by Ari Marmell
The guard, in turn, went to fetch his commanding officer from farther along the street, and Gork scrambled over the rooftop, desperate to worm his way near enough to hear. Again, fortune and the Stars smiled upon him, for against the noise of the crowd and the flaming timbers, the guard had to shout at his captain to make himself heard. The lurking goblin couldn't make out everything that was said, but he heard enough.
He heard the captain tell his subordinate something that sounded an awful lot like “You'd better go tell her.”
Unless Gork was woefully mistaken as to who “her” must be, their final target was within their grasp. Practically galloping on all fours, he crossed the roof's deep shadows once again, cursing with every gasp of exertion. He had to tell the others, let them know what was going on, and get back before the messenger was too far gone to tail.
At the far end of the roof—the near end of the roof? Oh, Stars blast it all, the squad end of the roof!—Gork saw his companions shuffling slowly away, only a few buildings along, determined not to draw attention. Determined, but unsuccessful. Another of the city guards, her hands clasped on the bucket she'd just emptied with a steaming hiss onto the fire, was scrutinizing the “monks” with undisguised suspicion. She, then, turned to the nearest members of her squad, muttering and pointing.
And Gork's memory began whispering in the back of his mind, placing her among the guards who had appeared at the temple after Father Thomas's murder. Again the kobold cursed, louder and longer;
someone was finally doing the math and coming up with “monks” for an answer. The soldiers—who, despite their best efforts, could really do precious little good until the fire-wagon arrived with its larger barrels—laid their buckets on the ground and advanced, hands on hilts.
Gork, running dolefully short on any better ideas, yanked another, heavier shingle from the roof. He cocked his arm back and threw, his entire body snapping like a mangonel. The tiny projectile sailed down the street and completely missed its target (the orc's head again, naturally), but its impact against the cobblestones did the trick anyway. Cræosh and the others spun, seeking the object's source, and saw instead the team of guards headed their way.
“You there!” one of them called, realizing they'd been seen. “Halt!”
The squad, of course, declined. All pretense of stealth and subtlety abandoned, they charged headlong for the nearest intersection, half a dozen of Brenald's finest in hot pursuit.
Scowling, Gork returned to his own pursuit, hoping it wasn't already too late for him to catch up with the other soldier—and hoping, as well, that Cræosh or Katim would remember where they were supposed to meet.
Because dammit, if he had to spend days tracking them down through this stinking, aggravating, human cesspool of a city, then by the Stars he was going to take it out on somebody's organs!
The “monks” dashed past startled passersby, ignoring shocked and puzzled glowers, shoving the slow-moving from their path or deliberately knocking them prone to entangle the legs of the pursuing soldiers. But this was no blind, panicky flight, for all its chaos. Cræosh wasn't running from, but to, if only he could find what he needed in this city he didn't know….
There! Grinning beneath his hood, the orc led his companions around the rough corner of a dilapidated warehouse. As he'd surmised from the road, they found themselves in a cul-de-sac, really little more than a wide alley with a wall at the far end. They'd cornered themselves, yes, but more importantly, they'd also stepped out of sight of the city's citizens.
The guards pounded around the corner, weapons drawn to meet what must surely be the final stand of cornered, desperate fugitives. These were Brenald's finest, expertly trained, and they outnumbered the enemy six to four.
They never stood a chance. The last one died, Katim's chirrusk buried in his throat, before the first, his head mashed to paste by Jhurpess's club, had even ceased twitching.
“That was fun.” Cræosh said.
“But dangerous,” Katim pointed out. “This city's…already lost three of its most…hallowed citizens. And now an entire…patrol of the watch as…well. If we keep this…up, we'll have the entire city…locked down before we can get…out.”
“True,” the orc admitted. “We need to get this done with, then.”
“Are disguises still good?” the bugbear asked, though whether due to real concern or just hoping to shed the uncomfortable cloth was anyone's guess.
