by Robert Bevan
“I was scared,” said Randy. “And I ain’t never stabbed nothing before.”
“Nothin’ but buttholes,” Denise muttered.
Once again, every eye in the room focused on Denise, not one of them betraying any sign of amusement.
Denise looked at the floor. “Sorry.”
“The Little Red Riding Hood connection is tenuous at best,” said Frank. “Though a timid fiendish dire wolf raises some suspicion. That, along with the Red Robes thing is certainly enough to warrant further investigation. You did right by bringing him in.” He looked over at the halfling. “Knocking him out might have been a little excessive though. Did you at least try to coerce him peacefully first?”
“We ain’t laid a hand on him,” said Denise. “At least, not until he went and passed out on his own.”
Frank, Rhonda, and Stuart exchanged some uncomfortable glances.
Frank finally broke the confused silence. “You say he passed out without any provocation?”
Randy nodded.
“We ain’t provocated shit,” said Denise.
Stuart frowned. “I can’t think of any game-related reason why that should happen.”
Frank sighed and glanced at the sleeping halfling. “This story is getting stranger and stranger. I don’t like it.” He looked up at Randy. “Is there anything else?”
Randy patted the lump under his rough wool shirt. “There’s one more thing.”
Frank rubbed his temples. “Of course there is.”
Randy pulled out the polished wooden stick and placed it in front of Frank. “This fell out of the tree he was hiding in.”
Frank turned to Rhonda. “What can you make of it?”
“Goddamn, woman!” said Denise as Rhonda’s eyes glowed with bright white light.
Rhonda stared at the stick for a full minute before her eyes returned to normal. “I picked up a powerful aura of conjuration magic.”
“Powerful enough to summon a fiendish dire wolf?” asked Stuart.
“Possibly. I could cast an Identify spell to know for sure, but it will take time, and the components are expensive.”
Stuart looked at the sleeping halfling.“Don’t bother. I think I know what happened. We need to tie him up.”
“What’s your theory?” asked Frank.
“Mordred follows these two hillbillies into the woods–”
“Hey!” objected Randy and Denise.
Stuart ignored them. “While they’re screwing around doing whatever, he climbs into a tree, summons the wolf, and commands it to attack him until it is struck with a weapon, at which point it is to run away.”
“Why?” asked Frank. “What would be the point?”
Stuart shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to be brought back here to infiltrate the Whore’s Head Inn.”
Frank shook his head. “If Mordred wanted to infiltrate the Whore’s Head, he wouldn’t bother screwing around with wolves and wands. He’d just knock on the door and say ‘Hi. I’m Bernie from Milwaukee. I got sent here a few days ago.’.”
“Well then maybe he’s testing the new recruits, running auditions to replace his Horsemen. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I can’t think of any other reason that these two aren’t currently little piles of fiendish dire wolf shit in the woods.”
“And how do you explain him passing out for no reason?”
“I don’t know,” said Stuart. “I’m not claiming to have all the answers. All I’m saying is that we have some pretty compelling evidence that – Wait, where’d he go?”
Randy looked at the table he’d set the halfling on. It was bare. Before panic could start to set in, he heard a thud and a grunt behind him.
Denise stood over Wister, who was groaning on the floor and cradling his nuts.
Wister flipped over, pushed himself to his knees, and was about to make a break for it when Denise kicked him hard in the ass, sending him face-first into the floor.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Frito?”She jumped on the halfling’s back and put him in a choke hold.
“What did you call him?” asked Rhonda.
“Let... go!” Wister forced the words through his constricted throat.
“Frito,” said Denise. “You know, like the midget with the ring in them movies?”
“That’s Frodo.”
“Please... stop!”
“Maybe I got him mixed up with that guy from The Godfather.”
Rhonda shook her head. “That’s Fredo.”
“Can’t... breathe!”
“That Mexican painter lady with the unibrow?”
“Frida Kahlo.”
