by Tee Morris
“Count on it.”
I fought the instinct to run, keeping my strides relaxed but long. One of his orcs took me back to the elevator, handing over my guns and tobacco pouch before shutting the cage on me and the freckled kid. As our descent began, I wasn’t planning to let this thug enjoy watching me breathe a sigh of relief. He was already shouldering the disappointment of seeing my face leaving the same way it went in. And this lovable mug of mine didn’t have a split lip, black eye, or switchblade scars across the cheek.
Right before he slipped out of view, I give this mook a wink. Be seeing you, I thought with a grin. I probably would…seeing as I was now a valuable commodity to his boss.
I maintained my calm, casual gait to the outside (where I tipped the grinning doorman a fiver) and hailed the cab that would get me home. I whispered a quick prayer to Dunnagor, one of the Dwarven Guardians of Yearnese, that if he were going to raise his battle-axe for anyone, to let it be for my girl, Miranda. I was confident that I’d charmed Capone and figured he wouldn’t play that card…at least, right now. I had to keep him and his goons at arm’s length and string him along while I figured out what the hell to do with the Singing Sword once I got it.
Yeah, once I got it. There was no room for “ifs” and “mights” here. Either I got it, or the world I now called home was going to be in for one rough, bumpy ride.
Chapter Nine
Any Friend of Lou’s...
The best after-dinner mint I could think of after my face-off with Capone was a long, hot shower. My clothes reeked of garlic, along with traces of pipe and cigar—not a sweet-smelling combo.
After a soothing moment under the warm water, I decided to make the shower cold to counter my adrenaline rush. Shivering under the bombardment of frigid droplets that bit into my skin like a swarm of flesh-gnats, I confronted the reality of what I had just stepped into.
Just what I needed: a good, old-fashioned slap in the face.
My fast-wrinkling fingertips passed across a trio of permanent welts starting at my lower back and abruptly stopping just short of—well, where a human’s kidney would be. The cold water was turning them a darker shade of pink, making them look a lot nastier that they were in truth. Still, on certain days—usually before a snowstorm—I still feel a tingle from them. I felt that same tingle now, the sensation taking me back to a battlefield and a thunderstorm with rain as cold as the stream I was standing under.
A few years before the big mission for the Nine Talismans, the Black Orcs had overrun a number of elf villages along the border realms, and we were called in to take them back. As far as the Elvish Intelligence (in all their infinite wisdom) reports went, the Black Orcs had not yet discovered the libraries in the villages of Aeryn’s Harbor, Chi-ya-Nah, and D’Hargoh Pointe. The Elders kept many of their more powerful spell books in these three villages, making them very strategic territories. Fortunately, what Black Orcs have in strength and ferocity, they lack in brains. In other words, we had time on our side.
Fighting orcs is a lot like facing off with Capone or Moran and their boys. You go in with a simple strategy: Hit these bastards with everything you got. We planned a full charge on these border villages, starting with Chi-ya-Nah because their libraries’ spell books would prove to be the most dangerous if read by the wrong set of peepers.
I was fighting alongside this human by the name of Kev, a swordsman with whom I had two big things in common: We both enjoyed an evenly matched fight on the battlefield and a passion for our favorite weapons. Kev took his broadsword technique seriously, often needling me with his remarks that a battle-axe was best used for chopping wood. (I always fired back that broadswords made for great back-scratchers.)
So, we made a bet before this great push: Whoever killed the most orcs would buy the drinks afterwards. We kept score during the fighting, and Kev could not help but be impressed by my numbers. I’ll admit I was having a particularly good day. My battle-axe was cutting down orcs like wheat at harvest time.
We remained neck-and-neck through most of the battle, the rain showing no sign of letting up. The bad weather was actually driving us harder, I think. By now, I had taken down my twentieth orc, and was really getting into the love of the kill. So, I started to showboat a bit. Twirling my axe in one hand or swinging it around my body before striking an oncoming orc was for no one’s benefit other than mine.