“Well…” Cræosh nudged an unrecognizable hunk of flesh and muscle with his boot. “The guards who recognized us are, um, indisposed. But there's no telling if any of the others were suspicious, or how quickly news spreads in this fucking human-hive. I'd say as long we don't run into any more guards, or anyone we just tossed out of our way, we're good for a little while longer…but not much. Let's find Gork.”
Find him they did, though it required half an hour of waiting, cursing, waiting, idly scuffling feet, and waiting in the shadows cast behind the ostentatious structure. (Clearly designed to impress anyone passing through the front gate—that was why it had stood out, why Cræosh had picked it when they first arrived—it was probably a city office of some sort, though the goblins never did find out for certain. Regardless of its intended purpose, it served well as a conspicuous landmark for visitors lost in Brenald's winding streets.)
“Took you fucking long enough,” Cræosh barked as Gork finally materialized from the darkness.
“Gee, I'm ever so sorry, Cræosh,” the kobold replied. “Next time I'll only follow the target half the way. I mean, that's close enough, right?”
“Okay, fine,” the orc said, somewhat grudgingly acknowledging that Gork probably had a point. “And you're sure it was her?”
“Unless the guard had reason to visit some other scar-faced redhead and report what'd happened to Brookwhisper and Bekay.”
“So where is she?”
“Home,” Gork said simply. “Or it's someone's home, anyway. It's a stone house on a hill at the outskirts of the city.”
“City has a skirt?” Belrotha asked.
Gork sighed. “Outskirts,” he explained slowly, through clenched teeth. “It means the very edges of the city.”
“Oh. Me understand.”
“I'm so glad.”
“Gimmol would explain to me nicer, though,” she said with a loud sniff.
Cræosh distracted the kobold with a light cuff on the shoulder before he could retort. I really hope he's fucking smart enough to watch his mouth around her. If Gork made even one disparaging comment about Gimmol where Belrotha could hear him, Cræosh planned to wash his hands of the whole situation and just try to avoid the blood as he dove for cover.
“Just how far out are we talking about?” the orc asked. “'Far out' as in no neighbors?”
“A few,” Gork corrected, his brow and muzzle wrinkling as he envisioned the area. “But none on the hill itself. It's a really big property, far bigger than the house warrants, actually. Guess she really does love her some natural surroundings. Neighbors could see something amiss, but they'd have to be looking up and making a point of it.”
“Well, that's a help,” Cræosh muttered, his brow creased in thought.
“It also,” Katim pointed out, “means that anyone…in that house is probably…going to see us coming.”
Cræosh shook his head. “I was sort of hoping to hold off until later. Maybe after midnight, make sure everyone's good and asleep.”
“No,” Gork said firmly. “Cræosh, it took me over an hour to make my way back here through those damn streets. Kobolds don't build in straight lines, but that's because we have to make do with caverns. I don't know what the humans' excuse is.
“But the point is, I can't swear to you she's even at home now, let alone where she'll be in a few hours. If she decides to hunt down whoever killed her friends, or if she realizes she's the next target—and I sort of got the impression from Havarren that she's not a complete moron—there's no guarantee she'll wait till morning befor
e going Stars-know-where.”
Cræosh chewed his tongue. “All right, you're making sense for some reason. Don't know what the fuck this world is coming to, but there it is. We'll go now.”
Again they marched at a stately pace, arms crossed piously before them and heads bobbing to a rhythm only they could hear.
“You can get us there without taking us back past the Capering Kobold, I hope?” Cræosh asked. “I'd rather not run into anyone who remembers the jogging monks.”
“Relax, Pork-face. We don't have to get anywhere near there.”
“Pork-face?”
“What I want to know,” Gork continued, “is how we're planning to get her out of this damn city, if and when we do manage to grab her.”
“Yeah, well…” Cræosh hedged.
“Actually,” Katim rasped from behind, her robe bulging as she talked, “I believe I have…an idea about that….”
“What do you think, Gork?” Cræosh asked once Katim had spoken (and rasped) her piece. “Anyplace on the way you can grab the gear?”
“Quite a few,” Gork said. “We'll have to make a detour to get the bodies, though.”
