Her friend Grellen chuckled.
Drelm was about to object to the comment, then saw Elyana's smile, wickedly confident.
"Spoken like a veteran. Good. I'm glad you have no illusions. None of us should have. I have seen your skills at work, and I've consulted with those of you with additional talents. And I've been formulating some plans."
What then followed was an in-depth discussion of the sort of details that pleased Drelm most: tactics. After only a short while it was clear even to Marika and Karag that Elyana knew her business, and for the next hour and a half she introduced various situations and how best they could deploy their forces in those circumstances. Whenever one of the others, like Calvonis or Marika, would suggest something Elyana seemed not to have considered, she would immediately suggest a counter, or a slightly different arrangement of squads, so that Drelm could not be certain whether she had already thought of the matter or was just incredibly quick on her feet. Knowing her as well as he did, he knew both were possible.
Finally Elyana dismissed them to find lunch and stretch their legs, ordering them to meet again at the keep come afternoon to practice working together.
Drelm turned down an invitation to join Grellen and Marika for lunch, but pointed them toward the best inn in town, then left the keep in good spirits.
Immediately outside the wall, though, he found the young man and the woman in the scarlet robe he'd disqualified that morning. Both crowded forward.
"Captain Drelm," the young man said with a bow. "I hope you will indulge me. I would like another word with you."
Drelm frowned. "You're not ready for this kind of venture. Neither of you." He started past.
"Won't you at least listen?" the girl demanded shrilly.
"I have already judged," Drelm said, simply. "It's too dangerous for you."
"But we've got to come with you!" The girl tugged at his arm and Drelm struggled against baring his teeth in a full scowl.
Her face was twisted in anguish. "My brother and I swore we'd kill the monster! It killed our parents, and our uncle, and our baby brother. I know my brother's not that practiced, but he's very quick, and he's a fine woodsman. And I know magic. You have but the one wizard!"
"No," Drelm told her.
The girl still clung to his arm. Her brother watched behind her, pimply face mournful in despair.
"We'll do anything," she insisted. "You need people to help carry things, don't you? And don't you need people to cook? I can cook. And my brother knows the woods, he can hunt—"
"No." Drelm showed more teeth as he repeated the word again. He didn't understand why that word was so unclear.
She raised shaking hands just shy of Drelm's chest, as if she were resisting an impulse to grab and shake him.
Drelm sighed. "You didn't qualify. You would die. Your brother would die. Or get in the way so more of us die." Drelm deplored weakness, although a sad woman always engendered a protective spark with him, so he added just a little more. "We will kill the thing," he promised. "Don't worry. Stay safe, and pray for us."
He ignored the final sob and strode off down the street. Rejected applicants and the curious looked out from storefront porches.
People needed to better understand their destined roles. The boy might make a decent warrior, but now was not the time, and this was not a campaign for seasoning the green. Only veterans would return. And the girl needed to go set up a potions shop or work magic in the farm fields. She was no huntswoman.
As he rounded the corner Drelm discovered a small crowd had gathered about a black-robed figure on the steps of Delgar's largest inn, the Rambling Badger. Drelm frowned, slowing his step to look over the situation.
Ten people were arranged in an arc below the wooden porch now serving as an impromptu stage, staring fixedly at the robed figure in its iron mask.
Drelm knew by sight that the fellow was the new Razmiri priest. They always wore iron masks. Usually they wore gray robes, but this one, for some reason, was in black.
Drelm halted to learn whether the man was trying to incite trouble or violence. Like a lot of priests, though, he was preaching the opposite.
"...is not the answer," he was saying in a high, piercing voice. "You can no more kill this kind of monster than you can wield a sword against a flood, or wrestle the winter wind. No!" The figure raised one pale hand toward the overhang above him. "If you desire safety, you must pledge your heart to Razmir, the living god. He who walks still upon Golarion!"
There was considerably more in this vein, but Drelm had already lost interest. He lingered just long enough to decide that no one was apt to start throwing rocks or fighting as a result of anything the Razmiri said, which was all he really cared about.
He'd heard of Razmir—it was hard not to have heard of the living god, because his priests were all over the River Kingdoms, and had even built a temple in Delgar—but Drelm had no real interest in any god but Abadar. He was willing to accord most gods his respect, but any god that preached fearful, bovine obedience rather than right-minded balance, which Drelm took to mean appropriate steps at the appropriate time, struck him as unworthy of attention. Anyone who thought their god would personally protect them against the beast was a fool, but that was their lookout, not Drelm's. He could protect the people of Delgar from a lot of things, but not from being stupid.
He moved off.
Drelm hadn't encountered the beast personally since it had killed Melloc, but he had come upon its massacres twice—the torn and mangled bodies, the smashed homes, the scattered limbs. Grown men had died with their swords unbloodied. Only a handful reported ever laying a blow against the thing, or witnessing one, and only one other apart from Illidian and Elyana and himself had seen blood. But then, mostly the creature attacked at night, and most survivors only relayed that it was invisible.
