Run Like Hell

by Elliott Kay

“I could get my job done by stabbing him.”

  “You know sticking him with a knife won’t take him down.”

  “It will if I stick him enough times. Don’t worry, I can do my part,” said Shady Tooth.

  “Yargol?” Scars asked.

  “My role is easier than hers.”

  “Then let’s do this. Remember the goal. Stay cool.” He steeled himself with a deep breath before he tugged the door open.

  The dungeon spanned a single hall from the doorway with cells lining either side. At the far end stood two more large doors, barred with an iron-bound beam of ancient oak. Several orcs sat at the handful of tables in the center of the room, some playing dice and others all but napping. Across the hall carried voice of the dreaded jailer himself, leaning in as he spoke through the small, barred window in one of the cell doors.

  The dwarves had built the cells two steps up from the main floor, bringing the windows to eye-level for an ordinary orc on the floor. The jailer stood considerably taller than any such orc, and thus had to stoop halfway over to peer inside. He leaned with one blue arm up against the door, gesturing with the other as he spoke. His voice carried as he surely knew it would.

  “I’m not saying anyone should work for free,” said the troll. “Only that everyone should be paid according to their value. We’re all here as hired muscle, so shouldn’t we be paid according to size? We could use orcs as a baseline. That’s fair. They’re the most numerous. But if they get a standard rate, then shouldn’t kobolds get half that? Shouldn’t pay for the larger sorts scale up from orcs?”

  “It’s none of my concern,” replied the cell’s inhabitant. It didn’t sound like an orc or any of the goblin folk. Scars thought the voice sounded strong, but feminine.

  “Doesn’t that imply you have an unbiased opinion?” asked the troll.

  “I suppose.”

  “Oh, come on, now. Nobody’s free from bias.”

  “But you just—why are you even talking to me about this? And why are you so loud?”

  “Because he’s not really talking to you. He’s talking to his audience,” muttered Shady Tooth.

  The troll grinned at the prisoner on the other side of the door. “Look, there’s no reason to get emotional about this.”

  “Emotional? What are you talking about?”

  “There’s no need for that tone, either.”

  “I don’t even want to talk to you at all!”

  “Insults aren’t the way to prove your point or win an argument.”

  “What argument? What point?” snapped the prisoner. “Fuck off already!”

  “Hey, Chatter,” said one of the orcs at the tables. “Visitors.”

  “I see that, thanks,” grumbled the troll. He straightened to his full eight feet of lanky muscles and sickly blue skin. His clothes were mostly rags, brown and grey from long wear without a wash. On his belt hung a ring of keys attached by a strip of leather and a battle axe he could likely wield in one hand. “You’re an odd group to have down here,” he said, looking to the newcomers.

  “It was a matter of who was on hand,” said Scars. A single glance assured him the orcs at the tables paid them little mind. They preferred to ignore the boss as much as possible.

  “What brings you down here?” asked Chatter. “Nobody’s in chains, so I assume none of you are prisoners. Today.”

  “The wizard needs a body for an experiment,” Scars explained. He closed to conversational distance with the troll, flanked by the rest of his crew. “He sent us down to collect.”

  “What kind of body?”

  Scars shrugged, pointing to Yargol. “Up to him.”

  “I’ll have to take a look at what’s available,” said Yargol.

  “Suit yourself,” said Chatter. “Hello, Shady Tooth.”

  The bugbear scowled, looking past him rather than at him.

  “What have you got?” Scars prompted, wanting to take his attention off her.

  Chatter’s gaze lingered on Shady Tooth. His long, bony hands gestured from one cell to the next. “That gnoll we had finally died from rabies. Got a litter of hellhounds in that cell. One human over in that one. And a centaur.” He shrugged, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the large doors in the rear of the prison. “The pens are full as always.”

  “Hellhounds?” Scars asked, feigning mild surprise.

  “Yeah, practically full grown but still acting like pups. Until they mature a little more and learn some self-control, we’ve got no other place to put them. Not where they won’t set the place on fire.”

