by Robert Bevan
“All right already,” said Cooper. “Just get it to stop squawking. What do you want to know?”
“Sorry, Ravenus,” said Julian. “I was just kidding. He doesn't really want to hear your story. Myself, I'd love to hear it. We'll swap stories later.”
“Very good, Julian.”
“Why don't you go fly around and tell us if you spot anything alarming or interesting?”
“Of course,” said Ravenus, and flew away into the trees.
“It's really starting to creep me out how you keep talking to that bird.”
“So tell me more about Dave,” said Julian. “He's a priest or something?”
“He's a cleric,” said Cooper. “Like a holy warrior. He fights for his god. Think of him like a knight in the Crusades.”
“Fights against whom?”
“Anyone whose alignment opposes his god, I guess.”
“Alignment?”
“Good, evil, law, chaos, that sort of thing.”
“What alignment is Dave's god?”
“I don't know,” said Cooper with a hint of desperation in his voice. “You really should be asking him these questions. I'm a fucking barbarian. I can't read. I barely know my own name.”
“You can read your character sheet,” Julian argued.
“I think that works differently.”
“How so?”
“I don't think those character sheets are of this world. In fact, I don't think the conversation we're having right now is of this world.”
“I don't understand.”
“For example,” said Cooper. “Right now we are having a fairly intelligible conversation. Am I right?”
“Okay.”
“My character would be unable to have this conversation with someone of this world. I'm a fucking moron.”
“So why can you talk like this with me?”
“Because when we're just alone together, part of us is still us. When we interact with anything in this world, we are strictly our characters.”
“I still don't understand.”
“Let's do an experiment,” said Cooper.
“Okay.”
“Take this stick, and write a word in the dirt. I'll try to read it.”
Julian pursed his lips, took the stick from Cooper, and wrote the word 'cat' on the ground. When he was finished, he looked up at Cooper. “Well?”
“I have no fucking idea what that says.”
“Honestly?”
“No,” said Cooper. “I was lying because I thought my lack of literacy might impress you.”
Julian took his character sheet out of its tube, scanned through the spells listed on the back of it, and then held it up to Cooper, pointing to a word. “What does this say?”
“Prestidigitation,” said Cooper unhesitatingly.
“That's amazing!” said Julian.
“Not really,” said Cooper. “It actually kind of sucks. It's just a spell for performing little tricks, like at a kid's birthday party or something.”
“No,” said Julian. “It's amazing that you can read 'Prestidigitation' on my character sheet, but you can't read 'Cat' when I write it out on the ground.”
“You know, I was being sarcastic before when I said I was trying to impress you with my illiteracy.”
“Let's see how you do with math,” suggested Julian. “What do you get when you multiply...”
Chapter 7
Tim’s body was bouncing up and down when he woke up, surrounded by the sound of galloping hooves. His whole body ached, but his face was absolutely throbbing with pain. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth. One of his eyes was swollen shut. The other one might have been as well. It felt like it was opening, but no light was reaching it. He was in the dark. He noticed his hands were tied behind his back. There was only one explanation. He was lying face down on the back of a horse with a bag tied over his head.
Shit.
He moved his bound wrists together to get a feel for the rope, and grinned inside his bag. He would be able to get his hands free in a matter of seconds when he chose to. Not yet, though. Not at this speed. He didn't know what kind of damage he'd take from falling off a horse at full gallop, but imagined he could survive it. It was the other horses he heard right around him that he thought he probably wouldn't survive. They'd just trample right over him. Best to lie still until they slowed down. In the meantime, he would work out the rest of his escape plan in his head.
His circumstances didn’t allow for a whole lot of complexity. He’d free his hands, take the bag off of his head, hop off the horse, and… No. He would be spotted as soon as he freed his hands. He’d have to hop off the horse before he took the bag off of his head. It was risky, but he’d need as big a head start as he could get.
