Page 80 of Astarion

The skeletons converged, weapons raised. Astarion scrambled down the wall, shouting, “Hey! Stop that!,” which sounded desperately insipid in his own ears, so he tried insults, and he only realized he was yelling in Elvish when he heard himself say, “Your sister is as the light of the stars, which is given to all beings!”

None of the skeletons paid him any attention at all. Perhaps they were only children, or perhaps they simply didn’t speak Elvish. Den Suriel managed to roll in time to dodge a skeleton’s sword, and he let the momentum carry him into its legs. Its upper half fell atop him and took the blow that the second skeleton had aimed at the paladin’s head. This apparently enraged the first skeleton, which grabbed for the weapon that had struck it. Den Suriel rolled again, but the skeleton didn’t let go, so it ended up yanking its comrade off its feet and onto the paladin as well.

The third skeleton had a long spear and was hanging back, either waiting for a clear shot or unwilling to get involved in the melee. Astarion looked around wildly for a better weapon, saw where den Suriel’s shield had fallen, and grabbed for it. It was like trying to lift a door. He could feel his shoulders grinding in their sockets as he hauled it upright and swung it around.

Den Suriel erupted from the pile of bones like a dog coming out of water, shaking off the enemy. The first two skeletons, still locked together, couldn’t move out of the way, and the aasimar stomped down on their skulls.

The spearman thrust its weapon at him just as Astarion stepped up and dropped the enormously heavy shield on the back of its head.

Den Suriel made a noise of pain and surprise. The skeleton made a crunching sound. Astarion dusted off his hands.

“That was an extremely dramatic move,” he informed den Suriel. “Please make a note of it.”

The paladin did not appear to be impressed. He did not even appear to have seen. He was staring down at his right leg, at the spear that had slipped past the edge of his armor and driven deeply into his inner thigh.

“Oh dear,” he said to no one in particular, and sat down heavily on the ground.

Astarion’s breath hissed through his teeth. He’d seen the spears the skeletons were carrying. The broad triangular heads were designed to do as much damage as possible when removed. If it hadn’t pierced his femoral artery on the way in, trying to pull it out would turn that artery into ground meat.

Which meant that den Suriel had minutes to live, if that.

The paladin set one mailed hand on the shaft of the spear. He didn’t look upset so much as puzzled.

“Don’t touch that!” Astarion snapped. “It’s the only thing keeping your blood in. Heal yourself, for the gods’ sake!”

The aasimar looked up at him, wearing a shadow of his usual rueful smile. “Unfortunately…I seem…to have…run out of spells…”

“Idiot! What were you going to do if you got injured?”

“Hadn’t…planned…that far ahead.” His voice was growing rougher. Blood was pulsing out of the wound, filling the air with the scent of copper.

Astarion realized that his mouth was watering and swallowed it back, trying to keep his fangs under control. “There’s a healing potion in your bag,” he said. “You said there was. Where is it?”

A weak frown crossed den Suriel’s face. His sword slid from nerveless fingers, and he patted at his belt. His skin had gone almost as pale as Astarion’s as his blood continued to pump out across the stones. “Sorry…here somewhere…”

“You absolute ass.” Astarion saw the bag of holding and yanked it loose. He jammed his arm into the bag up to the shoulder, feeling for the bottle he’d seen last night and hoping the paladin wasn’t in the habit of keeping bear traps inside. He felt something smooth and narrow and yanked it out hopefully, only to find that it was the trunk of the wondrous elephant.

“Doubt…that’ll help…right now…”

“I’ll use the trunk as a tourniquet if I have to.” Astarion came up with a handful of pamphlets and flung them aside. Distantly, he was aware that he was kneeling in blood and that if any more skeletons showed up, he would be easy prey. He didn’t care. His entire world had narrowed to his fingertips scrabbling frantically through the infinite clutter stuffed inside a small leather sack. “When was the last time you cleaned this thing?”

“It’s…all right.” The aasimar’s eyes had drifted closed. “This way…die with my soul…intact…”

“No dying,” Astarion told him. “I’ve done that, and I can testify it’s not worth the—aha!”

He pulled out the bottle. Red liquid swirled and shimmered inside, a shade lighter than the blood pooling on the ground. The stopper was sealed with wax. He clamped his teeth down on it and yanked it loose, feeling a fang scrape across the glass.

Den Suriel was barely conscious. Astarion grabbed his chin and tilted his head back, dripping the potion between the aasimar’s lips. Even the man’s gums had gone deathly pale.

“Come on…come on, drink up…” Please, gods, don’t let him have bought a fake potion from some swindler on the street. That would be just like a paladin. Astarion upended the bottle, pouring the last of the liquid down den Suriel’s throat.

For a minor eternity, nothing happened. The blood soaking into Astarion’s trousers began to cool.

Den Suriel’s eyelids fluttered.

Astarion dropped to hands and knees and grabbed the spear shaft. There was so much blood that he couldn’t see whether the wound had begun to knit. All he knew was that the aasimar had no chance of healing with the spear point still inside him.

“I never wanted to be a healer,” he informed the paladin, or the gods, or perhaps the priest, wherever he was. “I do not enjoy the sight of other people’s insides. To say nothing of the waste of blood. Here goes.”