They were all humans out this night. During the mornings and afternoons of the past week, Ingrge had noted a scattering of elves, dwarves, and gnomes — larger cities seemed to attract a variety of races. But in the evenings, those folk kept to themselves and stayed in the city’s “foreign district,” leaving the streets to the predominant population. Ingrge smiled thinly—in another time and place he’d been human, too, a disc jockey at an oldies country western station, playing Loretta Lynn and Willie Nelson late into the night.
“Whiskey River,” he said, recalling the “handle” he used in place of his real name — James Ritchie. The sadness of fond recollections passed across his narrow, angular face, and he felt a pang in his stomach, an ache not for food, but for home. “James Ritchie, lastly of Daytona Beach. Forty-two steps to the sand from my back door. Fifty-seven to the ocean. What I wouldn’t give for a swim right now.”
The buildings he passed were adequately kept up, a mix of one-and two-story weathered structures that were made of logs and sawed planks, mudded and nailed together and decorated with shutters, trim, and with painted window boxes that held the dried remains of the past summer’s flowers. The buildings were neither large, nor impressive, nor were they particularly well made, Ingrge noted. The ones in the merchant’s district and the wealthier part of the city were more impressive, many of them made of stone with scalloped slate roofs. Ingrge, Yevele, and Wymarc had spent little time in those quarters, as in their current dress and with their current lack of funds, they were woefully out of place.
So Ingrge told himself that this section of the city suited them better anyway, and that the people—though they dressed plainly and in drab tones—were actually more colorful here. The sounds of this neighborhood were certainly more interesting, and concentrating on them helped him shake off his thoughts of Florida. His keen elven ears picked up Wymarc trying to talk to Yevele, who at the moment was saying nothing.
"Yevele, do you think Deav Dyne’s right? That we may well be stuck here?” Wymarc shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "Some part of me always thought it would be great fun to live in this time, in a place like this. High fantasy, dragons and damsels and dungeons. But that part didn’t know how dangerous this would be. And how . . . broke . . . we’d be here. How truly rotten living conditions would be. The filth and stink. Do you think we're stuck?”
Yevele made a noncommittal grunt.
“All of us played the game, you know. Not all together, though. None of us from the same city, none of us knowing each other before we came here. But it was something about the game that brought us.” The bard jangled his gem-dice bracelet for effect. “I know it was those special figures my game master got that last night. So fine, they were. Who knew that . .
"I don’t know if we’ll be stuck here,” Yevele finally said. "I don’t know if we’ll be here for a day, for a year, for the rest of our lives. I don’t know. And you know that I don’t know. So stop prattling about it.”
“Where are you from?”
She didn’t answer him.
“You never told us. I’m from North Carolina, High Point. Originally from Chapel Hill. Name was Lloyd back there.” Wymarc sounded wistful. “Lloyd Collins. I was an actuary. Am an actuary. Had a wife . . . have a wife, two boys, girl from a previous marriage, a big gray cat. My wife played the game sometimes, too. But she wasn’t there the night we had the new miniatures. She took the kids to the carnival. Lucky for her. It’s all still a little fuzzy, like a dream, and — ” “You’ve told me this before.”
“Yeah, I know. But where are you from? You never told us. We didn’t get our memories back until we were at that keep.”
“Quag Keep.”
“Yep, and to think I didn’t know who I really was until then. To think I believed that I was this bard named Wymarc.”
“You are a bard named Wymarc. Here anyway.”
“Yes, Yevele, but — ”
She stopped for a moment, and Wymarc nearly slammed into her. She turned and looked over her shoulder. “Canberra,” she said. “If it’s that important to you. Susan Spencer. A curator at the war museum there.”
“Canberra?”
“Australia. Where I’m from.”
“Oh. You don’t have an accent like you’re from Australia.”
The air hissed out from between her clenched teeth. “And you don’t have an accent like you’re an American, a twang like I figure someone would have from North Carolina. We sound like the people here.” She paused: “Because we are people here.” Yevele started walking again.