The horses pounded the earth beneath their hooves for what seemed to Tim like a very long time. But then, time tends to pass more slowly when one is tied up with their head in a bag. He went over his plan again and again in his head. Each time he re-visualized it, it seemed more and more plausible. By the time the horses actually slowed down, it seemed foolproof. He was a rogue. This was the sort of thing that rogues do. He had taken the Escape Artist skill, and the Stealthy feat. Also, he had the added stealth that came naturally with being a halfling. He was quick and nimble and hard to hit. Everything was working in his favor.
“Ho, there!” shouted the captain, and the gait of the horse he was riding on made the transition from gallop to trot to walk in less than ten seconds. Now was the time. He freed his hands with as little effort as he had expected to, and pushed himself backwards from the animal's back. He barely had the time to register the feel of his feet hitting the ground before he felt someone else's foot kick him squarely in the temple. Stars flashed inside the darkness of the bag, and then he once again entered the realm of complete darkness.
The next time he woke up, it was due to a splash of water on his face. It tasted like someone forgot to flush. He was unable to wipe it away, as he discovered that each of his arms was being held by a soldier on either side of him. His vision swam through the dirty water and focused on the bucket that it had presumably come from. The bucket was being held by a short, bald humanoid creature with dark yellow skin and rusty red eyes. He had a face like a bat, complete with a broad, flat, and turned-up nose, and giant pointed ears. He grinned at Tim, exposing a mouth half full of once-pointy teeth that had opted to just rot away rather than fall out like the other half had done. He was very short by human standards, only a little bit taller than Tim. The man behind him towered over both of them. It was Captain Righteous Justificus Blademaster. Nice to see a familiar face.
“Check him for hidden weapons,” ordered the captain. “Look closely for thieves' picks.” Tim had nothing on him that they hadn't already taken away.
After a very thorough search of his person turned up nothing of interest, the guards pushed Tim into a cell with a tiny barred window on the rear stone wall near the ceiling, presumably to remind the occupant that there was still a world full of sunshine outside which they would never be a part of again, and a small hole in the far corner carved through the stone floor, presumably for the occupant to shit in. His latter presumption was based on the corona of brown-stained stone surrounding the hole.
The iron-barred door clanged shut, and the little creature with the bat face turned a comically large key in a lock that Tim reckoned he could probably pick with a ship's oar. He then slunk down the hall and out of sight. Captain Righteous gave his subordinates a look, and they shuffled off in the other direction.
“It was foolish for you to try to escape,” said the Captain. “But I admire your courage.”
“Why am I in here?”
“For murdering one of Lord Pahalin's guards, of course.”
“I didn't murder anybody!” Tim argued.
“You were one of the murdering party,” said the captain. “Anyway, you haven't been formally charged with anything as of yet.”
“Oh,” said Tim
in a tone of unexpected relief. “What does that mean?”
“It means you'll stay here indefinitely until the Lord decides to do with you. Probably not longer than a day.”
“What happens after that?” The relief had abandoned his tone.
“Either your friends will attempt some sort of rescue mission... unlikely, or they won't,” he mused. “If the actual murderer can stand trial and execution, then you may be spared. If not, you'll likely do well enough for a scapegoat.” He started to walk away.
Tim grabbed two of the bars and shook the door. “A scapegoat?” he shouted after the captain. “You seriously think that anyone will believe I chopped a guy's head off? Look at me! I'm only three feet tall!”
“What I think is inconsequential,” said the captain. He turned away, walked out, and closed the door behind him.
“You won't get away with this!” Tim shouted, knowing there was every chance in the world that Captain Righteous would get away with it. He had to shout something.
“There there, little feller,” came a voice from the cell across from Tim's. Tim hadn't noticed anyone in there before. The initial scan that Tim's eyes had made of his surroundings had probably just passed this guy off as a tarped over pile of moss-covered garbage and ignored him. Now that he focused on it, he recognized the shape as a human squatting in the corner. Well, he supposed he couldn't be sure it was human, but it was something like it. He was bald on top but had a long white beard. He looked to have been made out of tent parts. “Save yer breath,” he said. “Ain't n'good gonner come from yellin'.”
