A pair of enemy rogues lay dead on the stoop of the hall. Inside lay a pair of guards, stabbed through the back as they had tried to flee deeper inside. The coppery scent of blood was strong in the enclosed foyer. Arron cursed and cautiously proceeded inside.
Just to the right of the door was a small alcove where a guard would stand. A bench was built into the wall, where the guard could monitor a murder hole with a crossbow positioned there. Arron took the crossbow and one of the spare bolts. He cranked and loaded the weapon and went deeper into the guildhall.
Sounds of fighting came from the distance, likely the main hall. He stepped over several more corpses, not recognizing any of them and unsure of who was friend or foe at that point.
The common room was a scene of chaos. More corpses lay just inside the entry, filled with arrows and crossbow bolts. One of them had a dagger through the throat. Several tables had been hastily overturned. Behind them, a pitched battle raged, hand to hand. Zita was fighting among a handful of defenders, her pale green-tinged skin standing out amid the flurry of dark cloaks and tunics. The defenders were outnumbered by more than two to one.
Zalhak, a dwarf whom Arron recognized, appeared to be the one leading the attackers. He had a thick yellow beard and a shaved pate and was dressed in fine clothes. He stood off to one side of the skirmish and was busy reloading a crossbow. He barked a command and gestured at the tables.
A burly Canician kicked one of the tables aside and forced his way through the gap. His large battle-axe hacked one of the defenders in the gut, folding the man in half. The dogman tore it free in a spray of gore before leaping forward to exchange blows with Connor, a seasoned rogue Arron often used to dice with. Knotton, a Torumel rogue, was somehow managing to fend off a pair of swordsmen with dual short spears.
Zita sliced her scimitar into the ribs of one of her attackers. The man fell, but another attacker slung a dagger underhand, which took the half-orc in the shoulder. She grimaced in pain and switched her sword to the other hand. The knife thrower drew two more knives and prepared to hurl them. Three more attackers plunged through the gap in the tables to surround Zita and Knotton. Connor was barely holding off the Canician’s powerful attacks.
The defenders were about to be overrun.
Arron raised the crossbow and aimed at the rogue with the knives. He squeezed the trigger, and a bolt sprouted between the shoulder blades of the attacker. The man fell to the ground, throwing knives clattering to the floor.
He charged the attackers’ rear. He ran a man through with Urnov’s sword, puncturing his kidney. The man cried out and slumped against one of the tables. Arron twisted the blade and pulled it free. A dagger tumbled from his opponent’s lifeless hand. Arron nimbly caught it and flipped it around, grasping it by the hilt. He jabbed the dagger into another man’s ribs while, with the short sword, he hacked the sword arm of an elf who had been pressing Knotton. The Torumel squawked in triumph and buried his spear in the elf’s throat.
Zita noticed him and smiled broadly. “Night Wraiths, drive these traitorous whoresons from our hall!”
The odds quickly evened out. Zita slashed a wounded man across the chest, dropping him. She turned and sliced at a female thief, but the woman ducked. The thief swung a cudgel at Zita, but the half-orc parried. She punched the smaller woman in the face with her wounded arm, sending her stumbling backward. Her feet tangled up with another rogue, and the two fell. Zita finished the woman off with a quick slash of the scimitar, and Knotton drove his short spear into the other rogue’s chest.
Connor fell with a cry, a wicked gash carved in his bicep from the dogman’s axe. Before the Canician could cut him down, Arron stabbed the dogman in the thigh.
The Canician gave a wounded yelp and spun. Arron ducked a wild swing and backed away. A crossbow bolt whizzed by Arron’s face, taking a gash out of his cheek before it lodged in the Canician’s ribs.
A quick glance revealed Zalhak’s mouth open in surprise. Zita and Knotton engaged the Canician, hacking and stabbing the dogman until he fell with a prolonged yelp of agony.
After seeing the odds swiftly shift in the defenders’ favor, Zalhak turned to flee.
“Stop that short prick of a dwarf!” Zita shouted.
