Treachery's wake dad-6

by T. H. Lain

  Treachery's wake

  ( Dungeons and Dragons - 6 )

  T. H. Lain

  T. H. Lain

  Treachery's Wake

  Prologue

  …Howling winds whipped through the rigging of the merchant ship. Boiling swells tossed the vessel from side to side as each new wave threatened to send it hurtling into the rocks. The mast groaned against the force of the gale. The edges of the sails snapped in the wind.

  It was a large ship by most standards, a cargo runner, one of many that sailed the coast. In the depths of the hull, an ornate box broke from its bindings and slid across the hold. It was long and slender with spidery silver script covering it on all sides-the type of container usually reserved for magical goods.

  "Step to," Captain Jabarra bellowed to his men as they wrestled with whipping lines to pull down the mainsheet. "Look alive, or ye won't be much longer!"

  Jabarra's name was known all up and down the Fell Coast. Stern but fair treatment ensured that he employed only the finest sailors. A reputation for generous pay rewarded him with a fiercely loyal crew. An uncanny knack for finding the most lucrative cargo made him a wealthy man. His habit of not asking questions didn't hurt.

  Jabarra wasn't nearly as interested in where the box came from as in where he needed to take it. The gold he was paid to get it to Newcoast was as good as any in the captain's eyes.

  "Steady, damn it!" he screamed at the helmsman.

  The pilot's knuckles were white against the wheel as he fought to keep the ship away from the shore. Jabarra threw the man aside and grabbed the tiller. This stretch of shoreline had claimed countless lives. Known for its rough seas and unpredictable storms, many an admiral lost his life and that of his crew to its jagged labyrinth of stone. Skeletons of uncounted men, some Jabarra once listed among his friends, lay buried beneath the sand. The entire ship shuddered with the tremendous force of the gale.

  "It'll take more than that to drag me down!" Jabarra screamed into the storm.

  On a bluff above the drama, Yauktul watched Gretsch and Murgle lovingly heft a boulder. Gretsch cradled the stone in his right arm as Murgle patted its granite surface. Wind lashed the creature's hide clothing, cutting the stench of its crusted and flaky flesh. Yauktul, his own skin covered with mottled and matted fur, was thankful for the respite from the ettin's putrid smell.

  The sudden storm made the gnoll commander's job easier. The boulder would be a delicious flourish to the ship's already savory demise. Yauktul toyed with the idea of letting nature do his work for him, but he thought better of it. It never paid to anger an ettin. He nodded to the foul giant.

  With a howl, the ettin hurled the huge rock. It hurtled toward the ship below, growing smaller and smaller before striking with a deep thud, barely audible above the howling storm.

  The next morning, as the tide rolled out it uncovered a clutter of smashed timber and broken bodies on the beach. Across the back of the hull, the ship's name was still legible. The letters stood as tall as a man and were painted in flowing script by a skilled hand: Treachery.

  1

  Red light from the fading sun brought a tinge of pink to the blanket of snow covering the streets of Newcoast. Shopkeepers throughout the market district fastened doors and shutters against the threatening sky, darkening as it was with the hint of strong evening winds and another heavy snow.

  Winter hit the Fell Coast with a vengeance, its storms wheeling in on the heels of shortening days. Temperatures began dropping shortly after the season's harvest was reaped and the snows came shortly after. Throughout the region, farmers drug out their brightly colored tents and dusted them off in preparation for a lively harvest festival, yet even the cheer of the midwinter solstice celebration brought only temporary respite from the bitter cold. There was barely enough time to collect the harvest and hastily celebrate its richness by the time the first flakes fell. Soon the entire region sat under a coverlet of white.

  In the city's market square, hermits and merchants alike bundled their wares for the trip back to hovel or home. Carts piled high with goods trundled down the narrow city streets, led by mule teams all too eager to escape the chill air. Young aristocrats wrapped in thick fur cloaks hustled off to the warmth and comfort of well-appointed homes, or to indulge themselves in the illicit pleasures of the wharf district. All of the city's inhabitants moved as though with a singular purpose-shelter.

