again, I’m going pay them a visit, and if I have to do that, I’m goin’ to be dropping bodies.”

“Well, that’s nothing if not fair” she agreed.

Meanwhile, in Avernus…

The repugnant, molten form of the lemure that used to be Patriarch Redlock, hauled its way, hand over hand, out of the River Styx — the one hundred and seventeenth soul to meet the same fate at Spider’s hand.

A bulbous creature made of brown slime — Redlock

Through the haze that was his existence now, the small fading part of devil that remembered it was something better, felt that this was wrong, that this was not how it was supposed be. When it reached the crest of the bloody river’s bank, it found its way blocked by a pair of scaled, sharply spined legs. The lemure craned its neck, looking up into a pair hate filled eyes. The barbed devil grinned maliciously down at it.

“Redlock,” it sneered, “a pity you won’t remember this soon, you pathetic, useless fool. My name is Abraxas, at least you’ll understand now.” And then, all the lemure knew was pain…

On his black iron throne, floating in molten heart of his forge, Bel, ruler of Avernus, knew a fresh soul had arrived in his realm.

“HA!” he boomed, drawing the attention of his lieutenants. “Spider, I knew you were a proper killer the first time I laid eyes on you, you mouthy little bastard,” he mused to himself. “One hundred and seventeen, that’s an auspicious number. Always nice to see someone honouring their agreements. You do a better job at supplying me soldiers than half the morons down here. I hope you live a long and bloody life, goblin. Or that you make a mistake,” he grinned, “and end up down here one day. I’d kill — a lot — for a decent conversation.”

The Howling Harpy Inn (renovated, slightly fancier, but still very lived in), Eastway, Baldur’s Gate.

Tonight…

A sign pinned to closed door of The Howling Harpy read “Closed for Private Function”, much to the chagrin of the pair of regulars descending the stoop, pining at the inviting lantern lit glow in the inn’s windows.

A three story tavern with windows glowing invitingly — The Howling Harpy Inn

As they turned to head to their second-choice watering hole, they asked one of The Flaming Fist guardsmen patrolling the street out front if they knew why the inn was closed tonight. “Private function,” the guard replied. “Have a good night gentleman,” gesturing for the two to move along.

Inside, Connie was putting the finishing touches on the large round formal dining table that had been set in the centre of the room. She glanced up towards the bar where Grace was holding court with Mak, Albert, and Morad. Grace met her eyes and mouthed “Where is he?”

A dark haired woman smiles softly — Connie

“No idea” she mouthed in reply, Grace returning to her conversation. “Those two, I swear, it’s like trying to herd cats,” Connie complained herself. Table setting finished, including the two empty places for absent friends, she straightened, hands resting on her on hips and took stock of the room, satisfied. “What do I have to complain about?” she thought to herself. “I run the best pub in Baldur’s, great home, friends, and a good…” she smiled “mostly, man by my side.”

“Hi honey, I’m home,” came the cheery voice from the front door.

Connie, Grace and the other three at the bar all turned to see a grubby looking Spider, in his leathers, Sam perch atop his head. Mak raised an arm in greeting, Albert smiled, Morad bowed his head slightly, and Grace, on form, rolled her eyes.

“Late,” stated Connie raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah sorry, work stuff came up,” Spider replied apologetically as he walked towards her. “The place looks great” he continued in a more placatory tone. “C’mon give us a kiss then.”

“Not likely!” she scoffed, taking a step back. “Look at the state of you!”

“Whaaaat?” said Spider, palms out in an expression of feigned shock.

“Ma’s in the kitchen.”

“What? Why?” Spider sighed heavily.

“Don’t look me,” Connie retorted. “I can’t control what she does. Anyway, hurry up and get ready. Off with ye’.”

Spider dutifully headed off for the kitchen. “Ahem!” coughed Connie behind him. He turned to see her standing pointing to the wedding band on her finger. In response, he pulled the neck chain from beneath his armour showing her the matching band hanging at its end. “Always” he said earnestly, a hand placed on his heart.

Connie waved him on with a satisfied smile.

“Sorry lads,” he exclaimed to his friends at the bar, “the missus says I need to wash myself up before dinner. Back out in a jiffy for some serious drinkin’!”

The familiar heat and the scents of cooking, roasting meat and spices greeted Spider up entering the kitchen. “Ma, what you doin’ here?” he said accusingly as he made his way to the vast wooden chopping bench at the centre of the room, at which Margot Bettingsthwaite was, somewhat fittingly, chopping.

“What am I doing here? That’s gratitude for you!” Ma snapped indignantly.

Samael jumped from Spider’s head to the bench. Spider crouched below the table, “Ma, you’re supposed to be up at the school shaping young minds, not down here cooking. The chefs run a tight ship here, they know what they’re doing” he said as he unstrapped his leathers and blades, stuffing them into a bag, before dunking his in top half into the open barrel of cold water next to him.

