Forced Conscription Order

Anse opened his eyes and found himself looking straight into the old priest's cloudy eyes. He nodded in greeting, then pointed at Zahir and asked, "Do you have any Spell Slots left?"

"I do." The old priest came to his senses and immediately cast Healing Spell on Zahir.

Taking the opportunity, Anse got up and turned to leave. The people around them quickly cleared a path.

Brat ran after him, leaped onto his back, and showered him with praise. "That's amazing! You can do anything! I hereby dub you the Child of Miracles!"

He was so excited that all his usual composure had vanished.

"Get off, get off. Don't you know how much you weigh?" Anse shoved him away, exasperated.

He hadn't expected to be able to serve as a Weave Stabilizer either. If those Mages found out, they'd drag him back and tie him to themselves.

Then again, those spell-slingers didn't seem capable of catching him right now.

Finn hurried over, a hint of hope in his wooden expression. "Did you save him?"

"I did."

"Mm."

"Um... can you eat this?" Finn asked, lifting the enormous crab leg in his hand.

"Uh..." Anse couldn't quite follow his train of thought.

Brat looked at him in exasperation. "Why bother with that? Cut off ears, look for loot! Come on, come on."

He grabbed Finn and ran off. Finn casually tossed the crab leg to Anse.

Anse surveyed the battlefield. The fighting was more or less over, and everyone was busy clearing the field and tending to the wounded.

There had to be several hundred, perhaps even a thousand, people in the human fighting force now. All sorts were among them: Flaming Fist Soldiers, priests, Adventurers, city officials, commoners... a real mishmash.

He spotted quite a few familiar faces among them.

At that moment, many people were cutting off monster heads and ears, even getting into arguments and shoving matches over them. The scene had suddenly taken on an almost absurd quality.

The fighting had been so chaotic that a single Goblin might have a dozen arrows stuck in it and several sword wounds. Which one had dealt the fatal blow? Who could claim it?

Whoever grabbed it first, apparently!

The struggle for their people's survival had brought everyone together, but self-interest had made them all selfish again.

Seeing this, Anse hurriedly retrieved the three of their packs, then climbed onto a tall chunk of broken stone with Finn's crab in hand. Worried the other two wouldn't spot him, he cast Light Spell on his staff once more.

The sky was paling at the horizon. The air reeked, stinging his nostrils, and the ground was filthy and slick beneath his feet. Corpses littered the field, which looked like a slaughterhouse in hell.

Looking at the scene before him, he still... couldn't get used to it.

It wasn't fear. It was the clash between his values and the way of thinking here.

The Adventurers here seemed accustomed to life being as fragile and fleeting as a candle flame. Even Brat, a man of good alignment, had his mind on loot. He didn't seem to find it shocking or terrifying that so many had died in battle.

Everyone was fighting desperately to stay alive. It was just that for some, "fighting desperately" was all too literal.

Heavy footsteps approached, and a stocky Dwarf with a red beard stopped beneath the broken stone, looking up with a grin. "Hey, rookie."

"Who are you calling a rookie?"

"You, rookie."

"Haha..." Anse laughed, then stood and jumped down from the stone. "What do you want, rookie?"

Soradin only then caught on. His face darkened. "I came over to give you some friendly advice, and you make fun of me. You've got no respect for your elders."

"Respect is in the heart." Anse saw the wounds covering him and let his smile fade. "You're hurt?"

"How could you get through a battle like that without getting hurt? As long as you're not dead, it's fine." Soradin sized Anse up. His cloak was spotless, and there wasn't a trace of blood on his face. Soradin realized his words hadn't been entirely accurate.

"If you're hurt, you could die." Anse took a sheathed Xenodagger from his pack. When he drew it, a short, dark-blue blade appeared, its curve strange and its edge keen. "Take a look at this."

"Nice piece." Soradin gave it a high appraisal at a glance. He carefully pinched the hilt, sniffed it lightly, and his expression shifted.

After examining it for a moment, Soradin handed the dagger back. "Don't touch the blade. It's poisonous—not coated with poison, either. It's a fine-quality weapon. The only problem is that it isn't hard enough. But that poison alone is worth a thousand Gold Coins..."

