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The ground was shaking. Zevlor’s teeth clenched as he gripped his sheets. The burning sky of Avernus filled his vision; the acrid smell of the Hells assaulting his nostrils. For one sick moment, he had convinced himself the ground was yawning open, intent on swallowing them whole. He forcibly tore himself from the bed, desperate to get to the window, desperate to remind himself this wasn’t Elturel, desperate to convince himself he wasn’t in danger. But the sky turned dark—ominous for Tharsun—and horror dawned on him.
No, it wasn’t Elturel plummeting into Avernus, but this was no better.
There were…things rising into the sky. No, not “things,” he realized, his blood running cold. Mindflayers. Hundreds of the damnable creatures. His feet moved on their own. He rushed to the door, slamming it open forcefully. Orange eyes lifted upward. A giant brain filled the skyline, rising over Upper City ominously. Deep dread filled him as Zevlor realized exactly what was happening.
The Absolute was winning.
“By the Gods…” He felt the familiar, normally comforting, presence of his longtime friend and loyal lieutenant. Guerus stood speechlessly at his side, his own eyes trained to the sky.
“Sirs!” He didn’t turn as more frantic, clumsy footsteps scrambled to his other side. “What is that?”
“An elder brain,” Zevlor supplied, voice low. “It’s…what’s leading the Absolute’s forces. The heroes were supposed to be stopping it…” And, yet, it was ascending, which meant Tav and their group had not been successful after everything.
His heart clenched. Did that mean that Tav was…? No. Absolutely not. He hadn’t known a stronger, more capable combatant than Tav. If anyone could do it, they could. And, yet, the undeniable truth was in front of him that—
“Commander,” the woman beside him whispered. “What do we do?”
A familiar rush surged through him: Determination. He may have utterly failed his people once, losing so many lives in the process, but he would not allow anything to take their home away again. They had lost so much on their journey, and he’d be damned if he let the survivors die now that they had made it.
Perhaps they would never accept him again. But, for his people, for all the people of Baldur’s Gate, and for Tav—whatever fate may have befallen them—he had to try. He owed it to every soul to protect them.
For the first time in a long time, Zevlor stood tall, proud. His jaw was set. “Lieutenant,” he began. “Private.” Intari. Her name was Intari. She was one of Guerus’s. “I’m going to Upper City. Will you come with me?”
He heard the shifting of cloth. As he turned, he saw both his comrades were saluting him, looking just as determined as he felt. “We’ll follow you to the ends of Toril, Commander,” Guerus spoke firmly.
Intari nodded. That fire in her eyes reminded him so much of his own at her age, and his chest swelled with pride. “What are your orders, sir?”
Zevlor gave them both a small, grateful smile before turning grim, returning his attention to the brain. “One last ride,” he responded quietly. One last battle before he could finally rest. “Let’s show the Absolute just how powerful the Tiefling Hellriders are.”
Lower City had it rough. Upper City, damnably, had it worse. As the three Hellriders sprinted through the streets, longsword, hammer, and mace ready to strike down their foes, Zevlor analyzed their surroundings: Sprawling gardens left desolate. Stone strewn haphazardly everywhere. Whole buildings destroyed, save for that wizard’s tower, which stood vexingly untouched. Ramazith’s Tower, his brain supplied. Something about it struck him as strangely familiar, but—ah, perhaps it was the adrenaline. No time to contemplate.
“Sir, look!” He followed the private’s pointed finger toward High Hall. Members of City Watch, a small cluster of deep gnomes, and—was that an Owlbear in armor? With…Dammon? Hells. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Other fighters?”
By the gods, they weren’t in this alone! A rush of relief filled him. “Follow them,” he ordered. “The more allies we have, the better.” Wordlessly, the trio sprinted toward one of the very few still standing buildings. It was a…food hall, of some sort? No matter. He instinctively took in his surroundings as he entered the space, beholding several eclectic faces, including…
“Mol,” he murmured, surprised.
The young thief eyeballed him, her lips drawing into a sneer. “Should have known you’d show your face here, old man,” she snarled. Her response was not surprising; he had earned her ire. But, for all the bluster, the girl’s eyes trailed behind him. She hesitated for a moment before giving a curt nod, turning away. Curious, Zevlor turned and recognized Arabella.
Arabella, whose steady gaze looked suddenly far wiser beyond her nine years. She gave him a solemn nod, and he found himself wondering what had happened to her in the interim. She seemed…powerful, somehow. How curious.
