Introduction
Fury is a novelization of the first Baldur's Gate – more or less.
It will be a liberal novelization. Partly because of my ever-so-slightly hazy memory of the original game (I've played Shadows of Amn several times, but BG only once), partly because of certain things I want to revise for a tighter, more focused plot. But in most respects, I mean to be faithful.
Enjoy.
A girl staggered into the keep of the Friendly Arm Inn carrying a corpse in her arms.
"Help him! Help him!"
Chairs screeched back; drinks spilled; silence spread through the room. If it was help she sought, her cries had the opposite effect. The patrons of the Friendly Arm – several red-faced drunkards, a pair of dwarves, and two well-armed adventurers sitting near the bar – stared at her with a uniform dull astonishment.
"Help him!" she screamed again. Her arms shook with the burden. Only a girl, slightly built; and if the body were not even slighter, she could never have lifted it. A half-elf boy, not past his eighteenth year, splashed over the chest and shoulders with blood, his face pale and slack. The girl was younger still. For all that, they were no innocents; a bow was strapped to her back, an empty scabbard hung from his belt. Two children, armed, who had come to grief somewhere out in the night.
Her knees gave out, and she fell to the floor still holding the boy. The two adventurers by the bar stood quickly and crossed the room.
"Leave go of him, child; I'll tend to him," said the one, a dark-skinned woman. "I am versed in healing arts…There's no cause for alarm."
An excited muttering began to replace the silence. Men who had reared back in their chairs now jostled forward for a better look, relieved that they had not had to act.
The girl gave up her hold on the boy and put him gently down. She shuddered as his head touched the floorboards, as if she were afraid even so small a shock would kill him – but surely he was already dead. The blood had drained from his lips and they were as white as the crawling things in the ground.
The adventurer woman knelt by him.
"There's no time to loose," she muttered, and, taking hold of him roughly, turned him over. Her small dark hands flickered over his back and sides. She darted a questioning look at the girl.
"I see no wounds."
The girl, kneeling trembling with her hands pressed between her legs, said with an idiosyncratic calm: "That's not his blood."
The woman examined him more carefully. She saw, feeling a cold spasm, that the blood was thickest on his hands. It lay in dark half-moons under his fingernails.
She looked up at the girl again, and asked softly: "What happened."
"W-we…" The girl tried to speak, but began to weep violently instead. Wrapping her arms around her narrow shoulders, she begged indistinctly: "…somebody…please…"
The woman's companion, a man who shared her traveler's garb and elfin features but not her dark skin, moved around the body and knelt by the girl. He placed a clumsy hand on her shoulder.
"T-there, there…" he muttered, in a voice that shook as much as hers.
The woman muttered a healing incantation over the body. Blue light flickered over his chest, and in a moment, blood returned in a rush to his lips and cheeks.
"Silvanus' name," she muttered, shaking her head. "What a world this is."
One of the Friendly Arms' enforcers had come to stand in the open door. The woman caught sight of him.
"Guards!" she exclaimed, her voice half relieved, half accusatory. "What has been done to these children; how is it they've come to harm in these walls?"
The enforcer's face was also pale, and he looked away. "It's not so much," he said, pushing a hand through his hair, "what's been done to them…"
"What's that? Speak plainly, man."
The enforcer cleared his throat. "It's not so much what's been done to them," he almost whispered, "as what he did – that one there."
He shot a fearful look at the unconscious boy.
Now the girl stammered, trying to speak. "I-it's not—no! We were j-just minding our own business, and…"
Another, older enforcer appeared beside the first. A sensible man, he quickly saw the adventurer woman was in control of the situation, and addressed her directly: "I saw it all plainly, ma'am. The girl is right, I believe; they wasn't to blame. Nevertheless…" His face clouded, and, like his compatriot, he looked away.
"Yes?" said the woman.
He hesitated. "I – believe we've met before. Jaheira, isn't it?"
"That is correct."
"You and your husband look like the capable sort. Would you do us all a favor and help get these two out of sight somewhere? Take 'em up to a room, like. I'll straighten it out with Bentley."
"I suppose that would be wise," said Jaheira. She glanced over her shoulder at the patrons; they had all turned their chairs to face the drama, and watched complacently. She climbed to her feet.
"All of you!" she said, in a tone that would have made many a man cringe. "Have you no shame at all! This is no concern of yours; leave off your cow-eyed staring."
"Right folks," said the elder enforcer, nodding. "Nothing to see 'ere. As you were."
Together, they lifted the insensible, blood-drenched body and carried it toward the stairs, while Jaheira's husband helped along the still-weeping girl, speaking to her with his stammering but honest tenderness. At a gesture from his superior, the younger enforcer remained behind.
Blood dripped underneath the body as it moved. In spite of Jaheira's command, every pair of eyes in the keep followed the group until the moment they climbed up out of sight.
The enforcer, Lett by name, stroked his gray moustache with his finger while he spoke. "Now the way I saw it, these two were comin' around the front of the keep, like. The boy with his sword, her with the bow n' arrows. Heavy weapons for young uns as such, but it's not my business to be the judge. They looked like the good enough sort. He was in a bad way, I think, looked white as a sheet; but she was a right regular ray o' sunshine – doin' her best to cheer him up, I thought. I was standin' over by the Temple of Oghma. I see 'em come round the front of the keep."
He paused.
The room was lit by a low fire in the hearth. Lett, Khalid and Jaheira stood around it, speaking quietly; the boy was laid out on the bed, stripped of his leathers. The girl sat by him, silent, stroking his hair. She had not uttered another word since her halting attempt to defend him.
"Now perhaps," said Lett, looking at Khalid, "the pair o' you are familiar with a character goes by the name of Tarnesh?"