  All, that is, save one.

  A slight figure slid unnoticed amidst the bustling denizens of Newcoast. Dressed in a modest leather tunic and shrouded in a cloak of dull gray, the halfling woman passed unseen through the tides of humanity washing back and forth across the lively streets. She padded softly through powdery snow, deft feet leaving hardly a print to signal her passing. Habit led the woman along lesser-traveled streets and alleyways.

  Standing a few feet shorter than the other major races of the land, the halfling woman was a lean and muscled creature. The hood of her cloak was pulled up over her head, hiding fine features and curled, flowing hair. Supple leather boots clad her small feet, their soles thick enough to keep out the cold and damp of the snowy ground but thin enough to act almost as a second skin and to ensure footing on any terrain. A small crossbow was slung over her shoulder on a leather strap. The weapon's stock rested firmly on the center of her back. A number of small daggers and knives were strapped to her thigh and down the front of her leather armor, safely hidden from prying eyes.

  The woman paused beside a cluster of barrels stacked in the alley. She ran a hand along the rough-cut boards of the building's siding, crouching down to rest her legs and catch her breath, taking a minute to watch the people go by and to gauge the crowd.

  The city of Newcoast was a bustling metropolis by Fell Coast standards. It profited well from its location as a major hub for ships from the continent of Auralis to the north. Its nobles laid a complex code of taxes and tariffs on every good that passed through the region on its way to kingdoms beyond. Swords and armor from dwarven lands to the south lay crated and waiting along with rare herbs and spices from the barbarian tribes to the west. Candles and soaps, furs and fine linens, dried foodstuffs and rare meats frozen in states of magically induced stasis, all passed through its port.

  The seaport's human cargo was no less diverse and interesting. Merchants of all make and description filled the streets of the wharf district by day, haggling and cajoling over prices or attempting to track down lost shipments. Throngs of young boys ran about the docks looking for dropped coins or harassing swarthy captains for work. Drunken sailors reeled down the streets by day and kept the city guard busy with their antics by night. Fist fights erupted as a matter of routine and more than a few enterprising souls made comfortable livings taking bets on the altercations, both spontaneous and planned.

  Crouched in the alleyway, the halfling, Lidda, took it all in, reveling in the sights and sounds. She felt quite at home among the seafaring scum.

  An elaborately dressed man caught Lidda's eye. He was wrapped in a fur-lined, scarlet cloak, and his boots appeared to be made of fine leather. His stomach hung over the belt at his waist in thick folds of skin in a way that set him apart from the gaunt beggars that he waved aside as he trundled down the street. A few wisps of gray hair fluttered atop his otherwise bald skull. People scattered before him, but the man still used his ledger book like a shield to clear a path for himself.

  Lidda waited as the man passed by. She was looking for an opening in the crowd where she might melt into the throng unobserved. A horse-drawn carriage rolling down the street offered her the diversion she sought. On the streets of Newcoast at the close of the business day with a storm on the horizon, it was every peasant for himself. Obviously the wagon driver took
that credo to heart. People on the street moved aside as the wagon rumbled past, pressing themselves against buildings and spilling into alleys. The banker shook his fist at the teamsters and muttered under his breath, but he joined the crowd leaping out of the way.

  Lidda darted from behind the stack of barrels and fell into step a few paces behind the man. She noted the girth of the rope belt holding his cloak shut as she slid a dagger from a sheath at her thigh. A quick flick of the wrist severed the strap and the follow-through slipped a small slit in the crimson robe. With a spring, Lidda hurled herself into the banker's bulk. Her shoulder hit his back and her hand shot through the slit in his robe.

  "Sorry," she muttered, pushing against the man with her arm as though to regain her footing. "You really should be more careful."