Cræosh shrugged. “Unless someone happened to wander in, the guards should still be in the alley where we dumped ‘em. We'll have to get a little closer to the Capering Kobold than I'd prefer, but I think we can pull it off.”
“Then let's pick up the pace a little,” Gork whispered. “There's a lot to do. And Cræosh?”
“Yeah?”
“The tavern is gone. We burned it down. So stop looking for excuses to say the damned name, would you?”
They stood now at the base of the shallow hill, gathered alongside the property's fence line. Streetlamps flickered at every nearby intersection, but the pockets of shadow were more than thick enough to hide in. Stacked at their feet were several man-sized bundles, just beginning to smell.
“If Havarren's to be believed,” Cræosh muttered, his tone indicating quite clearly what he thought of that idea, “this one's supposed to be more dangerous than any of her companions.”
“Yeah,” Gork said, somewhat less than enthusiastically. “Great.” Both were clearly thinking of Bekay and Gimmol, though neither spoke either name. If Lirimas was worse…
“I never in my whole fucking life ever thought I'd say this,” the orc said, “but I think I've had enough fighting for the day. Anybody got any bright ideas as to how we ought to go about doing this?”
“Jhurpess could set the house on fire,” the bugbear offered. “Squad could wait outside and hit Lirimas on the head as Lirimas comes out.”
“You know something, Nature-boy?” Cræosh said. “You've got an unhealthy obsession with fire for someone as flammable as you are.”
“It may not, however, be such…a bad idea,” Katim pointed out.
“Uh, hello? Dog-breath? That's a stone house”
“The tavern was stone, too. The…furnishings inside still burned well…enough, yes?”
“Maybe.” Cræosh was clearly unconvinced. “But we did that from inside, and we had time to work. You're talking about doing it from out here, and fast enough that she's got no time to react except to run. There's a word for this kind of plan, and it ain't fit for polite company.”
“When has that ever stopped you?” Gork asked.
“Couldn't tell you. Near as I can figure, I've never been in polite company.”
“Cræosh…” Katim warned, gesturing toward the moon as it sailed slowly across its sea of clouds and stars.
“All right, all right. I suppose I haven't got any better ideas. I still think this one is bloody fucking stupid, mind you. I just can't think of anything less so. Gork, make a quick circle of the house and find out—”
“Did it when I was here before, Cræosh. Two doors: one on the north wall and a smaller one leading into what looks to be a vegetable garden on the south. Four windows big enough for a small human to climb through, one on each side.” He shrugged. “It's a pretty simple design, really. If it weren't built of stone, on a property big enough for a small manor, I'd call it a cottage more than a house.”
Belrotha frowned in concentration, one finger of her right hand counting the fingertips of her left. “That…one, two, three, four, five, uh, six exits. There am only, uh, five of us.”
“The ogre,” Cræosh remarked, “actually has a point.”
“Besides the one on top of her head?” Gork asked. Then, quickly raising his hands, “Okay, okay, don't get snippy. The window in front is right beside the door. One of us—one of the larger of us—can probably cover them both.”
Cræosh nodded. “Belrotha, that'll be your job.”
The ogre shook her head. “Me not as big as me supposed to be. Me not know if me can cover door and window together.”
For a moment, the orc repressed the need to squeeze his head, fighting back the incipient headache. “Belrotha, you do understand that I mean to watch them both and knock Lirimas on her head if she tries to come out, and not to literally cover the door and window, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, me can do that.”
Yep. Headache. “Katim, east window. Jhurpess, west. Shorty and I'll take the door and the window in the garden. Any complaints?”
“Yes,” Katim said. “There a great many more…fleas this far south than there…are in Kirol Syrreth. I find…especially given the irritation caused by…these heavy robes…that the fleas are…” She broke off at the look that had fallen over the orc's face. “Yes? Was there…something?”
Cræosh's jaw twitched.
“Ah. You meant complaints regarding…our upcoming endeavor. No, it…all looks fine to me.”
Twitch.