“Zevlor.” Dammon’s voice was calm. His nod was brief, assured, and Zevlor returned it in kind. It was then that Zevlor met Rolan’s eyes, looking—different, somehow, from the last time he saw him. More confident, more at peace, than last they met.
“Rolan,” he greeted levelly. “I hear thanks are in order.”
“Thank me for what?” Rolan’s expression may have been careful, but the words belied his nerves. Not that he blamed him.
“For saving the children,” he spoke quietly. “The Tieflings who come to the temple for aid have informed me. I am…very grateful.”
“I did what anyone would do.” Rolan shifted uncomfortably, glancing away. And, in that moment, Zevlor realized that perhaps he and Rolan weren’t so different after all. He opened his mouth to speak when a blond Fist called for their attention.
The Flaming Fist, the Harpers, the Gur, the Ironhand Gnomes, a stunning-looking Paladin with wings, a Selûnite cleric… Allies of all shapes and sizes converged in High Hall. The one thing they had in common was a fondness for Tav and a willingness to help their cause. Pride swelled in his chest. The hero and their comrades built such strong connections with capable fighters. Perhaps, with all their combined efforts, they could win this day.
And, perhaps, he would have atonement for his failure.
The person of the hour came and went, but not before offering a rousing speech to their allies. The excitement in the room was palpable. He couldn’t resist a smile before it was back to business. “Guerus! Intari!” he called, rousing his comrades. “With me!”
“Your orders, sir?” Guerus fell into step beside him as they dashed through the streets, dodging both bodies and debris.
“Make a path for the heroes,” he commanded. “They must get to the elder brain before it is too late. We must make it easier for them.”
“Sir,” he responded briskly.
“Lieutenant, look out!” Intari called, slinging a cantrip at an advancing goblin.
Fighting their way through the swarms wasn’t easy, but none of them appeared worse for wear. And, then, the signal came. A loud horn blared from above, and he had a moment to register a whir of magic around them. In a flash, his feet touched down onto an…unsettlingly squishy surface. Zevlor blinked as his eyes adjusted. They were atop the brain, itself having some sort of platform structure along its sides. And…
“Is that a godsdamned dragon?” Guerus grumbled.
A red dragon, several tentacles, four lesser Mindflayers, four strangely armored creatures, and…a curiously well-dressed Mindflayer taking center stage. Behind the Hellriders were Tav and their comrades, starting their push forward as more allies appeared out of thin air around them.
“Hellriders,” Zevlor commanded, “to arms!” With a shout, he darted forward. His longsword arched upward, easily bisecting a tentacle. As its upper half writhed on the ground, he whirled around, stabbing at one of the armored creatures. This one resembled…a Tiefling man with glowing eyes? How strange. No matter—kin or not, it was their enemy. It would earn no mercy from him.
“Keep the path clear for Tav and the others!” Zevlor ordered his comrades.
“Sir!” He watched Guerus’s blade cleave through another tentacle, while Intari’s magic glowed around Tav’s githyanki friend as she rushed past. Zevlor didn’t have long to consider this before his attention turned toward the dragon.
While he recognized eliminating the smaller threats would make the largest one easier to deal with, he also recognized that getting rid of this one would prove most beneficial to the heroes. And Zevlor? Well, he wasn’t planning on walking away alive.
“You won’t win today, my friend,” he spoke under his breath. Clutching his sword, he rushed forward, ready to deliver another divine strike.
“Watch out!” called a gnomish voice. Zevlor pitched himself to the side at the last moment, barely missing the blast range of a bomb. The dragon howled with rage and lashed out with a tail, knocking down a group of City Watch members.
“Another one!” warned Intari, pointing to the sky. A red dragon loomed overhead and breathed fire onto the field. Several of the tentacles shriveled, smoking from the blast. Unfortunately, it also managed to catch an errant Harper, who screamed as their charred body fell to the ground. The gith on its back gave a glance at the battlefield before nodding at Tav and flying off.
Almost immediately following the dragon’s assault came a deluge of fireballs from above. The Owlbear shrieked as some of its feathers were singed, trampling one of the Gur in its panic.
“Madness,” Zevlor grumbled. “At this rate, we’ll kill ourselves before we kill our enemies.”
“Coming through!” barked the Tiefling barbarian, charging past with her axe. Behind her flew their strange illithid companion. (Of course. Why wouldn’t Tav have an illithid ally? He refused to question it.) As Karlach cut down the enemies in its path, it flew up to the far platform, where a strange, crownlike piece sat.
What is that? he wondered.
“Commander!” snapped Guerus. Zevlor grunted as one of the armored combatants hit him with their mace and turned his attention back to the battle at hand.
