Page 82 of Astarion

The priest waited politely for a moment, then said, “If that was another bomb, I’m afraid you mis—”

The sound of furious trumpeting drowned out his final words.

The wondrous elephant appeared atop the ruined bridge. Whether the dry-rotted timbers would have held the beast up to begin with was questionable, but with their structure already weakened by the earlier explosions, they shuddered, crumbled, and finally collapsed.

For an instant, the elephant posed in midair, trunk raised, as stones rained from under its feet. Then it, the bridge, and most of the surrounding buildings came crashing down.

The undead halfling had just enough time to look up.

It is notoriously hard to kill the undead, but dropping several tons of live elephant and several more tons of masonry on one’s head was certainly a good start.

The cavern ceiling groaned in sympathetic agony. Grit stung their faces, and dust roiled upward, blocking the scene. Astarion didn’t wait for it to settle before getting den Suriel to his feet. We may not be able to run, but maybe we can manage a decent hobble…

Plink…plink…plink…

The elephant figurine rolled out of the dust and came to rest at their feet.

“Poor Stompy,” den Suriel said as Astarion scooped up the figurine. “I always worry this life is traumatizing him.”

“Of course you named the elephant.” Astarion got his shoulder under the paladin’s arm. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“I wish I knew how to make it up to him. He doesn’t eat, so I can’t bring him treats. Is the priest dead, do you think?”

“That,” said Astarion, “is a question of some theological complexity.” He began half dragging the aasimar toward the exit. “I suggest we hurry. If the priest isn’t completely dead, I don’t want to be here when he digs himself out.”

“I approve of this plan. But Astarion?”

“Yes?”

“What on earth happened to your shoes?”

—

It took several subjective eternities before they reached the exit. The only saving grace was that once their creator had been incapacitated, the skeletons stopped moving. But it was still a long, slow walk, moving at the pace of a man who was not quite mortally wounded, and it was made no easier by the crowds of skeletons standing frozen in their tracks.

Astarion’s shoulder ached from being wedged into den Suriel’s armpit, and his neck ached from twisting it to keep an eye on the silent skeletons. He felt as if they were moving through an exhibit put together by some morbid sculptor. Sometimes they had to take a roundabout path to avoid coming into contact with the skeletons, but Astarion didn’t begrudge the effort. It seemed horribly plausible that if he actually touched one, the whole crew would suddenly come rattling back into motion, and den Suriel was in no shape to fight. He might no longer be bleeding to death, but he was still deathly pale, and the effort he expended to hobble along on his injured leg must be excruciating.

To their credit, as soon as the adventurers saw the pair limp out of the shadows, they rushed to help. The barbarian woman practically picked den Suriel up, and the druid began chanting the words of a healing spell. Astarion rubbed his shoulder. Acting as the aasimar’s crutch had been more painful than any of the scrapes he’d picked up in the cavern.

“Do you require healing?” the druid asked Astarion when den Suriel had a little more color in his face and was standing up straight again.

“Thank you, no. I try to make a point of not getting hit. But why did you let him go off alone?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, with mixed results.

The gnome snorted. “Didn’t realize he had. Birdie here”—she jerked her thumb at the barbarian woman, who looked sheepish—“thought a building was looking at her funny and tried to headbutt it.”

“I was berserk. And it had the windows arranged, you know, sort of like eyes…”

“Anyway, by the time we got her pointed in the right direction again, your knight friend was gone.”

Astarion was still furious, but he bit his tongue. He wasn’t the one paying them, and it would be far too easy for the trio to decide that he and the wounded paladin didn’t really need to survive the experience. Also, he could see how the intelligent thing to do would be to hold the exit and hope den Suriel returned. Fine. I understand it. I don’t have to like it.

The gnome, who was still fiddling with something that smelled like fireworks, glanced up at him. “Are you sure you’re okay? Your eyes are awfully red.”

“Terribly unfortunate, isn’t it? I was cataloging a friend’s wine cellar, and of course you know that excess light is simply death to good wine, so I acquired a potion of darkvision to make things easier. I simply assumed that it should be used as eyedrops, as would have been sensible, and, well…” Astarion spread his hands. “The healers assure me that it will wear off in a month or two.”

Den Suriel gave him a look. Astarion gave it right back. There was no reason these three needed to know what he truly was.

“You do lie when it suits you,” the paladin murmured once they were on their way again and the adventurers had taken the lead.