  “You could stand to learn some self-control yourself,” said Shady Tooth.

  “What?”

  “You’re staring at my tits.”

  “Am not. Look, if you’re gonna put them out there—”

  “In leather armor?” she growled.

  “Not much of a contour to that chest piece, but you can see a little cleavage,” said Chatter. “Maybe an inch, maybe two? You can’t tell me you don’t know.”

  Her eyes turned to meet his. Her lip curled back.

  “Chatter, why don’t you tell us more about the prisoners?” Scars suggested. “What have we got to work with here?”

  “You can see for yourself,” Chatter said dismissively. He stayed focused on Shady Tooth. “I’m not trying to start an argument here. I’m trying to help.”

  “Help?” Shady Tooth glared.

  “Yeah. I’m an ally.”

  “Fucking trolls,” sighed Scars. He glanced around the room to track the others. DigDig hopped up to grasp the barred window of one cell. The goblin dropped back down and turned to Scars with his hands pressed together and tilting his head over them in a “sleeping” signal. Yargol was already past him, too, stretching to peer into the cell with the human. He nodded to Scars as he pointed to the door.

  “Look, leather armor has certain connotations, you know?” Chatter continued.

  “Don’t talk to me,” said Shady Tooth.

  “Hey, I have a right to talk all I want,” said Chatter.

  “Don’t talk to me,” she repeated.

  “It’s not my fault you’re so sensitive.”

  “Chatter, we’ve got work to do here.” Scars stepped in to break up the budding confrontation.

  “Fine, whatever, do what you need,” said the troll.

  “I need you to help,” said Scars.

  “That’s nice. I don’t answer to you. Shady Tooth, you might have more friends if you tried a little harder to be more pleasant,” the troll pressed on.

  “Hey, Chatter,” War Cloud spoke up from the other end of the prison. “I think your centaur here is dead.”

  “What?” The jailer finally looked up from staring at Shady Tooth. The orcs at the table gave the warning at least a cursory glance, too. Nobody looked Shady Tooth’s way as Chatter strode past her, and therefore no one noticed as she slipped her hand up at the troll’s hip to slide his key ring off his side. Gripping the keys to prevent jingling, she handed it off to Yargol without a look.

  Scars glanced back at their companion only once. “They’re numbered,” Yargol sighed. “Thank all the gods.”

  “What are you talking about?” Chatter asked. He shoved War Cloud aside, leaning in to peer into the cell. “He was fine not too long ago.”

  “Is ‘not too long’ some point in the last week?” asked War Cloud.

  “Shut up, you,” Chatter barked at him.

  “Yargol?” Scars hissed.

  “First things first,” whispered Yargol. He inserted a key in the cell door beside them, waiting until Chatter banged hard on the centaur’s door to turn it.

  “Hey! Wake up, you freak,” Chatter demanded. “Get off the floor!”

  “Where’s DigDig?” Scars asked, only to find the goblin already by Yargol’s side. Down the line of cells, War Cloud threw Scars a glance and a nod. “You’re sure you can do this?” he asked softly.

  “As I said, this part is easy,” said Yargol. He turned another key upward
before releasing the entire ring. The set floated in the air, drifting across the prison to the doors on the other side at his simple gesture.

  The handful of orc guards at the center of the chamber never noticed. They watched with barely restrained humor as Chatter shouted at the centaur to rise. “Get off the floor,” he ordered. “Don’t act like we haven’t fed you.”

  “Do centaurs eat everything like humans or do they eat grass like horses?” Shady Tooth asked.

  Chatter whirled around to look back with an angry glare. Scars worried the troll might see something amiss, but the cell door was still shut and the keys were already on the other side of the chamber. If anything, the brief glance only made Chatter more dismissive of them.

  “Water,” Chatter grumbled, storming over to the tables. “Give me water. Beer. Whatever.” Rather than wait on his subordinates, he snatched a tankard from the table and returned to the cell door, splashing the liquid through the barred window. Behind him, War Cloud slipped away from the scene.

  “Now, Yargol,” murmured Scars.

