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Balspire knew that there was more to Porter’s story. None of the information she imparted was false. There had to be details she was omitting, though, things she may reveal when needed or once trust developed among the party. None of her concerns were invalid. Misfortune was rewarded to good deeds done in the forgotten realms, their altruistic nonchalance had repeatedly drawn unwarranted scorn from the dark places along their journey. Porter’s reaction to The Mighty Flagon’s popularity caused Balspire to suspect she had experience foiling conspiracies and he wondered if something more dangerous than Zhentarim was coming for her.

More questions about each other came to their minds the longer they put off meaningful conversation. Gruff encouraged the group to engage in lighthearted gab to appear less conspicuous to the locals. Lutch excelled at this task. He staged a conversation between Kiog and the unconscious Jacuzzi, holding each by the scruff of their backs at his eye level and bobbing them up and down as he he spoke for both in two distinctive voices. A deep, grumbling voice meant to be Kiog told Jacuzzi he was going to gobble him whole and Lutch responded for the rabbitfolk in a decent imitation.

“Oh, good, I’m such a de-wicious wittle wabbit that I’ve been hoping someone would nib my bun!” Lutch’s impression and tactless puppeteering disturbed Jacuzzi awake, who throttled his powerful legs, squirmed loose from the half-orc’s grip, then flipped, somersaulted to the ground. His movements were too quick, too spastic; he was a blurring ball of panic, fur, and designer fabric. As soon as Jacuzzi landed on his hind paws he went to work grooming and preening his long ears, fixing and straightening his fancy suit. For a couple seconds he stood and regarded the party, one by one, with both sides of his head. Several feet above him, Kiog was let go, too, and the little bard reflexively jolted.

“Gonnagofindroomsforeverybodybeforekiogeatsme!” No one understood what he said because he shortened his message into a single word as he raced down the street and out of sight before Kiog hit the ground. The ornery bear bounded after the rabbitfolk.

“Those two are going to make a beautiful family.” Lutch remarked, his eyes wide and watery as he watched his familiar hunt his friend.

“I don’t have handouts for bottom-feeding hobgoblins!” Shouted a woman from down a nearby alleyway. Had the commotion occurred seconds later and if the antics of Lutch and his passengers did not delay the group, The Mighty Flagons would have walked past the commotion. Unusual angles to the forgotten space between buildings obscured the view from where they tread. Gruff pulled her hood over her hideous disguise, unsheathed her rapier, and ran after Balspire, who was already charging down the bricks that paved the scene for the violent monsters. Surrounding a disheveled carriage and its three disembarked riders were ten well-armored hobgoblins wielding a variety of martial weapons, some of which were stuck in the two horses that died for their burden. Past the vigilant flagons, down the oblong geometry swarmed a volley of Lutch’s arrows. The first arrow bit into the palm of the hand gripping a longsword that the wielder was poking in and out of an equine corpse. Until the swift arrival of the next projectile, the hobgoblin stared at his injury and wondered how his blade was replaced with an arrow; his gaze moved up the shaft to the fletching then beyond to find the origin of the missile. The tip of an arrowhead was the last thing he saw as it sank into his ocular cavity. Another arrow found his cheek and a fourth would have kissed his face had his body remained erect. When his body slumped into the horse-pile the besieged elvish woman and her guards, then their assailants, knew that help had come.

Defenses at the perimeter of the ambush were weak and distracted. Two guards watched the street from the alleyway. They hid behind towering stacks of palettes and may have seen the rescuers approach but clatter produced when one of their own fell stole their attention. Far behind Lutch’s preemptive measures, yet only seconds into the fray, Balspire and Porter lost minimal momentum passing the failed lookouts through. Lightbringer led the infiltration. A pendulous swing at the extent of the shoulder from low, behind the back amassed explosive force into the magical hammer; Lightbringer bonged the side of the hobgoblin’s helmet. Sturdy iron kept its form against the impact, the contents shattered. Rattling against the sides of his headgear, resounding like a bell, the power of the blow quaked around his mind for a thought; skull cracked then caved, thinking-matter scrambled, and the body went limp.

The guard opposite him turned his head in time to witness his own slaying. As it slipped through his neck he saw the glimmering length of Porter’s rapier blur by. He watched his blood jet out from the bottom of his fading periphery.

Three of their own died before they knew The Mighty Flagons were there. They had seen the posters but did not think them real. Hobgoblins only ever invaded Waterdeep at the command of a malevolence they feared more than the overwhelming local authority. Doom was inevitable but that is what they served. Following orders this deep into enemy territory without adequate resources or reinforcements to abduct a well-armed merchant required skill beyond competence but they exhausted themselves to get this far and knew they could go no further. Only death would save them from their master.

“Change of plans, comrades! Kill the elf woman first!” Commanded the goblinoid captain. The barghest demanded her to be taken unharmed but hobgoblin lives were forfeit. After they failed, other forgettable minions would be deployed with a new plan to capture the same damned elf. Since this merchant was so important to the one that sent them here to die, they would spite the barghest and slaughter Serelt Mistra.

“Ay! Kill the elf!” They chanted in excitement – it was a sentiment they repeated often on this mission. As their numbers thinned in pursuit of their quarry they asked their superior with increasing frequency why they were ordered to capture an elf when she should be executed instead. Death solved elves. Every soldier in the war band saw the madness in their duty. Waterdeep harbored a substantial authoritative presence that stymied infiltration, careful consideration set them on a journey through the insurmountable, and sometimes unspeakable, perils of the Underdark. They surfaced in the middle of a city where goblins could be killed on sight. From that juncture, they had to navigate over-policed, unfamiliar streets to locate someone they had never met. When they were ten heads and the opposition was fewer, the odds were against them because they were too fatigued but there remained a chance at success. An adventuring party of storied heroes would stop their operation. Failure to achieve their objective would shame their tribe but to be bested by an elf was unforgivable. Someday, the story of how they put an end to the Mistress of Arms, whose wares cut down countless goblins, would reach their families, somehow.

“Vorvar, Resmi, Rodeg, Elurk. Bar the alley. Keep them away as long as you can!” Their captain belted out new instructions and his soldiers reassembled.

Four more hobgoblins met Balspire and Porter like a wall, protruding their kite shields and raising their swords, occupying as much space between structures. Lutch’s accuracy diminished once the ambushers knew he was sniping them from the street. Any swing of their swords was to fill an opening that could be exploited and projectiles would not bypass their metal plating, but after several minutes The Mighty Flagons penetrated the hobgoblin barrier. Porter had shed her manly disguise to refocus her spellcasting; as promised, her twin returned, appearing behind the phalanx. Once their formation was broken they fell quickly.

Beyond that obstacle stood Serelt Mistra versus the hobgoblin captain, surrounded by their lifeless forces. Between them were the swords they crossed against each other. However, little movement occurred; both lurched into the quarrel, panting, heaving, too sapped to continue quarreling. X84 sprinted into the duel but was too late. The hobgoblin captain pushed his mass into the elf merchant who failed to step back to adjust for the displacement of weight. Her blade pressed harmlessly against the goblin platemail and she tripped backwards onto the brick ground, her adversary toppled over her, his weapon before him. He fell onto his knees, hands clasped around the handle of his sword, driving it deep into Serelt’s mid-section.

In the next second, the Warforged artificer decapitated the last hobgoblin.