by Sean Gibson
“Covering…the rear,” he whispered. He winked the kind of wink an actor in a pantomime might use to let the entire audience know he had just told a major lie, except that he closed the wrong eye, so he ended up blinking with the eye he hadn’t widened, which made the gesture seem mildly spastic.
“Do you not know how to wink?” I whispered in response.
“No,” he said softly.
The tunnel twisted and turned but, thankfully, didn’t branch off at any point. Eventually, Nadi slowed, and then held up her hand, signaling us all to stop. She gestured for us to stay put while she crept forward silently and disappeared around a bend up ahead. A few minutes later, she came back, making less than a whisper of sound. She was good.
She motioned for us to walk back down the tunnel a ways, which we did, albeit not quite as quietly. Whiska belching didn’t help matters, nor did Borg loudly pulverizing a rock by accidentally stepping on it. Once we had moved far enough to satisfy her, she leaned in, motioning for us all to do the same.
“Tunnel goblins up ahead,” she whispered. “A lot of them, from the sounds of it.”
“How far?” I asked.
“Hard to say—sound travels strangely down here, and I didn’t want to risk getting too far down the passageway without you. They’re close, though.”
“What’s the plan?” asked Rummy.
“I would say we go in fast and hard behind the brightest spell Whiska has, but tunnel goblins weren’t the only thing I heard,” replied Nadi. She looked back over her shoulder before turning back to us. “I heard something else—another voice, much deeper and more guttural.”
I raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. I’d taken a moment during our last rest to ensure that it remained immaculate and artfully formed; good grooming is important even in the face of imminent death. “Minotaur?”
Nadi shrugged. “I’ve never heard one talk before. If I was a betting woman, though…”
“Five gold!” shouted Whiska. Nadi frantically shushed her. Voice lower, but with undiminished enthusiasm, she continued. “No, no—ten gold! Twenty!”
“Quiet!” Nadi silently screamed (by which I mean she mouthed the word with animated vigor). “What in the name of Tenelor’s Mourning Ballad are you talking about?”
“I love Tenelor’s Mourning Ballad!” I replied. “It was one of the first songs I learned. The best part about it is how you can vary the key every time you—”
“Not now, Heloise,” said Nadi, pointedly but not unkindly. She turned back to Whiska. “Now then…what?”
“You wanted to bet. I’m betting you. I want to bet you so much gold that it’ll be pouring out of my powerful hindquarters.”
“Now there’s an image that might scare away a minotaur,” said Rummy amiably, “and a half-dwarf, half-halfling.”
“It was a figure of speech!” replied an exasperated Nadi.
“Oh.” Whiska’s face fell for a moment before brightening again. “Well, at least we’re getting closer to the gold, right? If we’re close to the minotaur, we must be getting close to the dragon.” Her eyes glinted and she cackled as she rubbed her hands together, blue tendrils of energy crackling gently across her fingertips.
I looked at Nadi and said, in elvish (which, admittedly, was not my strongest language, albeit better than my orcish), “The one who appears as if to be made from the sexy times of two giant rats and smells in the manner of a horse’s fragrant after-meal leavings may punch-face friendly friends when close to all of the shiny stuff you can use to buy ham.”
“Ham?” repeated Nadi, also in elvish (obviously), and slightly bewildered.
I nodded, reasonably confident that I’d used the right word. “Ham.”
Nadi’s brow furrowed as she parsed what I thought had been a reasonably coherent statement. “Wait—do you mean lurcschus or lurcschut?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Lurcschus means things.”
I frowned. “What did I say?”
“Lurcschut.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ham.”
“I didn’t mean to say ‘ham.’ I definitely meant ‘things.’”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You got everything else, though, right?”
Nadi half shrugged and half nodded. “More or less. I think.” She looked at Whiska, who was, inexplicably, still cackling. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”
“So,” said Rummy, sticking his face in between us. “I think it would probably be better to share the details of your brilliant plan in the common tongue.”
“Right,” said Nadi. “I think we need to assume the minotaur is in there, along with a significant number of tunnel goblins—which means we need to go in more carefully.”