This showboating would normally get a laugh from Kev, but I didn’t hear a lot of anything going on right then outside of my own private euphoria. As my axe hit orc number 25, I felt a guttural cry tear through my throat, already tasting the beer that would be free all night.
That was when the axe disappeared. It just wasn’t there anymore. By the Fates, how could I be disarmed? This made no sense! I was unstoppable. I was untouchable.
I was wide open.
The axe was still lodged in the fat orc’s gut. He was losing plenty of blood, but he hadn’t lost all of his fight. With a single turn of his torso, I’d lost my weapon. And after that, this weird tingling swept across my side. I remained on my feet, suspended by sheer will and perhaps a hint of fascination that this dimwit had actually disarmed me!
Kev’s scream sounded as if it were coming from a million leagues away as he buried his broadsword into that beast’s chest, his grace reminiscent of Hack Wilson diving for a high fly ball and catching it tight in his mitt. There was a slow fluidity to Kev’s movements that was just beautiful to behold.
By the time the hilt reached its chest, the orc dropped hard into the mud. So had I. I don’t doubt our simultaneously drop looked like a pair of marionettes after their strings were cut. I was now aware of the rain, because the drops hitting my face made me wince. When the thrill of the kill finally faded, I noticed the orc’s claws. Now what was an orc doing with claws? After staring at them a little longer, I eventually figured out the claws were his weapons—metal gauntlets with fingertips filed to fine points and edges, capable of doing some damage.
Then I looked back down to my side. It all came to me in that moment. Pain. Awareness. Anger.
Yeah, anger. I could not believe how stupid I had been.
Hard to believe that wasn’t even ten years ago by this realm’s calendar. The Great War of The Races had been going on for so long, it was easy to lose track of time when it came to battles like those. Yet that particular memory remained crystal-clear, leaving me to wonder whether these goose bumps covering my skin were coming from the cold or this unscheduled journey back into my past.
I retraced my scars, tasting the icy water as it trickled from my head, down my temple, and eventually into the corners of my mouth. Those scars were a reminder of how dangerous having an attitude can be. I had gotten lucky that day, and I was even luckier tonight.
Those scars also reminded me of friends like Kev. Damn, I wonder what that big blonde knucklehead is up to these days.
The towel didn’t do much to warm me up—bad news for my mace and stones, which had shriveled up and were making the walk across the flop a little uncomfortable. I crawled into bed, letting the warmth of my blankets bring me down from my rush. Silently staring at the ceiling, my eyes followed a hairline crack that began at the light fixture and disappeared into the shadows. I must’ve followed that crack back and forth a hundred times. Better than counting sheep.
I still couldn’t believe I’d managed to con safe passage out of Alfonse Capone’s lair…after entering a pact with him, no less! If Capone and I had been talking about a shipment of booze or gambling profits, I wouldn’t be taking a shower—I’d be taking a nice long bath in the Chicago River.
What I had going for me—my upper hand on Capone’s battlefield, if you will—was knowing his unknown. He knew guns and knives, sure, but swords? Maybe he’d read about them in storybooks, but something told me he didn’t spend a lot of time in the tomes. Nevertheless, he was smart enough to know that he was in need of an expert, and one look at me in the newspapers told him that I was his man.
&nb
sp; For years, I had resented being a dwarf in this realm because I was out of place and disadvantaged everywhere I went. Tonight, it saved my ass.
Gradually, the thoughts and recollections of the evening faded save for one: Somewhere in Chicago, the Sword of Arannahs waited for a wielder—a true wielder. Benny’s crime scene was a rock dragon-sized clue that a “worthy” opponent had gotten his mitts on it, all right. However, the lack of similar deaths since then left me to wonder if the Sword was up for grabs again, or if its current keeper was having trouble controlling its power.
One thing was clear: Once that magic was effectively harnessed, it would be anyone’s ball game as to what would happen next.
I hadn’t found anything in My World Book yet about just how meek you had to be to command the Sword, or how exactly the Sword would call upon the forces of Darkness—only flowery allusions to what it would leave in its wake. (Like I really needed reminders.) Tomorrow, My World Book was going to stay in its hiding place. I needed to walk the path of captains and corporals who wanted to be kings.