Arron went to chase him down, but a short spear sailed over his head and impaled the dwarf in the calf. The dwarf grunted in pain and lurched against the wall. Arron was on him before he could recover. A short sword pointed at his throat quickly convinced him to throw down his crossbow and other weapons and surrender.
Zita clapped a strong hand on Arron’s shoulder. “That was well-timed intervention for a dead man.” She kicked the dwarf’s legs out from under him and slammed his face into the floor, driving her knee into his back.
Zalhak cursed and struggled weakly but knew he was done for. Knotton produced a rope from somewhere, and the two of them trussed up the traitor with practiced ease.
“Aye, you know me—I don’t get taken down so easily,” he told Zita when she stood up and faced him again.
“Your sister seemed to think otherwise.” She sighed and went to check on Connor, Arron trailing her. “Not that I miss that bastard Rollo, but she did act a bit hasty, hence all of this mess.” She grimaced and indicated the carnage in the room.
“Ah, loyalists or opportunists?”
Connor was deathly pale and unconscious from blood loss. His arm was mangled, hanging on by a mere strip of flesh from where the Canician’s heavy axe had nearly hacked it off.
“He’s gonna lose that arm,” Knotton remarked, his voice a near screech.
“Aye. Find Kater if he’s still alive and see if we’ve got any healing potions in the storeroom.” Zita struggled to bind Connor’s wound with her own injured arm leaking blood.
The Torumel disappeared down the back hall.
“Let me get it,” Arron offered. He quickly bound Connor’s arm as best he could, but one look told him the thief had lost too much blood.
Zita settled back against one of the upended tables, suddenly looking very weary. “Opportunists, to answer your question. Rollo wasn’t well-liked, and once Nera put the bastard out of his misery, the claws came out. Despite my preparations, many didn’t like the idea of me running the guild, as a female in particular. The past couple days have been one quarrel after the next, and I expelled Zalhak and his ilk from the guild. Didn’t expect them to return in force so quickly.”
A weak gasp came from Connor’s mouth as he expired.
Arron sighed and slumped beside Zita. “It’s too late for him, I’m afraid.”
“Aye, figured as much.” She patted him on the thigh. “So is this what it takes—getting the whole guild nearly slaughtered to a man—to get you to pay me a visit?”
“Sorry, but we’ve been in a pinch of trouble of late. I was spending some time as Lassiter’s guest in the dungeons.”
Knotton returned with Kater, a grizzled old human who tended to the vault. Arron noted his dagger was stained with blood. Zita shook her head when Kater went to tend to Connor. He shrugged and offered Zita the potion instead.
“Thanks. Get that sack of shite out of here, would you?” The two went to retrieve Zalhak and dragged him away to one of the cells at the other end of the guildhall. “I’ll decide what to do with him later. Would you do the honors?” she asked Arron.
“My pleasure,” he replied. He tore a clean strip of cloth from his sleeve, plucked the short-bladed knife free from her shoulder, and quickly bound it with the cloth.
Zita nodded her thanks and pulled the stopper free from the phial with her teeth. She drank a sip of the potion and offered it to Arron. “That’s gonna make a scar.” She pointed at the bloody gash across his cheek.
“Builds character,” he said with a wry grin.
“Say… you look remarkably fresh-faced from all the abuse I heard you took at the foundry, and then the fight with the Magehunters…” She let the remark hang as she tended to do when fishing for information.
Arron thought of his escape from the cell. That process must renew my normal form. Interesting. Strangely, the details of his escape were already becoming fuzzy in his mind.
“Long story,” he replied. “So Nera paid you and Rollo a visit, aye? I’d love to hear what happened.”
Chapter 20
Waresh stared into the tiny campfire, wishing it would erupt into a huge blaze but knowing no matter how much heat the fire put off, it wouldn’t warm the chill in his soul. The clumps of moist fungus and moss smoked and stank, barely providing any heat, but he didn’t care—he liked looking into the dancing flames. He knew the Deep Roads were dangerous and his fire could draw attention, but he cared not. Somewhere, miles behind in the darkness, he had left his companions for dead after betraying them. Not the first time betraying me companions… nor the last, I reckon. ’Tis an illness, a taint on me soul. Others might call it madness, but it’s more than that. This is who I am.