“Why?” said Whiska. “That’s stupid. You had it right the first time—we go in hard and fast.”
“It’s not like orcish lovemaking,” I replied. “We need to be cautious and feel things out slowly because we don’t know what’s going on or what we’re doing and if we’re not careful we’re going to be in a real mess.” I paused. “Like human lovemaking.”
“I agree,” said Nadi.
“How do you know how humans make love?” asked Rummy.
Nadi blushed. “I meant about the approach.”
“Oh.” Rummy looked at me. “I was hoping there was a story there.”
“We should…divide our forces,” said Borg. “Nadi and I…go first. Distract them. While…they fight us…Heloise and Rummy…work around…the edges.” He took a breath—this was a lot of talking for him. “Whiska comes…in last. She…hits hard while…attention is elsewhere.”
Nadi chewed her lower lip, then nodded. “It’s a good plan. Good thinking, Borg. Any objections?”
Nods all around, except from Whiska, who shrugged. “I still think I should just fling a fireball in there.”
“You may still get that chance, so keep it ready,” replied Nadi.
“That’s like telling a flaccidon to hang loose,” scoffed Whiska. (Flaccidons are small lizards that spend most of their days sprawling limply in the sunlight.)
“All right, then.” Nadi drew her sword and pointed it down the hallway. “Let’s do this.”
You’d be surprised how many tunnel goblins even a rock giant who’s not that good of a fighter can take down with a single swing of a club. (It’s seven, incidentally.) With Borg and Nadi leading the way, we blitzed our way into the cavern, scattering tunnel goblins left and right. Nadi scythed her way through a half dozen in short order, and even Rummy and I managed to cut down a significant quantity. (Two, incidentally, is a significant quantity in my book.)
It wasn’t the tunnel goblins that presented the problem, however—it was the two ogres and the exceedingly large minotaur that also occupied the cavern, and none of the three looked all that happy to see us (though who can tell with ogres; they always look like they just sat on a pinecone). Fortunately, Whiska, following hard on our heels, was more than ready to unleash magical destruction, bombarding the trio with a massive fireball the moment she entered the room.
Based on the way they started rolling around on the ground and screaming, the fire caused the ogres some pretty serious pain. Funny thing about minotaurs, though, and something that none of us had known before we walked into the room that day: they’re immune to fire. Hitting one with a fireball is pretty much the same as tossing a fluffy kitten who really loves to lick people onto its back. So, it wasn’t the most effective opening salvo.
One of the ogres tried to climb to its feet, but Nadi slashed it across the face. The beast collapsed, grabbing at its nose and roaring. At least a dozen tunnel goblins screeched and ran around the room, caroming off the walls like popping corn, but didn’t move to attack us. The overwhelming scent of what I assumed was burned ogre flesh hung heavy in the air, and it was all I could do not to vomit. I quickly tied my hair behind my head, just in case—getting puke smell out of luxurious hair like mine takes forever.
The minotaur, however, did make a move to attack, as did the other ogre, who was not as badly burned as his companion. Rummy valiantly tried to strike the ogre, but ended up getting clobbered by its club and fell straight backward, his head hitting the ground hard and his legs flopping up into the air. The way his legs remained up in the air, twitching slightly, would have been comical had he been on the stage overacting a dramatic death; given that he was, however, in the midst of a life-or-death fight and no longer appeared to be conscious, it was terrifying.
Nadi moved to help, but the minotaur cut her off, snorting and holding a huge, double-bladed axe in its right hand. It slapped the middle part of the handle into its left hand and then swung with both hands, a violent swing that, had it connected, would have not only separated her head from her body, but likely pulverized it in the process. Fortunately, it didn’t, Nadi having deftly ducked under the swing and rolled through the minotaur’s legs, coming up behind it. She raised her sword to swing, but blanched and fell back, coughing. I wondered if the scent of barbecued ogre had overcome her.