Denise let Wister’s once again unconscious body drop to the floor. “Well then who the fuck is Frito?”
“That’s a corn chip.”
Denise looked thoughtfully at the floor, then raised her head again. “Oh yeah. That’s right.”
“Did you have to choke him to the point of passing out again?” asked Stuart. “We could have questioned him just now.”
“Sorry,” said Denise. “Force of habit.”
Stuart turned to Frank. “At least now we know he’s a flight risk. All the more reason to tie him up and keep him under guard in the cellar until we can get a definitive answer, don’t you think?”
Frank frowned. “We don’t know it’s Mordred. What if we’re wrong? What if we keep him tied up in the cellar for a week, and then find out that he’s not Mordred? What do we do with him then? Turn him loose so he can run to the authorities?”
“It’s the only lead we’ve got,” said Stuart. “And I think it’s a strong one. Rhonda, what do you think?”
“I don’t think I want to be around when everybody wakes up and finds out that we probably caught Mordred and then decided to let him go.”
“I didn’t say we should let him go,” said Frank.
“Then how do you propose we contain him?” asked Stuart. “The walls in this place aren’t even finished.And let’s not forget that he’s a spellcaster. Who knows what kind of magic he could use to slip away unnoticed? We need to keep his arms restrained so that he can’t use magic. And we need someone on him around the clock to make sure he doesn’t try anything.”
Frank put his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. “I just don’t know.”
“Don’t stress yourself out about it,” said Rhonda. “This decision isn’t yours to make.”
Frank nodded his head in resignation.
Randy cleared his throat. “If it’s all the same to you folks, I’d like to be the one to keep watch over him. I know you’s all good people, but I just want to make sure no harm don’t befall him.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, my friend,” said Frank.
“And why’s that?”
“Because you have somewhere else to be. Some gentlemen came by looking for you a little while ago. They banged on the door until we woke up.”
Randy didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Who was it? Don’t nobody know me here.”
“They were kingsguard,” said Frank. “The king has requested a meeting with you, as you are the only known worshiper of the New God.” He smiled. “You are to report to the royal palace immediately.”
Randy swallowed hard. “Oh shit.”
Chapter 22
Chaz trudged back up the road, tired, sweaty, and thirsty. He hadn’t slept well, due to his lute making a lousy pillow, and his mouth still felt funky from not having brushed his teeth. He wanted a shower and a toothbrush, or at least a shot of hard liquor to swish around in his mouth.
What he didn’t want was to be walking alone on Certain Death Boulevard with nothing to protect himself with but a lute and a sword that was about as intimidating as a dry stick of spaghetti.
He strummed his lute, trying not to think about what kind of terrible creatures lurked in the woods to either side of him, just waiting to jump out and eviscerate him. He knew there was at least one owlbear, whatever the fuck that was, roaming t
he wilderness, no doubt pissed off by its sudden inability to scratch its nuts. Judging by the size of those arms, it probably wouldn’t need them to kick his ass.
The woods were quiet. The first sound Chaz heard, aside from the strings of his lute, came not from his right or left, but from behind him.
Chaz turned around. A wagon was approaching, pulled by two white horses. With a little charm and a little luck, he might be able to get himself a ride into town. Or he might get raped, or murdered, or both. After pausing to think about the owlbear with no arms and itchy balls, he decided to take his chances.
“Good day, gentlemen!” Chaz shouted as soon as he judged the two drivers to be within shouting distance. They wore uniform armor. Kingsguard. That’s good. Kingsguard were responsible for keeping order, and upholding the king’s good reputation. They probably didn’t rape and murder innocent civilians. He looked up and down the otherwise empty road. At least, not while anyone was there to witness it.
“Get out of the way!” the soldier on the right shouted back at him.