He traced the runes of the Bracer of Fellraven with a thick finger. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the artifact to activate. Like a fool, he had taken it from Nera’s corpse once she had passed on, thinking to use it to escape, only belatedly realizing he didn’t know the command words for it.
Perhaps I’ll come across another town, where I can find a mage or someone who can figure out how to activate it. Barring that, I’ll continue on to this crossroads.
As he focused on the pitiful fire, he was reminded of the flames that burned his hall the night he had murdered his family. By the gods’ blessing, his sister had been delayed returning from a diplomatic visit to another stronghold. As a result, she had been spared from his attack but had the grim job of sifting through the ashes and bodies and salvaging the remnants of his clan.
Waresh was glad of her survival although he knew he could never go home. His sister cursed him for a murderer and kinslayer, rightfully so, and his people would have his head if he was caught. If I weren’t such a coward, perhaps I would return. Would be fitting to gather whatever last remaining shred of honor I might have, to face the headsman’s axe.
He idly fingered the heavy hunk of metal encircling his neck, perpetually chafing at the skin. His thoughts strayed back to the days following his flight from the hall after his bloody deed.
***
He had traveled as a hired caravan guard, along with a dozen other men and dwarves, as they crossed the heartland of Easilon. For many months, they traveled, fought, drank, and told tales together. Waresh had been content, able to feel as though he had some worth even as he eagerly embraced his anonymity. That had ended at the town of Rockwallow, a great trading crossroads grown up around the portal to Nexus.
The caravan had reached the town’s market and helped the merchant set up shop without incident. The guards had drawn lots as to who would remain while the others had the night off to visit the taverns in quest for drink and the warmth of a woman for the night.
Waresh had drawn the short straw and remained behind with his employer and Nils, a young human lad barely able to cover his cheeks with a beard. The lad was inquisitive and quick to learn the sword. He and Waresh ate their dinner and chatted idly while Arnold, his employer, tried to sell his vases, paintings, and other pieces of art to perusing shoppers.
A sharp cry from nearby caused Waresh to drop his plate and race out to the street, thinking a thief had pilfered some of Arnold’s wares, but he found a young peasant woman had been knocked into the mud by a nobleman’s steed in front of the next booth.
“That’ll teach you, you clumsy whore! Watch where you’re going, or next time I’ll be sure to trample you,” the haughty young man said. “Keep out of the way of your betters.”
“I’m sorry, milord!” The woman, barely more than a girl, picked herself up awkwardly and curtsied but stumbled and fell back into the mud, drawing guffaws of boorish laughter from the lord and his courtiers.
The nobleman turned his attention to the merchant’s wares across from Arnold’s stall, his three bootlickers spreading out to browse the nearby stalls. Waresh walked over to the fallen woman. Tears ran down her cheeks as she hobbled on a twisted ankle. She would’ve fallen again, but Waresh caught her arm.
“Easy there, lass.” He helped her out of the mud and onto the dry ground at the edge of Arnold’s stall.
She leaned on the wooden frame of the stall, and Waresh bent to pick up her spilled basket. Four soggy loaves of bread, a slab of freshly butchered pork, and some vegetables had fallen in the muck. He scooped them back into the basket and reached for a handkerchief to wipe them clean, but the young woman stopped him.
“Thank you, sir.” Face flushed with embarrassment, she snatched the basket away from him, but her eyes were warm with gratitude. “I’ll wash these clean when I get home. I need to be more cautious that I don’t get underfoot again.”
Waresh snorted. “Not yer fault, lass. That little piss stain of a lordling needs a strap taken to his arse, I reckon. No need to run people over in the street.”
One of the courtiers heard Waresh’s comment and spun around quickly. “You watch your mouth, dwarf!” he shouted, chest puffed out with bravado. “Lord Brollie will have your tongue for such an insult.”
Waresh scowled at the courtier, his hand caressing Heartsbane’s haft on his back. “Ye best leave before I have yer tongue,” he growled.