Now, though, they would have their force, and put the monster down, and then he would be free to marry the woman Abadar had placed within his path and filled with love for him. Daylah. She was almost through her mourning for Melloc. He would kill the beast, avenge his friend, and then take the woman to wife.
Even now she waited for him with a meal she would have insisted upon preparing, for she took special pleasure in readying his food. She would understand that his duties had delayed him. He did not know how he had become so blessed—
His attackers timed their movement perfectly, for at the same time that he heard a scuff behind him, he saw two figures slide into the side street ahead. No bandit would be foolish enough to assault him in this town; it was obvious even to him that these men were after something else.
Drelm slipped quickly to the left, drawing his throwing axe as the crossbow bolt intended for his throat struck his armored shoulder. He scarcely felt its bite.
The two in front loped forward, cloaks spilling open as they pulled short swords. The one on the right had a near lipless mouth that formed a ring of surprise in the moment before Drelm's axe embedded in his face. He dropped like a stone even as Drelm whirled with his second throwing axe. One of the two assailants who'd come from behind led slightly, and it was this one who caught the axe in his chest and doubled up, his sprawl setting his companion stumbling. Drelm spun forward once more, pulling up his largest axe.
But that attack came to a sudden end with a single crack of thunder. A red and bloody hole appeared just above the man's nose, and he sank to the ground.
Drelm grunted. Abadar be praised—it was the markswoman's work. He'd seen her shooting and knew the sound and the kind of holes her attacks left. Where she was now he could not see and did not care.
He spun to face the final assailant.
Robe belling behind him, the wiry fellow rushed forward with twin swords, eyes slitted.
Drelm showed his fangs in a roar. He didn't wait for the attack, for an axe is a poor defensive weapon and Drelm lacked patience. He came forward swinging.
The human ducked his first blow and stabbed furtively. The sword glanced off D
relm's armor. The captain caught the second strike on the haft of his axe, where it scored the leather beside his thumb.
Drelm kicked out, but the swordsman sidestepped and came in low. Drelm took the strike on an armored elbow, then crashed through a weak guard. The axe bit through the man's shoulder blade and neck. Blood rained. His opponent sagged, vomiting blood and screaming until Drelm finished him with a blow to the head.
The battle had been invigorating, and Drelm smiled in satisfaction. It was only after that he frowned, realizing he'd have to delay his visit to Daylah until he'd cleaned up. Only a little of the blood had stained his clothing, but it wouldn't do to show up with droplets of it on his gauntlets, arms, and tabard. He'd discovered high-society women didn't approve of that sort of thing. After Melloc's death, Daylah had been unduly worried every time he rode out on patrol. What would she say if he wandered in to eat with her looking like this?
As he scanned the street for further opponents he saw the markswoman, walking slowly down the side street while reloading her rifle.
"Friends of yours?" she asked.
Drelm bent and wiped his axe blade on the cloak of the man at his feet. He then kicked the body over and considered the fellow's face. "Never saw this one before."
He walked back and forth between them, the markswoman keeping pace, and considered each. None looked familiar. It wasn't the first time someone he didn't know had tried to kill him. "Galtans, probably. They send someone after me or Elyana every few months." He bent to retrieve his throwing axes, cleaning each in turn on the dead men.
The woman looked puzzled, then bent over the man Drelm had axed in the face. She seemed untroubled by the gruesome wound. "They don't look Galtan."
"The Galtans probably hired them," he said, then added: "That was a good shot. It saved me some time." He hadn't really needed the help, but he thought it would be polite to voice his appreciation.
Her answer was careless. "I was in the area. We need to get used to watching out for each other. What'd you do to anger the Galtans?"
"Long story," Drelm said. "And I'm already late. I'll have to change, now."
"Do you think there will be more of them?"
"Someday," Drelm answered. "They'll need better luck." He took note but withheld comment as the woman looted the men's coin purses. He grunted in appreciation when she turned them over to him.
"For the city coffers?" she asked.
"Always." He raised a hand in farewell, then trotted out of the alley. He'd send a patrol back to do something about the bodies.
By the time he'd told one of his men about the corpses and changed clothes, another half-hour had fled. He found Daylah waiting in the walled garden outside the wood-and-brick house where she lived with the lord mayor, just beside the keep.
She brightened as she rose from the bench, and Drelm was reminded anew how unreliable his memory was. When he was away, he recalled that she was beautiful, but whenever he was once more in her presence, it was as though he looked upon her again for the first time, like a man brought forth from a darkened cave into dazzling sunlight.
Daylah was small and lush, broad across the shoulders and hips, narrow through the waist. She was no fragile city-bred girl, but a buxom country lady with an unruly bob of blonde hair that she was constantly pushing from bright blue eyes. He forced a tight smile, because he knew he was intimidating when he showed all his teeth.
"I had started to worry," she told him. Daylah's voice was husky, though not at all unfeminine. She stepped forward and held his hands as he looked down at her, drinking her beauty in. She tossed her hair out of her eyes. "Is everything alright?"
"Just a little trouble in town. Nothing to worry about. We've weeded out the worst applicants. What is there to eat?"