In a way, that was comforting. Chaz felt that he could now exclude rape as a probable outcome of this encounter. Still, getting a ride seemed like an equally unlikely prospect. Fortunately, he had a backup plan. He stepped aside, allowing the wagon to go on its way if that’s what the drivers decided. He strummed on his lute and began singing the theme song to The Golden Girls, which was the only song about friendship which came to mind on such short notice.
“Stop the wagon!” demanded the soldier on the left.
The horses stopped, and the two soldiers smiled as Chaz continued to play through to the end of the song.
“That was a lovely song. Wasn’t it, Gareth?”
“Indeed it was, sir,” responded the soldier holding the horses’ reins. “Melted my heart, it did.”
The superior officer leaned down and smiled at Chaz. “Did you really mean it? Would the biggest gift, indeed, be from you?”
“Absolutely!” Chaz couldn’t believe how hard these two guys fell under his spell. Maybe bard wasn’t such a shit class after all. In the wrong hands, this kind of influence could topple kingdoms.
“And what may we do for you, dear friend?”
“I could really use a lift into town.”
“What do you think, Gareth? Do we have enough room in the back?”
“Always room for one more, sir.”
Chaz was a little confused. “One more?”
“I’ll need you to surrender your weapon.”
“Of course,” said Chaz, hurrying to unbuckle his sword. He handed it up to the officer in charge while the other soldier, Gareth, climbed down. “Do you need my lute as well?”
“The gods forbid!” cried the officer. “What better way to break the tedium of travel than with a string of delightful songs?”
Chaz took that to mean they’d expect him to play non-stop all the way to Cardinia. Still, it was better than walking.
Grinding chains crunched from on top of the wagon’s roof as Gareth used both hands to turn a large crank on the side. As he did so, the back of the wagon opened up from the top outward, like the bow ramp of a Higgins boat, suspended on a chain at each of the top corners.
“What are you guys carrying in here?” Chaz shouted over the loud crunch of chain against chain. “Turnips? Potatoes? Melons?” He really hoped it wasn’t manure.
The soldier grinned in a way that made the hair on the back of Chaz’s neck stand up. “Rhymes with melons.”
Chaz couldn’t think of any words offhand that rhymed with melons. Ellens? Helens? Magellans?
As the door descended further, shedding light into the shadowy interior of the wagon, Chaz saw chains feeding up into the ceiling. At the end of the chains were manacles. In the manacles were wrists.
The door slowly kept lowering, and wrists gave way to arms, then to curious, filthy faces all staring at Chaz. There was an orc with a chest full of scars and a steel prosthetic right leg, a goblin holding a thick tuft of coarse brown hair in one of his raised hands, and a curious-looking half-elf with charcoal grey skin and a wild mop of hair that might have been white if it were clean. All were standing with their arms raised as high as they would go.
“Felons,” said Chaz when the top of the door touched the road and the chains stopped crunching. And there was rape, back on the table.
“That was a good one, Cappy,” said the half-elf. “I was going to guess bellends.” This provoked suppressed giggles from his fellow convicts. “It’s a near rhyme.”
The soldier did not look amused. “You bunch of bellends won’t be laughing tomorrow when your bodies are fed to the pigs.”
“I expect not, sir. But do warn your wife not to choke on my bellend again. It’s bigger than what she’s used to.” The giggles that followed this time were not suppressed in the least.
The soldier’s face smoldered as he grabbed the hilt of his sword. After a few deep breaths, he relaxed, no doubt imagining the lunatic with a premature death wish swinging at the end of a rope the next morning. He looked at Chaz and smiled pleasantly.
“Come on then. In you go.”
Chaz wasn’t fooled for a second by the invitational tone in his voice. Still, he had to make at least a perfunctory effort to get out of this.
“You know what? I don’t want to trouble you. I think I’ll just walk after all.” He took a step back, and into the breastplate of the other guard, Gareth, who had come around to flank him. Fuck.
“I believe Captain Reynolds just told you to get in the wagon.”