  “Already done,” said Yargol. At a gesture, the keys floated back from the cell door across from theirs. “I can only manipulate one thing at a time, anyway.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Chatter fumed. He turned on his subordinates. “What did you feed him? Did you give him old meat? Rotten hay? What?”

  “Obviously we weren’t gonna give him the good stuff,” objected one orc.

  “This is why I won’t miss anyone on this job,” grunted War Cloud as he joined the others.

  “Or when they’re dead,” added Shady Tooth.

  “Let’s get on that, then,” said Scars. He patted Yargol’s shoulder.

  The magician turned his head to the other side of the prison and gestured with one hand. The unlocked cell door opened as if by a firm but gentle tug.

  None of the jailers noticed it. The argument continued. “If we wanted prisoners dead, would they be in here?” Chatter raged.

  “I guess sometimes we want people to suffer before they die,” considered one orc.

  “Or suffer while they die,” corrected another.

  “Or die from their suffering,” thought a third.

  “Oh, you stupid—!” Chatter lashed out with one of those long, wiry arms, smacking the first orc across the head hard enough to knock him to the floor. “If the boss wanted someone dead, he would tell us.”

  “Hey, aren’t you always saying anger only shows the weakness of your argument?” the third orc objected. The rest of the handful of guards closed ranks behind him, hands on their weapons.

  A black snout poked out of the open cell door to take a tentative sniff, then another. With the third sniff, dark smoke poured from the animal’s nose. The door pushed open wider as a second nose joined it.

  “Not as often as I tell you to mind your betters,” replied Chatter. He grabbed at the next orc, undeterred by the spear his subordinate raised in self-defense. Though he impaled his hand on the blade, Chatter merely scowled. The fingers of his injured hand closed around the top of the shaft. Chatter wrenched the weapon free, then pulled it out of his hand to cast it aside. “Don’t try to threaten me, you little shits. I’m not afraid of your blades. Now, you tell me straight: who else have you been starving out? Who else here hasn’t had enough to eat?”

  Hinges creaked as the first black dog leaped out of its cell. The hellhound landed on an orc in the back of the group, jaws clamping firmly on the victim’s shoulder. Its size and strength were more than a match for its intended meal. Another of the litter followed, crashing through the small crowd to bite down on the neck of the orc Chatter had knocked to the floor.

  The rest of the guards spun while drawing weapons, already primed for a fight. They weren’t prepared for the third hellhound and the rush of its fiery breath.

  Scars threw open the cell door to his side. His companions needed no urging. DigDig nearly threw himself into the refuge, with War Cloud and Yargol not far behind. Shady Tooth lingered, smiling as Chatter shrank from the hellhounds. “Push them back,” he shouted. The troll jerked his axe from his belt but didn’t engage. “They’re just animals. Get them under control. Show them who’s boss!”

  A fourth hellhound leaped into the scrum, shouldering aside one scorched and startled orc to challenge the troll directly. Chatter’s orders and bluster turned to a scream as the hellhound roared at him with a breath of flames.

  “Inside,” Scars urged the bugbear. “Go.” Though reluctant, she saw the wisdom in his words. Shady Tooth ducked into the cell. Scars followed, tugging the door shut behind himself.

  Their shelter didn’t offer much room. His companions pressed themselves against the walls to his right and left. Against the wall opposite the door stood a human woman dressed dark and ragged leather breeches and a similarly worn-out doublet over a dirty tunic. Her shoulder-length brown hair was matted and tangled. She looked young.

  The old tin plate in her hand might have been a laughable weapon, but it was clearly the best she could do. Nothing in her eyes suggested she would cower against her end. Nor did her voice as she asked, “What the hell is going on?”

  Chapter Four

  “Gaaaahh! Get it off me!”

  “Who let them out? Who let the dogs—argh!”

  “Roll! You have to drop to the floor and roll to put the flame out!”

  Scars watched through the bars of the cell door window. Smoke gathered quickly, though not so fast as to obscure his view. A burning orc ran past the door in a panic until he slammed face-first into the tall, thick doors that made up most of the back wall of the prison. Another backed away from a hellhound, trying to fend off the beast with sword and shield.