Tim said nothing. He stared at the old man until he realized two things, suddenly and simultaneously. One was that being put to death quickly might be a blessing compared to spending any amount of time in here. The other was that he had been correct in his guess as to what the hole in the floor was for. He turned his head away as quickly as it would go, and shut his eyes as tight as he could, but the image had already been seared into his brain.
“Pah!” said the man. “Ain't nothin' but nature runnin' her course.” He grunted, coughed, and then held his breath. The following silence was broken by a sound that was going to haunt him along with that image for the rest of his life. The old man exhaled. “She's runnin' it pretty freely today.”
Tim dropped down to his knees and hid his head under his arms. He wanted to throw up, or cry, or both. But nothing came out.
The old man, having finished his business in the corner, stood up and walked up to the bars of his cell. “There now, little guy,” he said. “What's got yer down?”
Tim stood back up, clutched a bar in each hand, and looked up at the man. “What's got me down?” he said. “Did you really just ask me that? Look around at where we are. I'm in a tiny cell in a fucking dungeon, and I just watched an old guy take a shit. Sorry if I'm spoiling your fun.”
“What's yer name, lad?”
“Tim,” said Tim distractedly.
“My name's Greely. Been in here fourteen years next week.”
“What for?”
“A bunch of us got drunk one night and thought'd be a laugh to go steal Lady Pahalin's laundry while it was drying in the garden. Ye know how kids are.”
“How'd you get caught?”
“Musta passed out,” said Greely. “Next thing I knew it was the middle of the day, and I was lyin' in the garden wearin' naught but a sun dress an' lookin' up at four guards and the Lady herself. Never could hold me liquor.”
“And you got fourteen years for that?”
“Hmph,” Greely muttered. “Got life for it.”
“Life?”
“Course, I don't think they ever expected I'd make it this long. Not ideal living conditions down here. You're right about that. Not everybody makes it very long, but it can be done.”
“Why bother?”
“How do ye mean?”
“I mean,” said Tim. “What's the point of keeping yourself alive down here so long if there's no chance of you ever getting out?”
“I'm a lover of life,” said Greely cheerily. “And every now and again, ye meet some interestin' folks down here. Take Gorp, fer instance.”
“Who's Gorp?”
“He's the guy whose cell yer in, lad. He died a few months back. Dwarf, he was. Big stocky fella. I think there might still be part of his leg back there if ye look.” Greely pointed to the back of Tim's cell. Tim followed his finger and saw something white poking out from behind his bed. “He only made it a couple of months. Wish he'd held out a bit longer. He knew some dirty jokes.”
Tim was taking in only fragments of what Greely was saying at this point. The bulk of his attention was focused on a dwarven femur. “Where's the rest of him?”
“Rats took him away, piece at a time.”
“Rats?” There was a hint of panic in Tim's voice.
“Oh sure,” said Greely. “This place is crawling with them if you know where to look. And that's one of the secrets to makin' it down here. But he wouldn't have any of it. Too proud to eat a rat. Have ye ever heard of such nonsense. I'll tell you what, they weren't too proud to eat him when they got the chance.”
“I think I'm going to be sick.”
“Well do it over in the corner,” suggested Greely. “It attracts the rats, and they're easier to catch if they're in the corner.”
“I don't want to catch any rats, and I'm certainly not going to eat them,” said Tim.
“Pah!” said Greely. “Another one.” He shook his head. “We'll see how you feel about rat after you have to choose between it and the slop that Shorty brings you.”
“Who's Shorty?”
“He's the jailor. You met him. Nice enough guy, for a goblin. But I think he only knows how to cook one dish. It looks like snot, garnished with bug parts. Tastes worse. Hold off on dismissing rat until you've tried that.”
“I'm not going to be around that long,” said Tim. “I'm getting the fuck out of here.”
Greely smiled. “Is that so?”
“Fuckin' A that's so,” said Tim.
“And how do ye propose to do that?”