Borg stepped closer to the minotaur, though I wasn’t sure even his rocky skin would protect him much if the minotaur hit him full force. Borg seemed a little uncertain, too, judging by the way he held his club up in a defensive posture.
I could hear Whiska muttering behind me, preparing another spell, though she had to break off to shout, “Get out of the way, you pebble-brained paperweight!” in what for Whiska was a very kind effort to suggest that her companion remove himself from the line of fire.
Borg nodded, but had to stand in and deflect, at least partially, two blows from the minotaur’s axe before he could move. Both strikes grazed Borg’s skin, with the second shaving off a thin slice that clattered to the floor. I winced, though Borg didn’t show any outward sign of pain.
He stepped to the side and Whiska, who had resumed her muttering, stepped forward and yelled, “Eat hot lightning, burger lips!” as she unleashed a bolt of energy from her staff.
The minotaur’s muscles seized and he stiffened, making him look like a giant stuffed statue. The effect didn’t last long, though. In a matter of seconds, the great beast shook its gargantuan head, its massive lips flapping like an angry donkey’s. The minotaur snarled and raised its axe over its head, muscles rippling, and I stepped backward, overwhelmed by two thoughts: the first being that we were probably screwed, and the second that minotaurs are sort of hot in a scary and gross kind of way.
Nadi had managed to work her way around to Rummy, but the remaining ogre had turned its attention to her. I drew my knife and moved to intercept the big ugly brute, but stumbled to my knees as I passed by the minotaur, overcome with an odor that can only be described as flaming feces mated with rancid dead possum flesh. I covered my nose and kept going, surprised that Whiska’s energy bolt had so badly singed the minotaur as to create such an ungodly stench.
The ogre’s reaction to my valiant attempt to prevent it from getting to Nadi was about the same as my reaction to most guys hitting on me after a performance: a derisive snort, a dismissive wave of the hand, and then an immediate focus on what’s for dinner (I could only hope that, in this case, I wasn’t on the menu). It didn’t even feel the need to turn its club on me, choosing instead to raise its hand to backhand me into the wall—and in all likelihood, unconsciousness.
Fortunately, I’m as quick as I am skilled at singing, and I managed to duck underneath the blow, though it passed by so closely that the hair on the left side of my head streamed behind me like it had been hit with a stiff breeze. I countered with a knife strike to the knee, one of my two primary go-to moves (my secondary move, really, which I had to go with because the ogre’s pelvis was turned at an angle that precluded my primary and preferred target).
In the next ten seconds, I learned two important facts: one, even relatively small blades like mine can cause ogres some serious pain, and two, ogres get really mad when you cause them serious pain. The creature reached down, grabbed me by the shoulders, and tossed me toward the wall; only my uncanny agility saved me (well, that, and my unbelievable luck, given that the ogre threw me into a section of the wall covered by spongy lichen, which cushioned the impact). Fortunately, I managed to hold onto my knife in the process, though I did accidentally nick my thigh when I landed. It was embarrassing to have first blood drawn by myself.
As I recovered from a wound that, in my later recounting of the event, was both considerably more serious and inflicted by a demon from the fourth level of Halazar, Nadi knelt next to Rummy and shook him gently. His legs fell back down, making him look slightly less ridiculous (he still looked a little ridiculous, because half-dwarves, half-halflings are just generally ridiculous-looking beings). He was out cold, though, so Nadi rolled him out of the way the best she could and sprang back to her feet, just in time to see the minotaur bring his axe down on Borg’s club.
So much for that club. I didn’t think it was possible for wood to explode, but I can now say with certainty that it can, and splinters in the eyes are about as much fun as hookworms in the urethra (don’t ask how I know that). Fortunately, the club absorbed the brunt of the shock and Borg seemed none the worse for wear, though he did look a little stunned and, for the first time since I’d known him, worried. He staggered back as Whiska circled around the perimeter and seemed unsure exactly how to attack the monster.
“Whiska!” I yelled, hoping to snap her out of it and at least narrow her focus. “The ogre!”