“And I bet you wouldn’t be upset if we were stuck here,” Wymarc said. The words were whispered, but Ingrge managed to hear them. “I think you like it here, Susan Spencer. War museum, huh? No wonder you’re good with weapons.”
“I handled the World War I exhibits, Gallipoli, the Royal Flying Corps.”
“Oh. Hey, Mad Max was filmed in . . .”
Susan glared, obviously not a Mel Gibson fan. Much softer: “You didn’t leave a family behind, did you, Susan? Bet you didn’t leave anybody.”
Ingrge mused that Yevele still hadn’t revealed much about herself, perhaps wanting to retain some secrets. He heard the sharp intake of her breath as she picked up her pace. Then the elf heard music coming from above and behind him, dissonant and unrhythmic, as if someone was just learning to play an instrument. A woman’s soft laughter was spilling out a nearby window; this Ingrge found considerably more pleasing. He tried to imagine what the woman might look like, and what she was finding amusing.
Suddenly the angry tromp of heavy boots and a door slamming drew the elf’s attention. He stepped away Irom the side of a building and toward the middle of the street so he could better see who was making the noise. For an instant he thought it might be Naile, as the man had some size to him. The man was stomping down a wooden walkway on the opposite side of the street, swinging his arms and muttering about a ruined evening. When the man stepped under a lantern, the elf saw it wasn’t Naile after all, it was a shorter and thinner fellow, and one who had the slight stagger of being drunk. The man glanced across the street at Yevele and Wymarc, glanced at the elf, then clumsily ducked into the next tavern he came to. Conversations buzzed out the door of the place.
A handful of minutes later, Yevele and Wymarc stepped into a tavern, too. This one was a little farther down the street and called the Golden Tankard. Ingrge studied the street outside briefly, wondered at the lack of raucous noise coming Irom the Tankard, and then after a few more moments joined his companions inside.
It looked like a war had been fought in the one-room tavern. Broken tables, benches, and chairs; smashed mugs and plates; spilled dinners; pools of ale and blood — all of it littered the floor. A stout serving girl was on her hands and knees, picking up shards of pottery and tossing them in a metal pail, cursing with every gesture. Another girl was inspecting broken chair legs, and putting pieces beyond repair in the fireplace. A third was sweeping up around the bar, behind which stood a balding man who was wiping blood off his careworn face.
Yevele walked to the center of the room, the hard soles of her boots crunching pieces of plates into the floor. The stout girl scowled at her, but said nothing. Yevele turned slowly, taking everything in, then she locked eyes with the barkeep.
"What . . .”
“. . . happened here?” He set a bloody towel on the bar and shook his head. “What do you think happened here, woman? A fight. The likes of which I haven’t seen since . . . well, the likes of which I’ve never seen. And in my place." He slammed his hand down hard on the bar. “My place!”
Yevele set her fists against her hips. Her eyes flashed a mix of ire and exasperation. “We were to meet two men here tonight.’’
He slapped his hand on the bar again before she could continue. “There were plenty of men here tonight. And all of them ended up fighting.”
The woman sorting through the chair legs cleared her throat. “Except the few lucky ones who sc
ampered out the door before things got real bad.”
"Got real bad, real fast." This from the girl on the floor.
“Ruined my place,” the barkeep added. “Just ruined it.”
“Awwww, you’ll be open again tomorrow night,” said the girl sorting chair legs. ‘‘Most folks’ll just have to stand is all. Have to get you a new singer. One without a broken jaw and busted ribs."
“Ruined my place.”
“The two men we intended to meet,” Yevele persisted.
“I know where they are.” This came from the tavern entrance.
Yevele, Wymarc, and Ingrge spun to see a man standing just inside the doorway. He was dressed all in black, and the fire that crackled and lanterns that burned around the room only made his clothes seemed darker, as if they were absorbing all the light that touched them.
Ingrge dropped his hand to a dagger sheathed at his side, fingers wrapping around the pommel, but not tugging it free. “I’d like to see who we’re talking to, ” the elf said.
The figure nodded. “Fair enough." Thin, elegant hands edged out lrom the ends of the impossibly black sleeves, reached up and pushed back a hood.