“I'll use my skills,” said Tim. “I'm just locked in a dungeon, for fuck's sake. I've been locked in dungeons hundreds of times.”
“Really?” asked Greely. “Because when ye first got here ye were whimperin' about it like a little bitch, if ye don't mind me sayin'.”
Tim ignored him. “The CM always provides a way out if you use your head.”
“This must be a new record,” said Greely. “I don't think I've yet seen a man lose his mind this quickly before, and I've seen plenty of men lose their minds.”
“This lock is a piece of shit. It should be easy enough to pick.”
Greely wheezed and laughed. “What're ye gonna pick it with? Yer willy?”
“There's bound to be something in here that I can use as improvised lock picks,” said Tim, scanning the tiny cell. “I just have to look everywhere.” He started to move the bed. It felt heavier than it looked.
“I wouldn't do that if I were ye,” said Greely. The laughter had gone from his voice.
“Why not?” asked Tim, heaving as hard as he could against the bed, but moving it only a couple of inches. “Why is this bed so fucking heavy?”
“It's attached to a lead brick that covers a hole in the wall.”
Tim rested, panted, and smiled. “There's a fucking hole in the wall?” He shook his head and laughed. “Let me guess. It's probably just wide enough for me to crawl through.”
Greely shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose that it's about that big. But it won't–”
“Un-fucking-believeable,” said Tim. “That's about the lamest setup for an escape that I've ever encountered.” He set his feet firmly, and leaned hard against the frame of the bed. It started to shift. “Only Mordred would be so unimaginative as to– what's that noise?”
There was a loud scratching sound coming from behind the bed, presumably where the hole was supposed to be. Greely lowered his
hands on the bars and frowned. “Rats,” he said.
“Ew,” said Tim. He considered grabbing the former dwarf's femur to hit the rats with, but then thought that touching a dead body was still more gross than trying to jump on a rat. He jumped up onto the bed, and waited for one of them to scurry past. He looked over to the side against the wall. “Oh my fuck!” he shouted.
What looked back at him was not what he expected at all. It was a rat all right, but it was about the size of a Rottweiler. It might have been bigger than him. And it looked pissed off. Two red eyes glared at him from behind a mouth full of needle-like teeth and saliva-clumped spikes of hair. Two claws scraped furiously against the mortar of the hole it was trying to squeeze itself through. He jumped off of the bed as though it were on fire, grabbed the femur like it was made out of second chances, and backed up against the corner of the cell with the shit hole.
The bone was a little less than half his height, but it was thick and solid. He gripped it with two hands, one at the top of the shaft, and the other around the ball joint. The knee end was thicker, and he imagined it would hurt quite a bit to be hit with.
He could still hear the mad scraping of claws, and guessed that the huge rat might be stuck in the hole. Part of his mind told him that he might have a better chance if he went back and pushed the bed back against the wall. He might push the rat back, or even hurt it. The majority of his mind, however, told him that he didn't want to be any closer to that thing than he had to be, and that cowering in the corner holding a bone was his best bet.
The scraping became rhythmic, and then started to get fainter. “Be on yer guard,” said Greely. “Here comes the first one.”
“The first one?” Tim shouted back at him. “How many are there?”
“Hard to say. There's a nest of them.” He craned his neck and raised an eyebrow. “I'd say somewhere in the neighborhood of–”
“Aaaahhhh!”
Out in the open, the rat was even more horrifying. It barely had enough hair on it to qualify as a mammal. Its sides and back were scraped from squeezing through the hole in the wall, and tiny streams of blood trickled around filthy and sparse patches of fur. It took a second to eye him, and then lunged forward. Tim swung the bone like the bases were loaded, and missed the rat completely. The rat didn't fare much better. Tim was small, but he was finding out just how nimble he was. He jumped up, kicked off the wall, and landed on his feet on the rat's tail. The rat shrieked, and Tim shuddered. The noise was so horrible that for a moment Tim lost control of his hand, and the bone clattered onto the stone floor.