The courtier’s face turned pale, and he backed away before turning and running off in the direction of Lord Brollie, who was a couple stalls away.
“Uli, do not speak to the customers, please,” Arnold pleaded, using the alias Waresh was traveling under. “These country lordlings would like nothing better than to spend a day of boredom making sport of those less fortunate.”
The thought of cutting down the nobles sounded appealing under Heartsbane’s influence, but a glance at the injured peasant girl made Waresh’s anger evaporate. He sighed heavily and walked back over to her, noting Nils staring at the girl.
“Here, lass, buy yerself some fresh loaves.” Waresh handed her a few coppers.
“I couldn’t possibly…” She studied his hard face for a moment then relented. “Thank you, sir, for your kindness.” She bowed and began limping back into the street. “Good day to ya.” She glanced over her shoulder and caught Nils staring. She flashed the boy a shy smile.
“Nils, go help the lass make it home. I’ll watch things here,” Waresh told the young guard.
Nils looked shocked for a moment before a grin stole onto his face. He looked over toward Arnold, who had been watching the whole scene.
Arnold nodded. “Go ahead, lad. Just don’t be all evening.”
Nils scampered off after the girl, nearly tripping over his sword in his haste.
Waresh and Arnold chuckled.
“Ah, youth.” The merchant laughed. “Wish I was that age again.”
“Aye, things were much simpler then.” Waresh was about to return to the remains of his dinner when a rude shout stopped him.
“This the half-man that spoke ill of me?” Lord Brollie scowled down at Waresh from his horse.
“Yes, milord, that’s the one,” replied the courtier who had overheard Waresh earlier. He had a smug grin on his face.
Waresh put his hands on hips to face the noble. He was about to open his mouth when Arnold stepped in front of him.
“Milord, my guard obviously misspoke earlier. Fear not—I shall dock his pay as a result of his insult.” He bowed. “Can I offer you a discount on any of my fine wares?”
Brollie sneered. “Nonsense. Let the half-man speak for himself if he’s got something to say. Step forward, you!” he commanded.
Waresh stepped forward and glared at the noble but didn’t reply.
One of the other courtiers wrinkled his brow and whispered something to his companion.
“There something you care to say to me, half-man?” Brollie demanded.
“Nay. Milord,” he added belatedly, the word causing a bad taste in his mouth.
“That so?
Well, I should beat you right here in the street for letting your tongue flap carelessly if you’ve nothing to say.” He was about to say more when one of the courtiers tugged at his sleeve. “What is it?” he snapped.
The courtier whispered in his ear. Waresh glanced at the faces of the other lordlings, not liking the looks on their faces. Recognition. His hand went to his axe haft.
“Can this sorry cur truly be the murderous dwarven prince?” Brollie exclaimed. “Waresh Hammerhelm, he who slew his whole clan? There’s a big enough reward on your head to buy a whole kingdom. Word of your crimes has even reached Nexus.”
“You must be mistaken, milord. Uli’s been with me for well over a year now,” Arnold said.
However, the truth was Waresh had only been with them about six months. He was touched by the merchant’s attempt to protect him.
“It’s all right, me friend.” Waresh put a hand on Arnold’s shoulder and nodded for him to move back out of the way. “I’ll not hide any longer. Seems me shite luck has turned as I knew it would eventually.” He turned back to Brollie and his ilk. “Aye, I’m Waresh Hammerhelm. What of it? Seems a prince can talk to a minor lordling any way he likes, don’t it? And if I think ye need a strap taken to yer arse, I’ll go ahead and say it right to yer face.”
One of Brollie’s courtiers giggled nervously. Brollie’s face turned bright red with fury. He drew his rapier. “Guards! Guards, to me! Don’t let him escape, men. We’ll all be very rich men once we claim the bounty on his head.”
The lordlings dismounted, frowning with distaste as the mud squelched beneath their shiny riding boots. They drew their fencing swords and spread out, meaning to surround Waresh. Heartsbane vibrated in his hand as if alive, itching to be wielded. He fought against the need to kill, but he was quickly losing that struggle. His muscles tensed, his nerves raw, but he held.
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