*****
Nuzzled deep in the Southside was this hole-in-the-wall Italian bistro, widely considered to be the only place in Chicago for a cappuccino. (Now I like a strong cup of java as much as the next guy, but this stuff reminded me of the venom that marsh slugs spit on unwanted intruders. These crazy Italians were drinking it to get a swift kick in the ass!)
There was nothing unique about this little family-run shop: Traffic in and out of this coffee shop was steady, the suits coming in and out were all in a hurry, and I didn’t note a lot of friendly chitchat going on between the customers and crew. There was, however, a checkmark next to this place in Benny’s memo pad, which is why yours truly was there to check it out.
Enduring the usual round of stares, I hopped up in a chair and perused the modest menu. (The menu was in Italian, so I just pretended to know what it said.) Meanwhile, I felt myself waking up just from the fumes of cappuccino wafting in my direction.
A hefty Italian mama fixed her beady little eyes on me. “Littah man, wha’ you wan’ dis mornin’?”
Blunt. To the point. Something to be said about these Italians.
“Never been here before, ma’am.” Ah, the Baddings charm, at work so early in the morning. Damn, I’m good. “But my friend Benny loves the coffee here.”
On dropping that name, I held her undivided attention, even with the hustle and bustle going on around her.
“He described this kind of coffee he got here,” I went on, “but I don’t think I’m awake enough to pronounce it. It’s…ummm…cap of…cap-poo…?”
She nodded. “Yeah, I know wha’ you wan’. I’ll-a make it for ya reel niiice.”
I watched Mama with a falcon’s stare as she muttered something in her native tongue to a kid standing next to her—probably some second cousin or nephew trained to jump when this battle horse whinnied. Mama then ducked into the back room while this young apprentice worked his magic behind a mechanical cauldron.
Now that’s disappointing. Here I thought Mama was-a gonna make it-a reeeeal niiiice, but then she disappears into the storeroom instead? At this busy time? Then again, even with the bistro as busy as it was, a few seconds is all she would need to tell someone to scram harder than a gnome when slave traders hit the groves.
Following this early-a.m. hunch of mine, I slipped off my chair (since it was busy, no one heard my feet hit the floor) and quietly made for the door.
Very few alleyways allowed access to the back of this joint, so my time was short. Moving as fast as my little dwarven legs would carry me, I took a pass-through and emerged into a wide alleyway behind the Southside shops, a place for deliveries and trash. Along with a few alley cats, I observed crates of different produce stacked behind what should have been the grocery. I caught the scent of fresh bread coming from another doorway. The bakery.
Then, with the same effect as downing fire whiskey brewed by Mountain Crossbloods, I was knocked back a step by a whiff of freshly ground coffee beans. A back door flew open a few feet away, soon followed by the sound of rapid-fire Italian. My big bistro mama was whapping some kid against the back of his head—a kid far too old to be working in a coffee house. Maybe if he were a few years younger, I could see him helping out his mama when the hired help couldn’t make it, but his street clothes had seen a lot of hard work elsewhere. Whether that work was legitimate remained to be seen.
I didn’t understand what they were saying to one another, but I still understood them perfectly. From his shrug-responses to mama’s railings, he didn’t see the big deal in a little guy coming in to the bistro for a cup of Italian java, and she wasn’t too crazy about anyone asking questions about a dead mobster. It came as no surprise to me that he stayed outside when the conversation—and the door—came to a close.
“Yeah, my mother always won the arguments in my family, too.”
He looked my way, looked down the other way, and then ran. Why do these mooks always run?
I removed a lid from the trash can next to me and gave it a good, solid hurl. Watching the lid’s trajectory reminded me of why I didn’t really like discus-style weapons in my world. I’m horrible at throwing anything outside of an axe. Between my lousy release and the ill-timed breeze, the lid sailed up high above him before dropping like a stone. Even so, I was still blessed with a bit of the Fates’ Luck: After landing on its edge, the lid continued to roll fast enough to catch up with my mark, trapping itself between his legs. He fell hard to the ground before skidding to a stop.
