The Most Hopeful of Dirges (I)

"-. .-"

"Oh, goodie goodie! I've gone and found ye first! You are the ward of Gorion, no doubt?"

Cyrus stared at the human that had accosted him in one of the guesthouses just after he'd had his morning meal in the Candlekeep Hearth. The guesthouse he'd not have even had a reason to enter if not for the urge to murder/death/kill that drew his attention. Hopeless urge at that. Never before had he imagined that he would run into someone in possession of such disparity between their desire to murder someone and their ability to do it. Or, more precisely, inability. The human's odds of striking blood on him let alone killing him were literally lower than his odds of him falling on his own knife. "Amazing," the 20-year-old dwarf said in astonishment. He couldn't help himself when faced with such an improbable example of intelligence decay.

The human grinned brazenly. "You don't know the half of it! But since I can be kind, I'll make sure our encounter shall be quite simple for you. Plainly put, I have made it my mission to end your life. Success will mean a little respect among my peers. So you see, you can do very little except die!"

"How did you make it past the walls?" It begged asking. The fool (and Cyrus called him that objectively) was so far removed from the concept of successful murder that Cyrus only got the faintest glimpses of his history, and even those only because of the intent. "And why would you look for or wait for me next to the busiest and most crowded of Candlekeep's buildings outside the library itself? That makes no sense." Literally, the Hearth was a dining hall massive enough to house a great circular firepit surrounded by several smaller firepits. It was nearly always filled with people, monks and visitors alike. Seekers, as they were called.

Was the fool going to jump him as soon as he saw him despite that?

But the simpleton did not seem to even listen to him. "Upsetting, I know, for me to keep you from your attempts at understanding your inevitable fate. I apologize for not fully explaining my motives, but I am on a rather tight schedule and exposition is simply not my forte!"

The concept of self-absorption had never been a mystery to Cyrus, especially after he learned the definition of the word and noticed it apply fairly well to himself when he was younger, but seeing it embodied to such an extent was definitely new. "And who are you exactly?" Because for all that the (charitably called) idiot before him professed his desire to kill him, he seemed to be waiting for a reply.

"Who I am is unimportant, but who YOU are is very much so. I apologize for this dirty bit of business, but I must seek your death. A pity, I know, but it would seem your head is worth an exceptional amount to me. I kill you myself and I need not share credit with anyone."

The attack was totally broadcasted. It was also sloppier than Dreppin's attempts at milking Nessie after Midsummer festivities. What did the fool even expect to hit, chopping down at him that way?

Cyrus waited until the attack got close enough to actually register as a (minute) threat and, once his mind read all the man's history that resulted in that (barely) feasible attempted murder, grabbed the dagger-holding appendage and broke it at the wrist. One-handed.

Then pulled the human – Shank – mid-scream and laid him out with a headbutt.

He wondered if things were such that an obituary would have to be written for that vanished friend of sapient life known as common sense.

Once he was sure none of the furniture had been disturbed or that the fool had started bleeding from the nose or wherever else – it would not do to have to wipe the blood out of the floorboards – the dwarf grabbed the man by the throat and proceeded to drag him out.

"What on Toril-!" Parda gasped as soon as he saw him, which was actually quite fast because Cyrus had only covered around 20 feet or so since leaving that guesthouse.

"Nothing to worry about, tutor," Cyrus said truthfully as he continued to drag the human across the Candlekeep grounds amidst the Watchers', seekers' and passing scribes' incredulous double-takes. "Just clearing out some vermin." The incredulous stares from the patrolling Watchers immediately switched to suspicious glares sent Shank's way.

"Child, what are you doing with that man?" Parda found his voice, though he did not make to stop him or otherwise impede him once he was walking in step with him. "Who is that man?"

"One of two humans that infiltrated the Keep last night in an attempt to kill me before anyone else got me first." Learning all history pertaining to the assassination attempt had been the whole goal of letting the attack get as close as it did.

Parda gasped and one of the two Watchers that had seen and begun to approach him cursed behind his helmet and at once made an about-face towards the gatehouse. The other one continued to approach from the Inn's direction where Cyrus himself had to pass through on his way. "Okay, I admit I am morbidly curious." Even the Watcher, Erik, didn't try to stop him, just joining him on his other side. "What's his story? Actually, never mind. I think I'll enjoy however little time of blissful ignorance I still have left."

"Alright," Cyrus said. His rapport with the Watchers was defined by mutual consideration and trust never broken since that first fiasco when he was 9. But for all that the Watchers considered him theirs to safeguard watch over, they'd also learned to be wary of asking him questions because his answers tended to give information in doses that were either too much, too little, too strange or any combination of the three. In their opinion anyway.

Fortunately, in this case it did not take too long before everything would get sorted out.

Cyrus dragged Shank all the way around the keep until he was at the southern-most bunkhouse. That was where the other murder/death/kill intent aimed at him originated. Then he allowed Shank to kiss the dirt – literally – and went in before anyone could ask more or offer to go instead.