The kitchen staff, while appreciating the support of their employer, took this moment to remain silent on the matter.

“You know you’ve a proper bath upstairs, right?” Ma barked at Spider’s dripping form. “Yet you still come in here and douse yourself like some sort of animal.”

Spider, now dripping wet, grinned in reply.

“Cheeky bugger,” Ma said with smiling eyes and a softening tone. “I’m down here because I know tonight is big deal for you and I want things done right is all. I assume you’re late because you’ve been smoothing out the Redlock business from last night? Oy, leave it you!”

Samael halted his cautious advanced towards the platter of steaming spiced meat. Ma looked down at him smiling, but still holding a cleaver, and said “Sammy dear, this is a fancy dinner, and the last thing anyone wants at the table while they’re eating is a fat hairy spider. So why don’t you change? I’d ask you to put some pants on, but I know there’s no point.”

In a puff of sulphurous smoke, Sam changed into the imp he was, flapped his wings and flew towards the door in high dudgeon, “Fine. I’ll be out in the bar then,” he said, followed by “You old crone,” in Infernal.

“I heard that!” Ma yelled as Sam pushed through the door. “Anyway,” she said turning back to Spider, “Is it all sorted? How’s Nine-Fingers?”

“Delightful as always, the usual gripes, she’s sorted for now” Spider groaned. “Yeah, all good. I had to settle a couple of the smuggler’s accounts down at the docks. Suffice it to say, the rest of ‘em are now happy with the arrangements. Ravenguard’s pleased with one less devil summoning arsehole in town, and his cut, of course. In fact, pleased enough he said that given the lads are here, he might drop down later in the evening for a couple if he can get away.”

“Well, a visit from Lord Muck, here at the Harpy,” said Ma sarcastically. “I think I’ll be off home once the dinner is served.”

“Sure, I know he’s not your favourite,” Spider smiled as he picked up his bag and headed for the stairs. “I’m goin’ to head up and get ready. Thanks Ma, dinner smells fantastic!”

“My pleasure Guildmaster” she replied, watching the goblin ascend the stairs. She waited until Spider’s feet were almost out of view before quietly saying, “I’m proud of you son.” The feet stopped for a moment, then stepped out of sight.

In the early hours of the morning…

Albert sat down heavily on the bed in his room upstairs at The Harpy after long happy dinner catching up, arguing over the accuracy of certain nostalgia-laced war stories, general mirth, and too much wine.

While debating the merits of getting undressed versus simply passing out in his clothes, he noticed a very fine-looking wooden jewellery box on the bedside table. Remembering Spider told him that he had gotten him present, he leaned over and opened the box. Inside, sitting atop a folded noted addressed ‘Madam P’, were a pair of thick, golden hoop earrings, inlaid with a filigreed design that got seemed to get more detailed the closer you looked.

Placing the earrings on his lap, he pulled the note from the box, beneath which was a gold coin that he had not seen in a long time. The note read…

Madam P,

I’m sorry it took so long, but I finally got the motherfucker.

I don’t know if you remember these earrings. They used to belong to Mahadi, but he won’t be needing them anymore. Keep them, throw them away, whatever you like. Personally, I think they’ll look good on you.

Nothing can bring back Electra, but I hope this helps you, and her, rest a little easier.

Your friend always,
Spider

P.S. Sorry about the coin too. I pinched it from you in Elturel back in the day. I’m reliably informed it will still lead you to the master of the Wandering Emporium — Feonor says hello by the way, and hopes you’ll come see her sometime.

Albert Carnegie

Notes concerning the life of Albert Carnegie following the tragic events of 1492 DR

There is, in fact, not a great deal known about the movements of Albert Carnegie in the years following the rise of Elturel. What little there is, I have gathered together here in this pamphlet in the hopes of satisfying the curious if not altogether deterring the more importunately voyeuristic.

Constance Goodfellow, the infamously divisive scribe of Candlekeep recounts that immediately following the rise, Carnegie arrived at that great library and there resided for a short time, keeping primarily in the company of one Madam Electra, also apparently a resident at that time. Goodfellow comments that this was a period of much laughing and crying and shouting and recriminations and also much drinking. Goodfellow does not record at what date Carnegie departed Candlekeep but a grave marker bearing the name Electra and dated 14 Marpenoth 1492 DR may give us a clue.

Beyond this the records become very scant and what accounts there are, are questionable at best, if not altogether fanciful. Delgado has it that Carnegie travelled to Jakar and even Zakhara and that he studied with the priests of Red Mosque in the City of Delights. An alternative version of the text, now thought to be older, suggests Carnegie became an initiate of the Brotherhood of the True Flame. While it’s intriguing to imagine, it’s doubtful that either of these accounts are in fact factual.