  None of them screamed as loudly as Chatter. Flames clung to the troll from his gut to his shoulders and down his long arms. He crashed through the brawl, knocking aside hellhound and orc alike in his mad dash to the tables in the center of the room. Chatter desperately grabbed the small wooden keg from the table to shatter it against his own chest, dousing himself with its cheap beer.

  Though his ploy put out much of his burning flesh, his relief was short lived. A hellhound tackled him to the floor from behind. All around, the shouts of orcs and snarls of their attackers continued as the fight raged on.

  “Who are you?” the lone human in the cell demanded again. Her eyes narrowed with doubt, but she asked her question anyway: “Is this some sort of rescue?”

  Scars glanced to the others and shrugged. “It’s not not a rescue.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Yeah, what?” agreed a surprised Shady Tooth.

  “Who are you? Why are you in here?” Scars asked, his attention still mostly on the fight.

  “I asked you first,” said the human.

  “Maybe, but we’re five and you’re one and you’re armed with cheap dishware.”

  She let out a tense breath. “My name is Teryn. A band of hobgoblins captured me out in the pass by the east side of the mountain.”

  “Alone?” asked War Cloud.

  “Some of my group may have escaped. I was separated from the rest. As far as I know, I’m the only one who survived.”

  “What sort of group was this?” asked Scars.

  “Travelers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Chatter! Anyone! Help!” bellowed one of the last standing orcs. He backed away from a menacing dog, looking over his shoulder for an escape. The orc thought he saw one in the open door to the hellhounds’ own cell.

  He almost made it. The hound on his heels was faster.

  Wrestling at the foot of the table, Chatter finally got a good grip on his attacker. He lifted the dark beast up over his own head to hurl it against a wall. “Form on me,” Chatter demanded. “Get around me and…fucking hell,” the troll seethed. His eyes swept the room, finding nothing but dead orcs and still-menacing hounds. Much of his upper body was blackened and bleeding.

  Two of the hellhounds turned from the dead on the floor. A
nother lurked in the back of the chamber, abandoning its meal to answer the growls of the others. The fourth collected itself after landing on the floor, shaking its head. The last turned from the now dead orc lying across the doorway to the hounds’ cell.

  Chatter looked around again for aid or some sort of escape. His eyes narrowed as he found none of the former. Discarding that hope, the troll focused on his single way out. He hefted the larger of the wooden tables with ease. Holding the table in front of himself as a shield, Chatter charged through the two hellhounds ahead toward the entrance.

  One hound tried to leap over him, only to be swatted away by the table and the troll’s superior strength. The other dodged out of the way. Chatter cast the table aside and ran, crashing through the main doors with all five hellhounds in pursuit.

  “I think that’s all of them,” said Scars. “A traveler, huh? Going where?”

  “Eastford. On the Crystalbrook River.”

  “I know it. Why?”

  Her jaw set. “It’s on the other side of the mountain from the capital.”

  Scars looked back to the room again. Nothing had moved since the last hound darted through the exit. He nodded to Shady Tooth and War Cloud, then looked back to Teryn. “Good answer.” With that, Scars pushed the door open. The others spilled out behind him.

  “What’s—are you leaving?” asked Teryn.

  “Not yet,” said Yargol, who lingered with DigDig at his side.

  “Bodies first,” Scars instructed the other two. He slung the nearest corpse over his shoulders and grabbed another by the leg, hauling them across the room.

  “Suppose it’s fine to leave the burning ones?” asked Shady Tooth, passing by an orc still in flames on the floor.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” said War Cloud. “The blood trail leading out the door should be enough of an incentive.” He and Shady Tooth took up the other bodies. The crew’s largest members made short work of their disposal chores, dumping the handful of dead orcs in the hellhounds’ now-empty cell before slamming the door shut and throwing the lock. With the job finished, they turned for the large barred doors at the end of the prison.

  “We do this and move,” Scars hissed. His companions nodded in agreement. None of them wanted to linger.