Dark Gods Rising

by Mark Eller

  * * * *

  Mother Brood woke to find the shadow of a hook-handed man standing in her open doorway. Gasping, she grabbed the club she kept by her side and looked to make sure none of her wards sleeping in this room had been harmed. Oblivious, they slept on.

  She scrambled out of the broken couch, raised her club, and wished she was forty years younger. “One scream will have half the street on you,” she warned.

  “You lie,” the man replied. When he reached out, she saw a leather bag dangling from his single hand. He released his hold. The bag fell, making a musical jangle as it struck the floor. His voice was filled with self-loathing and disgust. “These are for you. I kept only two rugdles.”

  Lowering her club, Mother Brood looked upon the bag with stunned disbelief. Its noise had sounded like gold, and the bag was almost half full. If this was true, she would be able to feed the children for most of a year.

  “Why are you doing this?” She kept her voice a whisper, too low to wake her wards. “I don’t know you.”

  “Blame Selnac,” the man said bitterly. “His conscience demands it.”

  He turned and was gone.