  Lidda slipped through the press of people and into the alleyway from which she came. A pouch of coins dangled from her hand. She chuckled to herself and dissolved into the crowd on the other side of the alley, well out of sight of her victim. A yell went up from the street behind her, but the rogue was long gone. She dropped the coins into a pocket of her tunic and hurried down the road.

  She did, after all, have more important business to attend to.

  The thieves' guild in Newcoast occupied a large and elaborately decorated stone building on the outskirts of the city's market district. Erected by a wealthy merchant almost a hundred years previous, the structure functioned as his home and place of business for the first fifty years of its life. It had since become the headquarters of one of the most powerful thieves' guilds on the coast, though it kept the appearance of its former purpose. To most, it was just one of many warehouses sheltering trade goods.

  The previous owner had been an entrepreneur of sorts who profited handily in the early days of the first dwarven war against the trolls. His luck eventually ended and a series of poor business decisions ran him afoul of the guild's founding members. The man handed over the building's title to settle an unpaid gambling debt in exchange for keeping nine fingers. It was, the guild masters would say, a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  Very few were privy to the "unofficial" business that took place behind the guild's walls. The building did function as a warehouse and clearing house, but most of the goods that passed through the building were stolen. A handful of the city's politicians were in league with the guild and utilized the guild's services when elections drew near, taking credit for city streets largely clean of petty cutpurses and pickpockets.

  Lidda approached the door of the guild. The portal stood nearly nine feet tall and was banded with thick pieces of iron. The ornate carvings of the building's previous occupant had been sanded smooth and the door was quite simple. She patted the pouch of coins in her tunic and knocked. A small, square section of wood slid open in the center of the door a few feet above Lidda's head. A moment later, it snapped shut again and a similar door, this time at the halfling woman's eye level, slid open.

  "Name and business, please," a stern voice prompted from behind the hole.

  "Name's Lidda," she replied. "I have dealings with Eva Flint."

  "Yes, m'lady was expecting you an hour ago. You're running a touch late, eh?"

  "Some other pressing business came up," the halfling replied, "so if you'd be so kind as to open up…"

  Lidda heard the intricate working of a number of locks and bolts and the groan of wood on wood as the door swung inward. She stepped inside.

  The guild's interior was as impressive and imposing as its outside. Heavy, well-worked stone blocks betrayed the building's dwarven origins, each stone fitting its neighbor precisely. Dim lighting from sparsely placed wall sconces added to the guild's ominous feel and Lidda's sense that her every move was being scrutinized by an unseen watcher, no doubt peering at her through a tiny spy hole. The doorkeeper, a severe looking man, short and lean of stature, cleared his throat.

  "Follow me, please," he said, his voice still hushed but with an urgent undertone. "Watch the third brick on the right there," he said, pointing to a section of flooring, "it's a bit loose."

  Lidda gave the stone a wide berth as she walked past. What sort of trap the stone triggered she could only guess at. That it was trapped went without saying in Lidda's mind. Providing they managed to avoid prison or death, most rogues would eventually find themselves in the patronage of a guild. Until that happened, underground networks of thieves could be just as dangerous to a fledgling pickpocket as the authorities. Jail cells or a stab in the back aside, Lidda knew that she would be contacted sooner or later.

  For her, sooner had been just a few days ago.

  Eva Flint's room was larger and more impressively decorated than most in the guild. The guild master was seated behind a great oak desk, leafing through a leather-bound ledger. A single candle and a small pot of ink were the desk's only adornment. Eva closed the ledger as Lidda was shown into the room. The light from the candle added a highlight of yellow to the woman's short, red hair. The short sleeves of her loose-fitting blouse showed off well-defined muscles. Were she not seated, Eva would have towered above Lidda's head. Her face was stern and chiseled but not unattractive.

  "You're late," Eva said sharply, pushing her chair back on its two rear legs and kicking her feet up onto the desk.

  "Yes, I'm sorry, m'lady," Lidda said, stepping forward and drawing the pouch of coins from inside her tunic. She dropped the sack on the desk, where it landed with the pleasing jingle of coin on coin. "I would have been here earlier, but I was caught up with some other business that I thought you might appreciate."