Mansfield, in his Second Book of the Lost makes mention of a lieutenant Carnegie crewing aboard the notorious Black Kraken during the blockade of T’u Lung and a footnote in Idia Tremain’s timeless Pontificus Erectus mentions an A. Carnegie as one of the accused at the Preshnigorsk trials although his fate is not recorded.

One particularly persistent rumour has it that Carnegie quested for years for the fabled magician Zandeyr and his unlikely floating tower. This tale is even repeated by Costabarlo in her contentious A Post Ego Review of Truth, although her motivation for the inclusion is unclear and, as usual, the text must be viewed through the lens of her particular ethnological philosophy*.

[* Not to mention the lens of an appropriately enchanted scrying scope capable of viewing text refracted through an astral plane.]

Perhaps more believably, several reports place Carnegie in Baldur’s Gate during the early 1500s, where it is said he lived for many years, mixing with lords and notorious underworld figures alike.

Whether there is any truth in any of these accounts, one minor event is known to be completely factual down to the last detail despite what witness there was being unreliable at best:

On an unseasonably warm autumn evening in Baldur’s Gate a storm was brewing and sometime after the ringing of third watch[**], the storm broke with a violent flash of lightning and an appalling crash of thunder. The lightning, it seems, struck ground in an otherwise unremarkable alleyway behind McGomery’s Fishmongery, leaving the location shrouded in a cloud of bluish smoke.

[** I owe a debt here to Edgar Wallace, who edited the transcript.]

As the residue of this unlikely meteorological event cleared, a dishevelled figure could be seen standing at the end of the alley, her dress torn and burned and covered with blood. Her wig similarly burned and so displaced it was in danger of sliding completely from her head.

Keith Grumpton, a resident of that alley on that particular night, looked on in dismay and some little concern, for the figure held in her hand a long stiletto covered in as much blood as her dress. Grumpton took a long swig from his sherry bottle and tried to hide himself yet further beneath the pile of sacking he was adopting as a boudoir.

The frightful figure turned her eyes to Grumpton and spoke.

“What day is it? The Date?”

“um..” Grumpton could scarce find his voice.

“What Year?!”

“Ah, I..”

She regarded him with an offended look. “It’s a joke darling, not a very good one, I’m afraid.” She glanced down at herself and at the knife in her hand and hastened to reassure him “Oh don’t worry pet, the bloods not mine, well not all of it anyway.”

Not in the least bit reassured, Grumpton pulled his own dagger from beneath his filthy cotte. “Where … where did you come from?” he stammered.

“A party darling, quite a good one. Though it appears I may have outstayed my welcome.”

Grumpton held his dagger out before him. “Don’t come any closer, I’m warning you.” His voice did not carry the confidence his words implied, and so unfazed, the bloody figure stepped over to Grumpton and knelt beside him. She took his free hand in hers and regarded it with a long thoughtful look.

“Now Mr…” she looked up into his eyes expectantly.

“Keith”

“Now Mr. Keith, it looks like you’re at a crossroads, so why don’t you offer a lady a drink like a good boy?”

Somehow forgetting his dagger, Grumpton proffered the bottle to the stranger, wiping the neck hastily on his sleeve. Watching her drink, Grumpton relaxed slightly and looked her up and down again. The only things about her untainted were the gold loop earrings in her ears. “What’s your name ma’am?”

She looked at him, eyebrows raised, while continuing to drink. “Well ma’am, whatever your name is, you look like you’ve been to hell and back”

She finally took the bottle from her lips and let out a long satisfied burp “Twice darling, twice.”

Mak

An orange glow creeps skywards over the icy peaks of the horizon. Above, the brightest stars blink against the dawn and mix with the swirling snow, fading into the light. The song of the village Dawncallers begins now. Low and clear despite the wind — their voices echoing off the towering granite faces that enclose this glacial valley atop the Spine of the World — but Mak has been awake for hours. He does not sleep well anymore and is rarely woken by the morning call.

This morning’s song is sharp and misshapen. The duties and assignments of the day are woven in, as always — who shall fetch the firewood today, who shall guard the northern gate — but the song also tells of two ceremonies, Pavi’s coming of age and Wayani’s Lamentation. It is rare to hold such ceremonies on the same day, and the Dawncallers struggle with the dissonance and the rhythm.

Mak stands below a rough and winding path carved out of the side of the mountain — one hundred feet above rests the main camp. Here at the mouth of the Dreaming Cave — Demelok Nightwalker, the village Skywatcher stands, tending a cauldron full of inky black tar, bubbling and spitting over the growing fire. Mak flinches as the smell of the smoke and tar reaches him — a sickly sweet scent that seems to crawl inside his head.