She looked confused for a moment, but then nodded vigorously and raised her staff. After a few magical words, a steady stream of magical darts sprang forth, striking the ogre in the chest and knocking it backward.
Nadi waded in and seized the opportunity to strike, driving her sword into the creature’s neck as it swatted frantically at its chest in an attempt to soothe the stinging pain from the darts. The ogre became considerably, and rightly, more concerned with the giant blade that had just severed its jugular, lunging weakly at Nadi as she drew the blade back. Blood spurted like fireworks from the beast’s neck and it collapsed to its knees before falling face-down on the floor, feet flopping up in the air one time before coming to rest on the stony floor.
The ogre’s death seemed to terrify the tunnel goblins, who streamed past us and fled the chamber, leaving the four conscious (but weakened) members of our band to face one very angry minotaur.
“Drop your weapon and surrender and we won’t kill you,” said Nadi boldly.
The minotaur stared at Nadi and grunted. A low rumbling filled the cavern.
Whiska, now standing next to the unarmed Borg, gagged and hacked. She looked up at the giant, lips curled. “Gods, man! What did you eat—a sick baby’s diaper?”
So overpowering was the stench that even Rummy, still unconscious, coughed.
“Was that really you, Borg?” I asked, eyes watering.
“Drop it, minotaur!” yelled Nadi, somehow still focused, despite the fact that she was clearly swallowing hard and repeatedly in an attempt to choke back the vomit.
“It wasn’t…me,” said Borg solemnly. “I’ve been…framed.”
The minotaur growled and swung its axe at Nadi, who ducked and danced deftly backward.
“It’s not like him to not own it, Whiska,” I called, moving around behind the minotaur in an effort to try to figure out a way to help Nadi.
“Smell my…butt,” said Borg. “It’s…clean. Or…not that gross…anyway.”
Naturally, the Ratarian did exactly that, leaning in close to our rocky companion’s enormous backside and inhaling deeply. Her eyes widened, and I thought maybe Borg had been lying after all.
“He’s right!” said Whiska, shocked. “It wasn’t him!” She looked at me, eyes narrowed. “I should have known that something that smelled like someone smeared monkey dung on a sweaty ogre’s taint could only have some from a ‘dainty’ woman who never lets these things out!”
“You think that was me??” I called, o
utraged, as Nadi danced back in to test the minotaur’s defenses with a few tentative strikes, which the beast easily parried.
“Whoever smelt it…” sang Whiska.
“You smelled it, you plague-carrying sewer swimmer!”
“We all smelled it!” yelled Nadi, stabbing at the minotaur again. “Focus!”
“Yeah, but that smelled like an old person threw up yogurt all over a dead skunk!” answered Whiska. “We need to figure out where that came from.”
The minotaur, moving with an agility that belied its bulk, spun around and hacked at a surprised Whiska, who only barely managed to dodge, sparks flying from her staff as it slammed into the ground to keep her upright. The beast’s back was to Nadi now, and that same angry, low rumbling sound returned.
“Argh!” screamed Nadi, dropping her sword and covering her mouth with both hands. “It smells like a hill giant’s morning breath after it ate three dirty dwarves!” She spat, trying to somehow get the taste out of her nose and mouth.
“Dwarves don’t smell any worse than anyone else, you know,” I felt compelled to add, just before the stench washed over me and I had to turn my attention to preventing the mushrooms I’d snacked on earlier from working their way violently back up and out.
“It’s him!” shrieked Whiska, pointing at the minotaur. “He’s the source! Gods! It’s like some horrible creature died inside his colon and is being blown out of his ass by a cyclone!”
“You owe me an apology!” I choked out as I circled around, not for the purpose of gaining a tactical advantage, but in an attempt to find a pocket of fresh air. Unfortunately, when you’re miles underground, there’s not much airflow, and the cavern had quickly turned into a miasma of stink, like someone had dropped an orc’s foot into a pig waller after the pig, who’d been on a steady diet of spicy, rotten lamb, had shat in it.
“I’ll apologize over my dead body!” retorted Whiska, raising her staff for another magical strike on the minotaur.