  "Well, at least I see that you have respect for guild protocol, even if your sense of time is a bit off. That banker that you 'did business' with is a regular customer of the guild who's fallen behind on his bills. You've just saved me an unpleasant house call." An upward curl tugged at the corners of Eva's mouth, taking the edge from her words as she looked Lidda up and down. "This might work out yet."

  So, Lidda realized, she had been followed that day and quite possibly for many days previous. It made sense-the guild contacted her, not vice-versa. Still, she was unsettled at the prospect of having been on the rodent's end of a cat and mouse game. It was a situation the rogue was not used to and definitely not fond of.

  "I'm glad that you accepted my offer of meeting," Eva continued. "I'd hate to have to drive you from town, or worse. I think that you will find an association with the guild quite advantageous."

  Eva rose and moved to a door on the side of the room. She opened the door and an elderly man entered. He wore a long blue robe laced with intricately embroidered patterns of silver thread. He was clearly of the magic using sort. Judging by the deep wrinkles lining his face, he had attained great age, and Lidda knew that where wizards were concerned, great age and great power often went hand in hand.

  "Allow me to introduce Horace Wotherwill," Eva said as the man moved through the door.

  Wotherwill stepped forward and took Lidda's hand in his own. His dry and wrinkled skin reminded Lidda of a goblin's hide in its roughness and she had to fight back the urge to pull her hand from his.

  "Pleased to meet me, I'm sure," Wotherwill said, "but let's drop the pleasantries for now. We have important business."

  2

  "I will not go!"

  Krusk's meaty fist came down hard on the table, sending a cascade of dark ale sloshing over the side of his earthenware mug and turning heads among the evening's patrons of the Bung and Blade. Even in the midst of such a motley crew as was gathered at the pub, there were none interested in meeting the eyes of a pair of arguing half-orcs. Glances quickly shifted back to plates of food.

  Malthooz drew back from the table. Though three years older and nearly his physical equal, Malthooz was in every other way Krusk's opposite. His eyes ran along the steel studs embedded in the tough leather of Krusk's shoulder armor then trailed down to the cruel dagger that was bound to his forearm in a makeshift scabbard of thick hide straps. He glanced at the massive axe res
ting against Krusk's chair, then down at his own humble rucksack, stuffed as it was with books. He looked up as Krusk hid his frown behind his mug.

  They were both hulks by human standards, but Krusk was large even for a half-orc. Lean and corded muscles ran the length of his body, honed over years of rough living and many fights. His face was scarred in a few places, the most cruel running from just under his left earlobe to his jaw. It was a trophy from a brawl with an ogre that had almost cost Krusk his life but earned him a double-headed magical axe instead.

  Malthooz was not nearly so bulky. He could still best almost any man in an arm wrestling match by sheer strength, but he was clumsy and untested in the realm of combat. From the time they were children, he was drawn more to books than swords. Malthooz was often the butt end of the other barbarian children's jokes and pranks. He felt the sting of cruelty even more acutely for the rift that had grown between he and Krusk over the intervening years.

  Both men had the pale, gray-greenish skin of a half-orc and a tell-tale protrusion of teeth from their lower jaw. Wiry, black hair sprouted from their skin in odd patches. They were rough looking but not ugly. By nonhuman standards, they might even be considered handsome. Among humans, half-orcs were sometimes tolerated but seldom truly welcomed. Krusk and Malthooz, unrelated in any way but race, had both found a home within a village of outcasts. It was there, amidst the mixed population of humans, elves, dwarves, and half-breeds, that their shared heritage created a bond that approximated family.

  Malthooz sighed and said, "This autumn has been hard on the village. The dire wolves have returned in greater numbers. Game is becoming scarce. Our people are disheartened." He paused. "I don't know that our chief will live to see the spring. The village needs your strength, Krusk."