The rest of the clan move sombrely down the mountain path, chanting as they shuffle into the small clearing around the central fire — the ancient Wayani at their head, his bent fingers gripping a gnarled wooden walking stick. The children stay close to their parents and keep their distance from the mouth of the cave — but also from Mak. It is something Mak pretends that he has become used to since his return from Avernus. It’s just the way it is now, to be expected, not resented. But he can’t deny that since his return he has on occasion given them reason to be wary.

From the edge of the circle a young female brave steps forward into the firelight. Pavi was just a child when Mak left to follow his own dreaming five years ago, now she is tall and strong and ready for her own journey. Pavi scans the gathered tribe as Demelok places the final markings on her arms and face. Mak meets her eyes — so much like her lost father’s — and Pavi’s façade breaks a little before she lowers her eyes and looks back into the fire.

At a sign from the Skywatcher the tribe begins to chant louder. The song is in the old tongue used only for the great milestones of life. Demelok scoops a bowl of the black tar from the cauldron and brings it to Pavi’s lips. She drinks deeply, her throat struggling with the effort to keep down the writhing liquid. The song builds and the Dreaming Cave calls back, seemingly in answer. Along the walls that stretch down into the darkness, runes of silver and bronze begin to glow and pulse in time with the song.

Pavi steps towards the roaring fire and with a snap, breaks the necklace hanging at her neck. She holds it high for the tribe to see. A small carving made from bear bone ivory — a dire eagle, claws out, swooping towards an unseen prey. Mak knows it immediately as her father’s work. Many of the children around the fire this morning wear his gifts and instinctively clutch at their own treasures. Pavi throws her father’s necklace deep into the heart of fire and walks slowly towards the mouth of the Dreaming Cave.

At the edge of the circle, Wayani stands uneasily and watches as the young Pavi descends out of sight into the darkness of the cave. At Wayani’s side the village Lamenter chants softly and holds the old man’s arm to steady him. The clan’s weaponsmith was once the giant amongst the goliaths. Now his age and stoop has lowered him to Mak’s height. His once mighty hands curled and frail.

A small circle of braves sit expectantly in front of Wayani and the Lamenter, chanting in call and response:

“Who shall walk with the tribe on the final journey?”
“I will find peace amongst the snowdrifts,” they answer, thumping their barrel chests with the rhythm.

The Lamenter’s eyes settle on a wiry brave at the centre of the circle — intricate tattoos snaking across his shaved head proof that he has already had his dreaming. The Lamenter points and the boy makes to stand, until Wayani gently lowers the Lamenter’s arm, and raises his own hand towards Mak.

The sun is higher now, but no warmer. The songs of the dreaming cave having faded out of earshot more than an hour ago. Wayani lumbers forward with purpose, ever higher into the mountains, well away from the traditional deep snowdrifts of the western range where most go to find their final rest. Wayani’s breathing is heavy, and not a word has passed his lips since they set out.

Mak wonders if he really has become a stranger in his own land, but he cannot recall any good snowdrifts this high up the peak. Wayani stops and points a ruined finger at the edge of a granite rockfall ahead, and gently presses Mak in the ribs. With a wry smile Mak reflects that he is doing very little of the leading on this final journey. As directed Mak clambers over the boulders, lifting Wayani with him as he goes, around and through a dark crack in the mountain wall, invisible from the path — and through a small hollow… and into the endless sky…

Snow-covered rocky spires in the foreground and blurred greenry in the far distance

Atop a small ledge through a gap in the wall, the world stretches out in all directions to the south, the winter sun bouncing off the countless icy peaks towards the far horizon. At the edge of Mak’s vision, the forests of Lurkwood and perhaps even Neverwinter, shimmer at the boundary between earth and sky. Mak’s mind drifts further south, and back in time, to the distant Baldur’s Gate. How strange that sweltering city had seemed only five years ago, crawling with humans and ambition. And yet now, that place seemed the closest of anywhere he could name in Faerûn where he might truly belong.

Beneath their feet the rock face drops away to oblivion — how deep Mak cannot fathom, as the granite wall fades into the rolling cloud layer a thousand feet below. Wayani looks out across the horizon, his breathing steadied, his face calm. From his belt Wayani withdraws a smith’s hammer, the wood of the handle smooth and darkly oiled, the silver head rounded and diminished from a lifetime of use. Wayani holds out the worn hammer to Mak and pushes it firmly into his hand and says, “This is for you — to remember me by, and to remember that you must find your own peace amongst the snowdrifts”.

Without waiting for a reply Wayani gently leans back on his heels and out over the precipice, his eyes still meeting Mak’s. If he has any fear or regret it does not show, and Mak watches as Wayani accelerates silently out of sight into the clouds below. For a moment Mak feels drawn towards the edge, like a shiver down his spine, before he shakes the thought free.

Wayani’s hammer feels just right in his hand, simple but useful. Mak stares back out towards the lands of the south before slipping the hammer into his belt and heading on… towards Baldur’s Gate.

Descent Into Avernus

Epilogue