Suddenly, the ground began to shake, and time slowed. He looked toward the crown again to see the heroes disappearing through some sort of teleportation circle. Whatever Tav and the heroes were doing, it was up to the rest of them to aid where they could.
“For Baldur’s Gate!” screamed one of the Flaming Fist. The other allies gave a thunderous rallying cry in agreement.
“For Baldur’s Gate,” he repeated quietly, “and for my kin.” A surge of adrenaline coursed through him as he charged the dragon. Zevlor gave a battle cry as his longsword pierced through the air, crackling with thunder magic. He put the full force of his strength into the strike…
…and, with one more terrible cry, the dragon’s body fell dead. Zevlor breathed heavily. All around him were dead bodies of enemies and allies alike as more Mindflayer reinforcements arrived. Not all of Tav’s allies were making it out of this battle alive. But Guerus and Intari were still intact, albeit bloodied. Zevlor felt the sweat trickling down the back of his neck but refused to stand down. The battle was not yet over. Summoning his strength, he hollered and charged forward…
But his Mindflayer opponent screamed and collapsed before his sword had a chance to connect. All of the Mindflayers were shrieking and convulsing. “What in the Hells is happening?” Guerus whirled around, distrusting this sudden development.
A wave of relief hit him as realization dawned. “They did it,” Zevlor whispered. “By the gods, they did it!”
Tav’s allies—his allies—looked overwhelmed and overjoyed all at once. They began to shout victoriously, and Zevlor—wait, what was that?
The ground shook violently beneath them—and, then, gravity kicked in. His body acted instinctively before his brain was able to process what was happening. Immediately, he stabbed his sword into the ground, digging in deep, as they lurched to the side. Zevlor grabbed the hilt and hung on for dear life as he watched others’ bodies topple around him. “Intari!” He snatched the woman’s arm as she tumbled by him. “Hold onto me!” he barked to her, his tail wrapping around her midsection for added support. His head whipped to the side. “Lieutenant!”
“Shit!” Guerus landed hard against a support pillar. The man wrapped his arms around it and held tight.
The brain pitched beneath them, and Zevlor lost his footing. He heard the private gasp as they both watched a pair of City Watch members fall screaming from the brain’s surface.
“Helm preserve us,” she breathed.
No, Zevlor thought grimly. He won’t help the likes of us.
“We won’t make it,” Guerus shouted. “The fall will kill us!”
If I go down, I will die a proud man, a voice in the back of his mind spoke. That was right. They were Hellriders. They were meant to die in battle. This was the honorable way to go, wasn’t it?
And, yet, that same voice told him that he could not let Intari die like this. He and Guerus were old—they had lived their lives—but she had so much more ahead of her. And, perhaps, his mind wandered to another promising young Hellrider, one who lost her life and soul in the pods …
No. He wasn’t able to save Tilses. He wouldn’t let another young Hellrider die.
The sword was starting to slip. He needed to think fast. Zevlor’s head whipped around, assessing. Where the brain was falling, they were very close to Ramazith’s Tower, and—
The tower. Rolan. The wizard was on the balcony, jaw agape. The brain was rapidly approaching the tower but, based on its trajectory, would pass by without damaging it. They were, however, close enough that Rolan could see him. The wizard turned stiff for a moment before he gave Zevlor a nod, and his hands started moving. Somatic components? Ahh. Clever man. “Guerus!” he called. “On the count of three, I need you to throw yourself toward me.”
“What?” Guerus looked alarmed. “Are you insane?”
“Commander, are you insane?” Intari yelled simultaneously.
“One,” Zevlor began. Guerus shot him a wild look. “Two…!”
“Mragrashem,” Guerus growled.
“THREE!”
The lieutenant hurled his body to the side. Zevlor watched and, at the last moment, released his grip on Intari.
“Commander!”
“Let go, Private. Trust me.”
Intari hesitated before doing so, her body falling toward the Arcane Door that had formed beneath her. Zevlor quickly caught Guerus before yanking his sword out of the brain. The two of them tumbled through the magical portal.
The Hellriders landed in a heap, breathing heavily. He barely registered the hurried sound of footsteps. “That was bloody ridiculous,” Rolan complained. “How in the Hells did you manage to survive?”
How, indeed. A familiar pang struck his heart. How was he meant to live when he was supposed to have died?
“Here.” Rolan extended a hand. “Let me assist you.”
Zevlor looked at the hand questioningly, then back to Rolan’s face. The wizard still looked…wary, but, surprisingly, concerned. Drawing in a slow breath, he grasped the other man’s hand.
Perhaps the future was not so grim after all.