"'Ere there. You're Gorion's little whelp, aren't ya? Yeah, you-!" One uppercut laid him out as surely as the first. This one – Carbos – fell on his back, though, unlike his unwilling accomplice, so Cyrus dragged him out by the ankle.

If this was supposed to be a prelude to him living dangerously again for a while, it was not an encouraging one at all.

"There he is now, Karan, just- WHAT IN THE WORLD?" Parda gasped again. "Another one!?"

"Hello, Karan," Cyrus nodded at the second gaping, green-robed monk staring at him from next to the yellow-attired Parda. Truly, the "politely grave" mien that all Candlekeep monks cultivated throughout their lives had deserted them entirely. "I'll be with you in just a few minutes if you need anything." Then he bent over, grabbed Shank by the throat again and proceeded to drag both imbeciles in the direction of the gatehouse.

They passed four more astonished Watchers by the time they were in sight of the inner gatehouse, as well as two gaping nobles and that couple of recent amputee plus even more recent noblewoman-turned-squire Imoen had run around matchmaking the other day.

Their strange group was greeted near the gatehouse by Amanther, the tall and impressive human that tended to dress like a lay monk but was in fact a wizard practised in the talent of swiftly recognizing spells by the first moments of their castings. Next to him was the ever cheerful Larth (in actuality a shrewd judge of character with knowledge of more than a dozen languages, all of which he'd taken time to teach Cyrus when he learned of his impressive memory). The third person was the Gatewarden himself, the grey-haired, burly Thaerabho whose most noteworthy feature was a sword-scarred cheek. He had a secret history of "dealing" with mages, witches, warlocks and any other spellcasters not part of some clergy. They were an impressive assembly, especially compared to Hull whose post they had decided to gather near. Clearly, they knew Cyrus well enough to expect him to make his way to Hull regarding whatever matter had caused a Watcher to rush around with news of Gorion's Ward dragging unconscious people across the Candlekeep grounds.

Just as they reached their welcoming committee, Tethtoril emerged from the inner courtyard and joined them. "Well now," he said in that softspoken tone that, in Cyrus' memory, he'd only ever eschewed back during that first, fateful meeting between Cyrus and Khelben Arunsun. "What is their story then, child?"

"And why," Thaerabho continued sternly, "did you take it upon yourself to make such a display of them?" He didn't seem to be worried about their unconscious state compared to the show put on in front of the ever-present throng of visitors.

Cyrus dumped the two half-wits and kicked Shank in the head – he'd been stirring already, so he supposed being hard-headed wasn't a total loss – and looked up at the Gatewarden. "They're here to kill me." Behind Thaerabho, Hull glared down at the two. "But that's not the issue."

"And what, then, is the issue?" Amanther spoke up for the first time.

"The way they got in last night." Cyrus gave the two senseless humans a look of distaste, then gazed around at his many listeners. "They were teleported in."

This immediately caused tension to settle upon the assembly. There were very few spots where teleportation magic worked, and they were only known by specific monks trusted to carry emergency messages. Anyone trying to translocate into or through Candlekeep without that knowledge failed and fell stunned by the attempt at best.

"This is grave news," Tethtoril said in the following silence. He treated Cyrus to a look heavy with meaning. "I believe we have confirmation of Gorion's unstated reasons for so abruptly deciding that you and he should depart the keep before sundown."

"I almost wish I could share that opinion, First Reader," Cyrus sighed, frowning down at the insensate pair. Or nearly insensate since Carbos seemed to be twitching. He kicked him in the head like he'd done to his grudging accomplice in incompetence. Then kicked Shank a second time just to be sure. Nodding, he looked up at the exasperated-to-resigned audience who nevertheless seemed reluctant to disapprove of his actions in the face of his well-known reputation as fair-reasoned, well-mannered, uncompromisingly honest and well-meaning person, barring extreme circumstances.

"And why, exactly, do you disagree?" Tethtoril asked.

"Because while these two seem to be acting based on a ransom put on my head by someone or other, the one who sent them didn't." He paused, well used to the suppressed sighs caused by his casual attitude towards his own approaching death.

"It is not like you to be so roundabout in sharing facts, lad," Larth said thoughtfully. "What is it?"

"I'm having trouble believing that even my life could take a turn this bizarre." He wondered if having his wolf nearby would make him feel any better but Arawn had been allowed out hunting for the day in anticipation of being reunited with him on the road. "But if the readings I got off these two are real then the one who teleported them in – blindly – doesn't care about the ransom or whatever else at all." And what had the mage done for Tymora to favour him so ridiculously?

More looks were exchanged.

"What does he want then?" Larth asked curiously. "Who is he?"

Cyrus sighed and his mouth twisted in what may actually have been exasperation. He'd never felt it before. "A Wild Mage." The dwarf sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "A Wild Mage nutcase who wants my spleen."

The wide-eyed, open-mouthed and generally stunned reactions caused by that flat summation were about as wide-ranging and impactful to the future prospects of his attackers as that disaster of 11 years before when he'd been so caught up in the idea of awaiting his own execution that he never noticed accidentally framing Khelben Arunsun for murder.