She laughed. "The only details you like to hear are about food." She released his left hand and indicated the bench. She'd covered it over with a blue blanket, and a basket with wrapped foodstuffs sat on the other end. "Have a seat."
He chuckled a little at her. He preferred to hear about weapons and battles, but he liked that she took such pleasure in making his meals, so he indulged her while she displayed each item—the bread, the boiled eggs, the jams, the broiled fish. She was excited, too, about the Galtan wine she'd gotten from some river trader. Drelm had pretty much given up on all things Galtan, and disliked sweets, but he grunted in appreciation because he knew it would make her happy.
Once he was munching, she grew more reflective. "Did you find some good people?"
Drelm nodded. "I think they'll do."
"How long do you think it will take?"
He swallowed. "I can't say. But I will come back to you as soon as I can."
"For the food?" she asked with a faint smile.
"For your company. And the food," he added, to which she laughed gently. "Now tell me about the dress. Did you sort things out?"
"I'm surprised you're interested. I'd rather hear about the people you'll be hunting with."
He waved that away. "I would rather hear you talk."
"So you can eat?" she chided.
"So that I can remember your voice while I'm away."
Her expression softened then, and she touched his hand.
In truth, the details about her wedding dress were eye-glazing. Apparently there had been some kind of trouble about the cuffs and collar. There were three kinds of lace that would have suited, but the local dressmaker had used a fourth that Daylah thought the worst possible choice. Also she was thinking about redoing the neckline. It was very dull, but she was so pretty that he enjoyed watching her in motion as she spoke even about such things as this, for her face lit, and her hair moved, and she was pleasant to look upon from so many angles. It was a good life.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Six
New Friends
Lisette
The courtship was as boring as everything else about the half-orc. At the keep, Lisette had seen Drelm speak briefly with a man at the gate before unceremoniously turning over the coin purses she'd lifted off the assassins. She was positive Drelm hadn't put a stubby finger on a single one of the coins, which led her to believe he might really be as stupid as he seemed.
After that, Drelm had disappeared briefly into the keep to emerge in another clean tabard, the blood washed from his arms, hands, and face. He'd strode forth stiff-backed once more (no one could accuse him of bad posture), this time knocking at the wooden gate set in a high stone wall of one of the town's nicest homes—which really wasn't saying much.
Finding a good way to look in on his doings there had been tricky until Lisette realized there was a barn loft with a decent vantage point only a few hundred feet off. She was planted there now beside a hay bale, the loft door below the roof winch open just far enough for her to watch events.
And Drelm was as dull and respectable as dirt. Almost any other man she'd ever met would have had that plump and bosomy peaches-and-cream piece bent over a bench and moaning the moment the garden door shut, but Drelm was taking his lunch with her like a country squire.
Apparently the only important thing Lisette was going to learn about her quarry was that he was good in a fight, which she'd already guessed. Drelm probably hadn't needed her help in the side street, even outnumbered four to one. He had heard, seen, or smelled those four coming. She couldn't quite remember if half-orcs had a superior or inferior sense of smell. However he'd been alerted, he'd dispatched them with blazing efficiency—presumably by instinct, because there was little intellect or curiosity on display once he'd done the killing. He was like one of those trained monkeys people dressed up in clothes in the south. Someone had taught him civility, and so he went through all the motions, whether it be turning gold over to the authorities, slicing up your food, or—and this part amused her the most—keeping your wick dry until you reached the marriage bed. He hadn't even tried kissing the girl.
The galling thing had been shootin
g the Razmiri rather than the half-orc. It would have been an easy shot into Drelm's back, and she could have been out of the town before anyone asked any questions. But Avelis had hired her to carry out the job a certain way, and she meant to earn the rest of those gems, so she was resigned to carrying out his wishes. She hoped protecting Drelm from other assassins wouldn't be a regular part of the affair. Almost she had asked him why a Razmiri might want him dead, but after he'd dismissed the discussion of Galtans she didn't think she'd get anywhere with that line of questioning either. She'd found the little golden mask symbol around the neck of the one Drelm had axed in the face. Were Razmiri now sending assassins, or had an assassin simply taken up the faith?
The mayor might be able to tell her, but she wasn't about to approach him again. Bad enough that so many had seen her speak with him. The two had an explanation ready for that, should there be future inquiries. A second conversation would be more challenging to credulity if suspicion were ever raised that the mayor had hired her.
She would just have to handle it on her own.
That afternoon, the expedition members trained together and grew familiar with one another's capabilities. Lord Avelis watched much of the proceedings, and Lisette was amused to observe how close he stayed to Elyana. She couldn't tell if the attraction was mutual. The elf seemed all business, though she was unfailingly cordial with the mayor.
Elyana set the group working through tactics for well over three hours, long past the time for dinner, then had them sit down at a table with the Calistrian priestess, her acolyte, and a whole lot of papers. A larger settlement would have had bureaucrats on the payroll, but Delgar had only one, so the aging but still rather saucy priestess donated her time, being more educated than most. One by one the expedition members sat down to identify their next of kin so their earnings would be sent on if they failed to return.
Stalking the Beast Page 8