“Good news, gentlemen!” said Captain Reynolds. “You’ll make the last leg of your last journey with music.” He turned to Chaz. “Don’t be shy. They won’t bite. Well the little gobber might. He’s in here for eating his mother.”
Chaz looked at the goblin.
The goblin grinned back at him, baring teeth which were filed to points. “She had ripe melons.”
Making a mental note never again to attempt using his crappy first level spells on the king’s soldiers for the purpose of laziness, Chaz slumped up the ramp and took the empty spot on the benchnext to the orc, hoping that he was in for something like tax evasion.
The inside of the wagon stank something fierce. Who knows how many condemned men had soiled themselves on the way to the gallows in here. But it was nothing compared to trying to extract the last remnants of oxygen out of the fart cloud Cooper had left in the Bag of Holding while waiting for someone to remember that Chaz was still in there.
“Play loud,” said Captain Reynolds, “So we can hear you up front.” He stood with his hand casually resting on the hilt of his sword while Gareth went back around to crank the door closed again. He seemed to know that Chaz was waiting for an opportunity to jump up and bolt out of there, and seemed to be hoping he’d try.
As the chains lifted the top of the door, the chains inside the wagon, connected to the prisoners’ manacles, slowly allowed them to lower their arms. As loud as those chains had sounded outside, they were even louder inside the wagon. By the time the door finally closed, cutting off Chaz’s only hope of escape, everyone around him was sitting down on their benches. The crunching sound was still ringing in his ears when the wagon jerked forward.
When the wagon had achieved its cruising speed, someone banged on the wall from the outside. “I don’t hear any music!”
“Play something,” said the dark half-elf. “Keep it instrumental if you can. I need to think.”
Chaz nodded. With certain death waiting for him in Cardinia, the only thing this guy had to think about was escape, and that suited Chaz just fine. He started plucking and strumming.
“What is that style of music?” asked the half-elf. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“Surf rock,” said Chaz.
The half-elf looked like he was about to inquire further, but shook his head and steepled his fingers, his eyes focused on a point of empty space between himself and Chaz.
Chaz continued
playing, hoping to see some hint of inspiration on the half-elf’s face.
The half-elf nodded slowly, like a plan was brewing in his mind. His gaze flickered almost imperceptibly quickly to the orc and back, then slowly down to the goblin on his left who was snacking on the hair in his hand like it was cotton candy.
Finally, he leaned in close to Chaz. “Whatever happens. Whatever you see. Do not stop playing. Do you understand?”
Chaz nodded. It sounded like some serious shit was about to go down, but he was in the unusually fortunate position of standing between two violently opposing parties who wanted exactly the same thing from him. He’d pluck that lute until his fingers wore down to bloody nubs if he had to.
“What’s going on?” demanded the orc. Perhaps the half-elf’s glance hadn’t been as imperceptible as Chaz had thought.
“Easy, big guy,” said the half-elf. He reached his foot back under his bench as far as it would go and rolled out a quarterstaff similar to the one Julian always carried around. He grinned up at the orc. “We’re busting out of here.”
The orc smiled broadly, exposing a mouth full of cavity-riddled teeth and tusks. “What can I do?”
“I need you to look outside,” said the half-elf. “Alert me when we pass a tree with a bright blue stripe painted down the trunk.”
The orc nodded. “I’m on it.” He lowered himself awkwardly from the bench to the floor with his good leg and peered through the bars below the paneling.
The half-elf cleared his throat. “I’ll need what’s left of the dwarf’s beard as well.” He reached cautiously for the hair clutched tightly in the goblin’s hand.
To absolutely no one’s surprise, least of all the half-elf’s, the crazy hair-munching goblin snarled and hissed as he jerked his hand away.
“Come on now,” said the half-elf. “Think of all the people you can eat on the outside. Think about Captain Reynolds.”
The goblin gave it some thought, then reluctantly opened his hand.
The half-elf took the tuft of hair and started working at it with his hands, bunching it together and aligning the ends on one side.