Wymarc gasped at the sight, but Yevele and Ingrge managed to keep their faces as stoic as masks.
The man had a moon-shaped face and large, dark green eyes that were set under a heavy brow that shadowed them. His nose was hawkish, his lips overly thin and tinged blue. His most striking feature was his shaved head, which was tattooed with a myriad of colorful sigils and runes. The designs spread down the sides of his neck and disappeared into the black tunic that hung on his thin frame. A few small ones were on the backs of his hands.
He swept into the room, impossibly black cloak billowing around him, and he stopped directly in front of Ingrge.
“Unusual to see an elf in this part of the city at night. I wonder what brings one of your kind — ”
“Our friends,” Yevele interrupted. “You claim to know the whereabouts of the two men we seek. ”
“And just who are you?” Wymarc cut in.
“Fisk Lockwood," the black-garbed man quickly returned with a slight bow. “I am a humble priest of Glothorio the Coin Gatherer.”
“And how does a humble priest know who we look for?” Ingrge asked.
“Two men, as you mentioned," the bald man said. “Both impressive-looking scoundrels, one civilized, the other wild and with a long beard. ”
“Milo and Naile," Wymarc supplied with a nod.
“Them two!” This came from the barkeep. “They’re what started the fight. That one with the beard, the regulars said he was the one that threw the first punch! ”
The bald priest looked to Yevele now.
“So, Fisk Lockwood, where are they, our friends?" she asked. Her eyes glimmered with impatience.
“That information is going to cost you, ” he returned.
The barkeep shuffled over. “Cost them two ruffians, as well. Like I said, they started the fight. They ruined my place. And they're going to have to pay for all the damages.”
FOUR
Pain And Jail
Milo groaned, the mournful sound echoed by Naile, who lay curled against him.
“Where are we?” Milo tried to sit up. Instead, he managed to roll over and bump painfully into the wall. He grabbed his aching head, searched through the shadows, and decided the surroundings were too awful to look at. Closing his eyes, he groaned again.
“We’re in jail,” Naile answered loudly, adding to the pain thumping above Milo’s eyes. “We’re in hell. Truly no place could be worse than this. Can’t sleep, all the noise, the stench, and that doubledamned torch in the hall doesn’t ever go out. Hell. Don’t you remember getting tossed in here?”
“Don’t want to remember. Just want my head to stop pounding. Hell, huh?” Milo wasn’t going to argue that notion. Some part of him thought he’d went straight there that night he picked up the enchanted miniature and was spirited away from the game and sent to . . . to . . . here.
Wherever this medieval realm was. There were none of the amenities civilization should have.
No running water.
He swallowed hard, finding his tongue swollen and his throat parched, the inside of his mouth tasting like spiced ale, a taste he now loathed.
So thirsty.
He craved something so simple and beautiful as water running — when you turned the tap, cupping your hands under it, splashing your face, taking a steaming bubble bath and wrapping a big beach towel around your waist as you shuffled to the bedroom to get dressed.
Cold water, hot water.
Clean, wonderful water.
So very, very much he’d taken tor granted . . . and all of that had been taken from him. That small one-bedroom apartment where he kept all his stuff and retreated to every night—that was heaven. And this was hell all right, Milo decided. Whatever had he done to deserve this?
He’d been no saint, certainly, but he'd done nothing to hurt anyone or anything, never stolen or . . . and at the tavern he’d broken bones and ruined furniture, and all because he didn’t want Naile to give up his seat. His other self—hit real self—wouldn’t have punched someone, wouldn’t have even been in such a place and wouldn't have gulped down so much of the now-horrid-tasting ale. His other self might have led a boring life in comparison to this, but he wanted to be that man again — not as strong as his Milo-self, not as handsome, but better, happy, and for the most part satisfied —driving the rusted car to the cineplex.