At the present time, Beatrice stayed snug as a bug in her holster. This guy was not high enough on the Capone food chain to warrant such attention. I wasn’t going to give him a chance to get up, though, placing my foot between his shoulder blades and keeping him pinned to the ground.
“Good morning, pal. My name’s Billi. What’s yours?”
“M-M-Mario,” he stammered.
This is Mario as in Mario Pezza, a mook from Benny’s list I’d never met before. What do you know? A name had survived up till now without a star or a line through it.
“So, you understand English. You speak English, too?”
“Well, yeah. I’m an American. Whadya t’ink I’m gonna speak? French?”
I gave a chortle of approval. “Finally, an Italian who bleeds red, white, and blue. Smart boy…but not so smart that you couldn’t say no to Benny Riletto?”
The kid groaned and looked down the alleyway. I could see in his face his longing to have been just two steps faster. “Benny told me he had a lot goin’ fa him,” he finally got out. “Said I could get a piece a’ da action if I helped him out.”
“And how were you, not even a two-bit hood, helping him out?”
Mario moved as if to get up, but I pushed my heel a little harder in between his shoulder blades. He sank back down into the alleyway asphalt. (Well, he just said he wanted a piece of Benny’s action; now, just like Benny, Mario was getting a good back-alley grilling from The Gryfennos Kid. He couldn’t say his mentor didn’t deliver on at least one front.)
“Deah was dis package Benny had,” he reluctantly began. “Said it was important. Said we hadta keep it movin’ at all times. So dat’s what we did. Benny’d call me at da bistro, lemme know da when and wheah, and den we’d make da switch.”
“Well, ain’t that a cozy arrangement?” I lifted my foot off Mario’s back and hauled him up by the cuff of his vest to a sitting position. The shove I gave him against the brick wall was a reminder not to try and make another run for it.
“Now, how ’bout you tell me who’s ‘we’? Are you talking like the royal ‘we’? Think you’re the heir apparent to a throne or something?”
“Nah, nah, nah. Dis ain’t a single-man job. I’m part of a crew now. A coupla guys, y’know?”
I gave Mario another hard shove against his forehead, bouncing his skull against the wall. “If I knew that,” I barked, “I wouldn’t be asking, now would I! Are you being a wiseguy because
I’m a dwarf?”
Mario looked at me blankly. I gave his forehead another push, his skull knocking against the bricks a second time.
“I said, are you being a wiseguy because I’m a dwarf?”
“Nah-nah-nah, I’m—”
“No!” I snapped, shutting him up. “You’re not doing much right now apart from keeping out of sight and hoping Capone doesn’t come knocking down your mama’s door! So just be happy I’m here instead of Capone’s boys. Now let’s try again. Who is ‘we’?”
This is usually the point of the investigation where I’m going beyond giving out headaches. Right now, I’d be busting noses or handing out the odd black eye. Just part of the job—a part of the job that, on some occasions, I don’t mind so much. But I could see that little Mario here had a bit of the mage in him from the way he was tuning in to all my silent warnings. Weighing the look in my eye, the arched brow, a slight tilt of my head, he knew if he wanted to walk out of this alley without looking like a wild boar’s half-eaten lunch, his next words needed to be the ones I wanted to hear.
“Jus’ a coupla guys I work wit,” he replied with a shrug, his voice reaching that higher register of nervousness. “Jimmy Hill, Tommy Ross, an’ some guy I didn’ know…Chuck something.”
“Chuck Morris?”
Mario nodded. “Dat’s da guy!”
“And lemme guess…you all worked with Two Times and Benny.”
Suddenly, he went quiet like the good little soldier he was. I don’t know if Mario could handle an interrogation from the Black Guard of Hannerith, but he was planning to go the distance with me. This kid possessed a fair measure of strength, stamina, and loyalty. What a waste to dedicate all that to a couple of orc-shits like Riletto and DeMayo. Though to be fair, he didn’t have a clue that all this loyalty and dedication was to be rewarded with a bullet with his name on it.