“You might wish to have that…examined by a healer when we return…home,” the troll suggested. “Gork's eyelid was doing that earlier…in the day. Perhaps it's…contagious.”
Cræosh, who was beginning to regret having ever developed language skills, retrieved his sword, a skin of oil, and an unlit torch from the squad's newly augmented supplies. The others quickly followed suit, each pretending not to notice the self-satisfied chuckle floating softly from beneath Katim's hood.
Cræosh, scowling in contemplation, sat atop the eastern slope of the small hill and looked out over the twinkling lights that were the nighttime city below. Absently, he clenched his left fist around a ragged gash on his right bicep, efficiently bandaged but throbbing angrily. The bitch was fucking fast, gotta give her that.
“You seem remarkably cranky, all things considered,” Gork said from his usual nowhere, dropping down to sit beside the glowering orc. “What's your problem now?”
“It was…Well, it was too easy,” Cræosh said slowly, trying to corral his jumbled thoughts into some kind of order. “I mean, okay, so she was no pushover.” He flexed his injured arm in testimony. “But shit, Bekay was a lot worse.”
“Cræosh, Jhurpess hit her on the head when she dived out the window. That club's enough to loosen a constipated dragon; of course it slowed her down!”
“Yeah, maybe.” The orc didn't seem convinced.
Gork's eyes suddenly flashed, nearly as bright as the torches below. “I know what this is about,” he said abruptly. “You're just pissed that the plan worked! You thought it was stupid, and you're angry that we pulled it off!”
“No,” Cræosh said then—though, to his credit, he'd taken a moment to think about it. “No, not pissed. Worried.”
“Worried? About what? The plan worked!”
“That's what bothers me. It worked. Totally, completely, one hundred percent, went off without a fucking hitch. One of our plans. Without a single fuck-up.” Cræosh shook his head. “It ain't natural, Shorty.”
“Stars,” Gork exclaimed, bouncing to his feet. “I thought I was paranoid! Come on, Cræosh, we've still got to get her, and us, past the walls and all the way back home. There's plenty of time to screw up if you really want to.”
“Put that way,” Cræosh said, also rising, “maybe I can
do without the usual fuck-up.”
“I thought you might.”
“Just this once, though. Don't let it become a habit.”
Gork grinned. “Us? Fat chance of that.”
“If you two are finished…playing,” Katim called from around the corner of the (smoldering) stone house, “we're ready.”
“Keep your tits in a row, Dog-breath! We're coming.”
They found the others in the midst of the vegetable garden, along with their parcel. Lirimas, her hideously scarred face now a mask of bruises, was trussed up with more knots than you'd find on a two-masted galleon. Hands and ankles had each been tied together, and then to each other, and then both to the prisoner's neck, bending her back like Jhurpess's bow. A wadded rag, tied with string, made an effective gag. She'd then been wrapped in a second layer of rope, an amorous constrictor coiled around her entire body, and on top of that, she was covered with a number of bedsheets. (The linen closet, thankfully, had been closed up and hadn't suffered unduly from the sudden rain of burning oil that drove Lirimas outside.) No way was their prize escaping them at this stage of the game!
Of course, there remained the issue of getting her out of the city and on the road to the Iron Keep. Boy, the fun never stops.
“Wheelbarrow?” Cræosh asked.
“It here,” Belrotha told him, gesturing behind her.
Cræosh eyed it warily. “Couldn't you have found a bigger one, Shorty?”
The kobold snorted. “These are humans we're talking about. Their wheelbarrows don't come much larger than this. It'll do.”
Working together, Cræosh and Belrotha pulled aside the tarp that hid the bodies of the six dead guardsmen and then lifted a few of the bodies themselves. Katim and Gork carefully rearranged those that remained, leaving a faint hollow. The unconscious prisoner—after Katim gave her an extra whack on the head to ensure she stayed that way—they dumped atop the heap, and then swiftly replaced the bodies they'd just moved. Arms and legs spilled haphazardly over the sides, and the uppermost corpse wobbled dangerously each time the wheelbarrow moved.