Anse understood. This thing was an assassin's weapon, but it wasn't suited to a head-on fight. It might not even pierce an Armored Monster's hide, so its uses were limited.

Nobody in the group liked using daggers, and for the moment he didn't know whether to keep it or sell it.

"Keep it for now. It'd be bad for you if this thing fell into the wrong hands." Soradin's words carried a meaning beyond their literal sense.

"Something wrong?" Anse caught the implication. Had he been too conspicuous lately and attracted someone's attention?

"Have you heard of the Blue Flame Cult?" Soradin asked gravely.

"An evil organization from the time of the Arcane Blight?" Anse asked, puzzled.

"I don't know where they came from, but there really is such an organization in the city. A lot of Mages and apprentices have joined them. They're preaching that you stole some sort of power from the Holy Lord and calling you a heretic." Soradin warned him.

Anse was speechless. Some cult had branded him a heretic. What the hell was that about?

"Don't take it lightly. Those people are fanatical." Soradin looked around, then stepped closer. "And there's more. The Council of Dukes has issued a Forced Conscription Order and is assembling a fighting force under the surviving Flaming Fist. Their goal is to retake Baldur's Gate, and they'll probably be sending aid to the Upper City too..."

"Forced conscription? Making people sign Magic Contracts?" Anse frowned slightly. If Soradin had come specifically to tell him this, that meant he'd already been singled out.

"That's right. The pay is generous, but you can't refuse." Soradin emphasized the point. "The Lords' Alliance has been dragging its feet about sending troops to help. The Dukes have to fend for themselves, and they can't afford to worry about much else."

"You mean...?"

"Leave now. You have no backing, and you're a Spellcaster. They'll use you without scruples. You wouldn't be surprised to end up in a worse situation than Zahir..."

"What about you?"

"I have the Iron Mountain Clan behind me. They wouldn't dare force me." Soradin sounded confident. He didn't earn money just for himself.

"Thanks." Anse meant it. They weren't especially close, and Soradin had gone above and beyond for him.

He looked at the chaotic battlefield. "But what about all my loot?"

"Don't be an idiot. Leave it with Land," Soradin said irritably. "Tyr's followers won't let you lose out. You won't find that kind of goodwill just anywhere.

Don't waste time. Head to the West Coast. There are plenty of fishing villages and small towns over there. The Kuo-Toa might blockade the Chionthar River, but they don't have the guts to venture into the Sword Sea."

With that, Soradin waved and turned away.

The sky was growing brighter, and people were already starting to notice them.

Anse felt conflicted, but he didn't dare hesitate. He tapped his staff and dispelled Light Spell so he wouldn't draw too much attention.

Then he jumped down from the broken stone and found Brat and Finn fighting with others over loot.

"Let's go!"

"What's going on?"

"I'll explain on the way."

Brat and Finn didn't understand, but they could tell something was wrong with Anse. They could only shoulder their packs, grab the crab meat, and follow him.

Anse found Land and dropped the big bundle of battered gear and monster ears at his feet, asking him to sort through and dispose of the loot that might have belonged to him.

Land readily agreed. He was busy, but he wouldn't refuse any reasonable request Anse made.

Without Anse, who knew how many more people would have died today? And he'd saved Zahir's life, too.

Land didn't ask where Anse was going. He simply gave him a big hug and pressed a platinum badge into his hand. It was shield-shaped, blue, and about as large as a palm. The badge bore the holy symbol of Tyr, the God of Justice: balanced scales atop a warhammer.

Anse didn't refuse. After a brief farewell, the three of them left the chaotic battlefield.

They didn't follow the coast. Instead, they headed back into the city first, weaving through its streets and alleys before traveling west and reaching the open wilderness.

Daylight had spread across the sky. Tents filled the wilderness, everywhere and in every shape and color, like a crop of mushrooms that had sprung up after rain.

Many others slept in the open in groups of three or five. They were all refugees who had fled the city during the rainy night.