"A b-bounty hunter," said Khalid, shaking his head. "Disgraceful character."
"A mage of middling ability," added Jaheira. "Called the Debtor's Terror."
"Correct. I didn't think much when I seen him skulking around 'afore; he never seems to cause much trouble. Which is to say he doesn't stalk dangerous game. Well, friends, this time – looks like he set his sights a mite too high."
"Meaning these – children?" said Jaheira.
"Laugh if you want," said Lett. "You weren't there."
Jaheira looked to the bed. The boy was still motionless; the girl still stroked his forehead. She looked back at Jaheira with pleading eyes.
Lett went on in a softer voice: "Tarnesh comes down the steps. Not an assuming fellow; just a black robe and a staff. How could they know? But somehow they was on their guard anyway. What I heard was – just barely heard, mind, so I might've gotten a word or two wrong – friend Tarnesh asks the boy, are you so-and-so, the ward of Gorion?"
Jaheira started.
"Alright, miss?"
"I'm fine," she said, shaking her head. "Please continue."
"Right. So Tarnesh comes up to him, asks him silvery-sweet: are you so-and-so, and the boy gets tight, and he says: who wants to know? Tarnesh says, you must be. You fit the description." Lett's eyes tightened. "What a boy like that could do to get on the wrong side o' Tarnesh, I can't imagine. But after what I saw next, maybe I can believe it.
"Tarnesh casts a horror spell. You know the way that – face kind of lingers in the air after you cast one of those. Now working here, I haven't seen any magic bigger than a cantrip in years, let alone a horror spell. That's the business. The kids, they didn't stand half a chance.
"They both take off running. Tarnesh laughs. He's not interested in the girl; he lets her run off toward where I am. It's the boy he's after. I catch the girl; she's screaming her head off. When I catch her she just screams louder. I'm trying to hold her still, calling for help, and over her shoulder I see Tarnesh and the boy. Tarnesh has him backed—" he gestured with his hands—"against the wall o' the keep, and the boy's just cowering there. Tarnesh pulls back his staff to break his head in.
"Then the boy just – stops. Stops cowering. Goes dead still.
"Tarnesh swings. The boy grabs the end of the staff. He wrenches it around; it catches Tarnesh in the side of the head – thunk – and the mage goes down; like that. The boy gets the staff. Then he starts to work on Tarnesh.
"Now I seen a man beaten. I seen bar fights; one time I saw some bandits goin' to work on one of their own. Those were hard men. They did him over bad. But I never saw any man beat another man the way that boy beat Tarnesh.
"He hit him on the head and back with the staff until it broke in half. Then he hit him with the bigger half that was left – then what that broke, he dropped down and went to work his hands.
"By the time my boys pulled him off, what was left of Tarnesh, you could serve to the dogs.
"And that, my friends, is all I can say."
"And the boy…?"
"Afterwards he just dropped."
There was silence. The three of them looked at the girl. She nodded.
"H-he…" she whispered, and Jaheira moved closer, sitting beside her on the bed. She stroked her hand.
"Be calm, child. We only want to assist you."
"He tried to k-kill us."
"Why, child? What harm could he have wished you?"
An idea was forming in Jaheira's mind, but it was nothing for Lett to hear.
"I-I don't know!" the girl sobbed.
"Please," said Jaheira to Lett, inclining her head. "She's upset. If you would leave us be—?"
"Sure, sure. I've said my peace; you folks can take care o' yourselves. Suppose I ought to go clean up Tarnesh. Or what's left of him."
With a nod to the girl, Lett stepped out.
Jaheira still held the girl's hand, and now the girl wrapped both her hands around Jaheira's. She leaned her head into the woman's shoulder. "Whoever you are," she said, "t-thank you so much…You just don't understand; it's so, so nice to f-finally see…a friendly face…"
Jaheira kissed her cheek.
"Don't be afraid. You're with friends."
"B-but I don't even know you…"
"I think perhaps you might, though it has been – many, many years since I set eyes on you last. You do hail from Candlekeep, do you not?"
"Yes."
"And your name is Imoen."
"Y-yes!"
"And his,"—she looked at the boy—"is Felix."
"Yes."
Understanding suddenly flashed on Imoen's face. "Then you're – oh, he said we'd find friends here! Friends of Gorion's! I'd forgotten…He wouldn't let me see the letter."
"We are those friends. Though I see our friendship has afforded scant relief so far…"
There was another rustle in the doorway. Jaheira looked up; Lett had returned. He coughed apologetically, and held out a roll of parchment to Khalid.
"My boy downstairs says they found this on the dog's body." He averted his eyes. "I didn't read it, mind. Nor do I want to."
"Thank you…" muttered Khalid, as he unrolled it. His eyes widened. "O-oh my. Oh dear."
"This is your matter. I'll leave you to attend to it," said Lett, saluted, and left again.
"What is it?" said Jaheira, sharply. "Don't just gape like a fool…"
"A b-bounty note," said Khalid, rolling it nervously in fingers. "Three hundred gold."
"On the Ward's head?"
"Yes."
Imoen stifled another sob. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and surprisingly clear: "I don't know what's going on. I don't know what's going on."—she said twice, simply, then began to cry again. "J-Jaheira?"
"That is my name," said Jaheira, gently.
"W-would you please—" Her voice shrunk almost inaudible, "h-hold me?"
"Yes, child."
Jaheira wrapped her strong arms around the girl. Imoen shook in her embrace as if it were the only thing keeping her from falling to pieces.
After a moment, waiting patiently, Jaheira looked back at Khalid. He stood touching his brow, still creasing the note in his other hand.
"Throw that damned thing in the fire," she muttered.
With a solemn nod, he obeyed. It fluttered brightly in the grate; dancing, laughing, seeming to mock them – then it was gone.