The refugees didn't dare resist. No matter their condition, they forced themselves up off the ground and staggered away in a panic.
Ansel and the others watched coldly from the side, leaning against the wall without moving.
Before long, a middle-aged man in a red tabard embroidered with a golden flame—clearly a captain—came into the area. He gave Ansel a careful once-over, but didn't stop, heading straight for Rand and Zahir instead.
He bowed slightly to the two paladins to show respect, then began talking to them in a very low voice. Ansel couldn't make out what they were saying.
He focused his attention on the man, and as time passed, the die fed him more information.
[Flaming Fist Elite, Human, Level 4 Fighter (Battle Master)]
At the very least, mid–high level brass, Ansel thought.
A few minutes later, the man turned and left, his expression calm and unreadable.
"What does that mean? We don't have to leave?" Bratt murmured.
"Resting in the fortress for a while doesn't sound bad," Finn said stiffly.
Ansel pushed himself up with his staff, a cold smile tugging at his lips. "Heh. The Flaming Fist and the paladins don't exactly get along."
The original Ansel had grown up in the outer districts and had often seen clashes between paladins and the Fist. The impression was burned into his memory.
Sure enough, after a short rest, Rand checked over the wounded, making sure no one was on the verge of dying, then waved his hand and called for everyone to move out.
Bratt and Finn both looked at Ansel. They hadn't expected him to nail it again.
They got up to help. Bratt took a cart, still frowning. "The Fist is insane. They've got such powerful backup right here and they're sending them away just so they can hold the fortress alone."
"I can think of three reasons," Ansel said after a pause. "First, they've got enough troops. I counted on the way in—there are guards on every stretch of wall, at least two or three hundred men in total.
"Second, they probably have elites who aren't weaker than Uncle Rand. Third, they have absolute faith in the fortress's defenses…"
"Adding more people doesn't add more firepower?" Bratt asked, perplexed.
"If the commander ordered you to die in a frontal charge, would you go?" Ansel asked with a crooked smile.
"I definitely wouldn't," Bratt said, shaking his head.
"Exactly." Ansel chuckled. "Adventurers don't listen. Paladins can't stomach compromise. Put them together and it's just a headache. Easier to kick everyone out and enjoy the peace."
The Flaming Fist's objective was to hold the fortress, period. They couldn't risk any wildcards. If Ansel swapped places with the captain, he'd probably do the same.
Bratt exhaled in understanding. He had thought about that angle, but it still hadn't occurred to him that in a moment like this the Fist would be that cautious.
The convoy rolled slowly out of the fortress passage, and the view opened up at once.
The southern gate of the fortress had an extra drawbridge compared to the north. As the last person set foot on the stone of Wyrm's Crossing, the grinding of winches sounded behind them, and the bridge began to rise. In moments, a sheer gap separated them from the fortress, the river roaring below.
Ansel turned to look at the high walls and thought, I hope you can hold. Duergar aren't easy foes.
With the Upper City gone, even a full stockpile might not last long. And the duergar's main force hadn't even appeared yet—most of the dead so far were just slaves.
Using a natural disaster as cover, the duergar were trying to seize Baldur's Gate—a city of over a hundred thousand—with only a few thousand, at most tens of thousands of troops. There was no way they'd give up such a prize lightly.
....
Beyond Wyrm's Crossing lay the Rivington District, the only outer district on the south bank of the Chionthar.
They said this hadn't originally been a formal ward at all, but a settlement that had grown up naturally around the bridge's geography and commercial value. Once it got big enough, it was folded into the city's administration.
But a district built to hold a few thousand residents was now crammed with tens of thousands of refugees.
Once the convoy crossed the bridge, it felt like there was literally nowhere to put their feet. The streets had vanished beneath a sea of people in rags—beggars and wounded as far as the eye could see.
Ansel followed behind the carts. As soon as he entered the district, a wall of stench hit him so hard he nearly gagged. His eyes swept across the filth-streaked streets, smeared with feces and urine, and he couldn't help feeling sick.
Just then, the carts stopped. He looked ahead and saw a knot of refugees blocking the way. The old and weak were in front, young and strong behind—begging in name, but in practice refusing to move unless they got something.
Rand's face darkened. With a wave, he sent several warriors forward with shields and clubs. They started shoving and clubbing those blocking the road.
Chaos erupted. Someone started shouting that "the church is beating people," trying to incite the crowd or guilt-trip the paladins, but the warriors didn't waver—if anything, they hit harder.
The road cleared, and the convoy moved on.
Ansel nodded slightly. Rand had no choice. The moment they handed out food, everything would spiral out of control.
The paladins had plenty of experience with disaster relief. They understood that even charity had to respect timing and limits.
After a few hundred meters, the convoy turned west. Near the river in the western part of the district stood a church of Lathander, the Morninglord. Rand intended to take shelter there.
But as they traveled, the mood in the convoy grew heavier. With the Flaming Fist pulled back, Rivington had no real policing, and disorder was on the rise. They saw theft, robbery, and brawls with their own eyes—ugly scenes everywhere.
Occasionally they'd spot a patrol trying to keep order, proof that the Rivington council still existed. The various churches and guilds were also doing what they could to stabilize things. It was just barely enough to keep the district from collapsing.
"It's only been a few days—how did it turn into this?" Bratt ground his teeth, struggling to accept it.
"The disaster hit too suddenly. No food, no water…" Ansel sighed.
Baldur's Gate was a trade city. It couldn't feed itself with its own fields and stores. When the districts linking it to Grey Harbor collapsed, merchant ships stopped coming near. Trade all but died.
The southern trade roads and farms were still there, and there was some stored grain, but with no centralized control, prices exploded. How many meals could the bit of wealth people carried out of the ruins really buy?
And sure enough, the farms and villages to the south were probably already overrun with people. As for heading out into the wilds… with all the dangers outside, common folk weren't likely to risk it.
As they got closer to the church district, things improved. The Lathanderites had taken in many of the elderly and infirm. It was crowded, but not chaotic.
After Rand spoke with the clergy there, he had the priests start pitching tents on the open ground to the south of the church, setting up a temporary camp for their statues and the wounded.
As soon as that was done, he and Zahir grabbed their swords and stalked out again, faces like stone—who knew what they were off to do.
It was just past noon. No one had eaten. The priests began handing out food. Refugees outside saw this and went berserk, surging toward the church. Some simply grabbed with their hands.
Anywhere else, they wouldn't have dared—but this was a church. At worst they'd get beaten, so their courage was huge.
Bratt couldn't stand it. He drew his sword and started whacking people—hard enough to hurt, not enough to break bones, but definitely enough to make them think twice.
The younger priests picked up staves and joined in to keep order. In the end, they managed to keep the crowd from overrunning the church.
Ansel stood in front of the wounded tents with his staff in hand. The white light from his Light spell burned bright in the gloom, and the "hungry horde" flinched away from it, not daring to push closer.
These warriors had fought beside him. He wasn't about to watch them end up with nothing but an empty stomach.
Borg's heart softened, and he had more ingredients brought out, setting up a huge pot to cook porridge and feed the refugees.
Ansel frowned deeply, not entirely agreeing with the old priest. The number of refugees was terrifying, and the church's supplies were a drop in the bucket. A burst of kindness like this might plant the seeds of future disaster.
The disaster had only been going for two or three days. People could still tough it out and cling to some shred of reason. But what about tomorrow? The day after?
By then, even with Rand and Zahir on hand, they might not be able to hold the line.
A starving human… stops being human.