He wanted the blessed, simple, incredible life. The seats were theater-style there, so you could see the screen unobstructed. They rocked a little, and the backs were just high enough so you could tip your head up or down without hurting your neck. The place was rundown just a bit, but in better repair than absolutely anything he’d seen in this world, the gum-covered, soda-covered floor that pulled at the soles of his tennis shoes more sanitary than any stretch of ground he’d walked across in this city. It was a good life he had in Wisconsin, and he was missing it with a passion he hadn’t known himself capable of. Milo felt tears forming at the corners of his eyes, so fiercely he was longing for his old self. . . his real life. He brushed the tears away with the back of his hand. Could it be possible this was all some nightmare, and that he really was back in Wisconsin? His body anyway. Had he been in a car accident, hooked up to tubes in a hospital? Was he dreaming all ot this?
Plea.if, God, let me be dreaming, he prayed.
Naile had been talking, but Milo missed some ol it. He focused through the pounding in his temples and decided no dream would feel this real.
"If Alfreeta was here, she’d get us out ol this.” Naile struggled to sit up, crossed his legs and let his back slam against a cold stone wall. Under them, the floor was likewise stone, but it was coated with a grime of grease so thick it felt as if they sprawled on a soggy carpet. No stools nor beds, they were forced to sit in the muck. Naile judged the cell was roughly five leet square, with a ceiling that stretched up only a little more than that. Naile knew that neither he nor Milo could stand upright in it.
Shadows were everywhere, the faint light that filtered in through a half-barred door kept them at bay only in the center ot the room. The light helped make it hell, Naile explained . . . not letting you see everything, but forcing you to see just enough. "And not letting it get dark enough to sleep, not that you ’d want to sleep here.”
The place stank — of the two men who had been too long without a bath and a change of clothes; of urine and worse; of rats, living and dead; and of fuzzy clumps near the door that Naile suspected were meals the former occupants, and the rats, had passed over. There were no windows to the outside, so no fresh air wafted in. The only openings were the spaces between the iron bars on the door. The faint, oily scent of fat-soaked torches drifted in — plainly thickened with the stench seeping out of other similar cells and from their inhabitants.
Naile’s stomach churned from all the horrid odors, and from too much
ale he’d drank on an empty stomach. Last night? Was it last night he and Milo had been pulled from the Golden Tankard by the city watch? Or was this still the same night? No outside window, he couldn’t see the sky to guess.
His head pounded fiercely, and he ached from hunger — neither of those things would help him mark the passage of time. He did not at all feel rested.
“Any idea. . .
“. . . what time it is?” Milo finished for him. “Not a clue. Ugh, but this place stinks. I’ve never smelled anything so awful. So utterly disgusting and awful.” He made a gagging sound and pushed himself up on his elbows. “Ugh, what’s on the floor?”
“I don’t want to know,” Naile returned. “And you don’t want to know, either."
Milo sat against the opposite wall, bent over with his head resting on his hands. “I feel . . . awful. Just awful.”
“It was the ale.”
“And the fight.” Milo’s words were muffled in his hands. “We should have beat them, you know. All of them. We were stronger and bigger.”
“There were too many of them.”
“Still . . . all you had to do was — ”
“I’d thought about it,” Naile said. “But then I heard the whistle, and the city watch came. Thought about fighting the watch, too, but only for a moment.”
“There were a lot of them, the city watch. If I remember right.” “And they had swords. We had to leave ours at the door of the tavern.” Naile paused. “I wonder if we’ll get them back?”
Milo let out a clipped laugh. “I wonder if we’ll get out of here. I don’t suppose they have lawyers here. Or due process. Bail.” Another laugh. “Bail. Now that’s a sorry thought. We didn’t have any coins to pay our way at the Golden Tankard. Wonder how we’ll pay our way out of this?”
Naile growled.
“Don’t worry, Naile, we will get out of this. We have to.”
Milo stood and let out a sharp cry when his head cracked against the ceiling. He promptly sat down again. “Now this is torture. Sticking us in this stink box. Can’t stand up. Can’t hardly breathe. Don’t know what time it is, how long we’ve been here.’’ He looked to the small window. “Hey! Anybody out there! Yoooo hooooooo!” “Shaddup! Some of us ’re trying to sleep!”
Greyhawk - [Quag Keep 02] - Return to Quag Keep Page 3
