Page 57 of Astarion

Astarion kicked its kneecaps out but hung back from the rest, just in case the paladin decided to turn some more undead. This time, however, den Suriel’s approach was much simpler. The aasimar just lowered his head, raised his shield, and plowed into the ranks of skeletons like a dog scattering chickens. Since most of them weren’t carrying weapons, the effect was extraordinary.

Astarion wished for something better than a dagger. Stabbing a skeleton was an exercise in futility. He could probably take off one of his stockings and put half a brick in it, but his stockings were the only things that might survive the night’s adventures intact.

One of the dead…more dead…skeletons left in den Suriel’s wake had an intact femur. Astarion picked it up, hefted it, and tested the makeshift club on the back of a nearby skull. The skeleton went to its knees, and Astarion’s second blow took its head clean off and sent it flying. It was effective, though he didn’t enjoy it.

“I’m not sure how I feel about this,” he informed his companion, bashing in another one’s head.

“Oh?” The aasimar knocked another one down and crushed it beneath his massive boots. “How so?”

“It lacks finesse. And, I don’t know. Hitting them with their own bones feels wrong somehow. Somewhere between masturbation and cannibalism.”

“Ah.” Den Suriel broke one over his knee in a contemplative fashion. “Ever seen a cow drink its own milk?”

“No, and I could have lived many more years without thinking about it, thank you very much.” Astarion clubbed another skeleton in the back of the knee. “Something along those lines, though. If you made one of those edged clubs and lined it with my teeth, then beat my head in with it, I would be very upset.”

“More so than just having your head beaten in?”

“Possibly. It violates my sense of aesthetics.”

The paladin knocked the last skeleton out of the archway and turned to wave Astarion through. “How does your sense of aesthetics feel about running like hell?”

“You may now observe the elegance of my heels,” Astarion said, and took to them at once.

For a man wearing a great deal of plate and chain, den Suriel had a decent turn of speed. Fortunately, the tunnel here ran reasonably straight and had high enough ceilings that Astarion didn’t worry about bashing his forehead on things. He was rather more worried about traps, trip wires, and unexpected pits full of spikes, but since the paladin had come this way initially, presumably he would have found them already.

You can only run for so long, though, even if you fear that mummies are after you. Astarion slowed to a jog, then a stagger. Behind him, the paladin was doing the same.

They collapsed against the wall. Den Suriel was breathing hard. Astarion was, too, though more out of a feeling that he should be than from actual necessity. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the vials, checking them for cracks, and was relieved to see only smooth glass.

Gods and devils, what a night it had been. You spend decades in the same routine, with nothing more exciting than the occasional burglary, and then you’re set loose for a night and find yourself fighting your way out of the clutches of an undead cult.

He started to laugh. He couldn’t help it. He probably sounded like a madman, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive. Possibly not since he’d been alive.

“Err…Petras?”

It took Astarion an instant to remember that he’d lied about his name. He wiped tears from his eyes and tried to control himself. “Yes?”

“Is there really a bird that eats hedgehogs?”

“Damned if I know. I left the countryside as soon as elvenly possible. There was far too much clean air.”

That set den Suriel off laughing as well, which eventually led to them both collapsed against the wall holding their sides. “It wasn’t even that funny,” Astarion said plaintively, which only made the paladin laugh harder. “It’s just…heh…release of tension…”

“As the cleric said to the dryad’s daughter.”

Astarion didn’t even know the joke the aasimar was referring to, but it set him off again. If his ribs hadn’t been stabbing with every laugh, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stop.

When they’d finally finished catching their respective breaths, den Suriel raised one eyebrow at Astarion. “Sure you don’t want to go back and try to fight them all?”

“Gods, you really do have a death wish, don’t you?” He straightened. “Are all the weasel people like that?”

“It’s a badger. And I wouldn’t call it a death wish. More like a blaze-of-glory wish.”

Astarion shook his head, sobering. “Well, I don’t have either. Anyway, maybe you’ll be lucky and they’ll send someone after us.”

“Ooh, really?” Den Suriel looked back the way they had come.

“I certainly would. I’d be afraid that you’d go tell everyone in your order about a nest of undead under the city.”