by Robert Bevan
As quietly as he could, he tiptoed to the cellar door and pulled it open slowly. He didn’t know why he was bothering to be so quiet, as he knew all along what his next move was going to be.
“Hello?”
There was no answer except for more frantic scooting of chair legs on the floor. Were there more than one person down there? Maybe a poker game? Why weren’t they answering him? “Who’s down there?”
Still no answer. Just more scooting. That was weird. Tim abandoned his original intention to keep his dagger hidden until he knew he needed it, and held it out in front of him. He kept the roast beef sandwich ready, and held out hope that he’d be able to offer that instead.
“I’m coming down there,” Tim called down the stairs. “And I’m prepared to defend myself.”
He focused entirely on his Move Silently skill. Whoever was down there knew he was coming. Announcing that, in retrospect, had possibly been an error in judgement. But he could still get the jump on them if they didn’t know exactly when he was going to show himself.
As Tim crept slowly down the stairs, he imagined he’d get a bonus modifier to his Move Silently checkbecause the continued scooting of chairs on the floor would help to mask what little sound he was making.
Maybe it would be better to hold his dagger by the blade, ready to throw it. He might be able to get in a Sneak Attack from a distance. No, that was a stupid idea. If whatever was down there was hostile, and he didn’t kill it with that first strike, he’d be armed with nothing but a roast beef sandwich.
Then again, the crate where they kept the daggers was pretty close to the bottom of the staircase. Jump. Throw. Roll. Grab another weapon. Tim grinned to himself. Some Rambo/James Bond shit was about to go down. He twirled the dagger in his fingers until he was holding it by the blade.
At the bottom of the stairs, Tim took deep breaths to steady his nerves.
Three… Two…“Surprise, motherfucker!” Tim jumped out into the open, spotted a target, and let his dagger fly.
A halfling, bound to a chair and gagged, stared back at him in wide-eyed terror as the dagger thudded into the wall right next to his head.
“Un-fucking-believable,” said Tim. “I missed a stationary target? Hang on… Who the fuck are you?”
As far as good times to make shitty attack rolls, this was probably one of the best. He might have killed that poor little fucker, who looked like he was already having a pretty rough day. As Tim looked around, he noticed another gaping flaw in his plan. The crates full of weapons were all gone. The cellar was empty except for the captive halfling and the big wooden dildo-stake.
“I’m sorry, dude,” said Tim. He pulled his dagger out of the wall. “Stop squirming so I can help you.”
The halfling sat rigidly still as Tim cut the bandana tied around his head, then spat out a second wad of fabric that had been stuffed into his mouth. “Thank you!”
“What are you doing down here? Who did this to you?”
“I was taken prisoner by a female dwarf.”
“Dennis,” said Tim. “That fucking douche.” He looked down at the dildo on the floor. “Did he… I mean she…touch you?”
“Touch me?” said the halfling. “She did a lot more than that!”
Tim held up his hands. “Oh Jesus, stop. I don’t even want to know.” The story began to play out in his mind. Everybody goes home, but Dennis chooses to stay. He can do whatever the fuck he wants in this world, more or less free of consequences. As soon as they’re all gone, he wastes no time setting up his own little gimp-cellar. Motherfucker was probably out there right now trying to kidnap another halfling– or worse, an actual child – for his collection. That sick, sadistic fuck.
“Please let me out of here before she comes back.”
“You bet.” Tim started cutting away at the ropes. “You get as far away from here as you can. I’ll take care of that dwarf bitch. You’ll never have to worry about her again.”
The grateful halfling stretched out his limbs and massaged his wrists. “Thanks, Tim.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Tim. He held up his roast beef sandwich. “Do you want a sandwich?”
The halfling stared perplexedly at the sandwich.
Tim grinned. Of course this poor bastard didn’t recognize it. He probably didn’t even know what a sandwich was. The tinfoil wrapper surely didn’t make it any clearer. He unwrapped the sandwich and offered it again. “It’s food. You eat it. Delicious. Yum yum.”
“I… Where did you…” The halfling’s growling stomach stopped his train of half-asked questions. “Thank you.” He took the sandwich and ripped away a quarter of it with one bite.
“Pretty good, huh?”
“Delicious,” said the halfling. “Yum yum.” He took another bite.
“I’ve got some curly fries upstairs if you want to try those as well.”
The halfling looked down at the chair and dildo. “I really should be going. This has all been very traumatic.”
“I understand. You take care of yourself. I’m really sorry this happened.”
Tim escorted the halfling up the stairs and out of the building through the gap in the wall.
He was kind of a hero. He’d just rescued another person from a life of captivity and abuse from a sick asshole. The only feeling more satisfying than that would be seeing the look on that nutless fucker’s face when he came back and found his gimp had been set free.
The only question left then would be whether he should just kill her straight away, or get medieval on her ass. Tim didn’t think long on that one. He didn’t have the stomach for torture. He’d just straight-up kill her.
This was the first step in Tim turning his life around, and it felt good. He helped himself to another abandoned beer and a roast beef sandwich.
Chapter 37
Randy stared out the window of the top floor of the right hand tower of South Gate. He and Professor Goosewaddle were there by the King’s request. Occasionally, one of the residents of the Whore’s Head would glare up at him from the rampart.
“Lower the gate,” said the king. His voice was low and grim, but resolute.
“Brother, you can’t,” said Desmond. “There are still refugees coming from PortTown. Women and children, Winston.”
“That’s exactly what the orcs are counting on. They mean to exploit my merciful reputation. My scouts reported that the orcs aren’t advancing up the road. They’re staying under the cover of the forest on either side.Any minute now, they’ll start pouring out of the forest as near as they can to the wall, and we won’t have time to lower theportcullis. If they take control of the gate towers, the city is as good as lost.”
“That’s no army, brother. It’s a mob. We have wizards and sorcerers on the walls. A few well-placed fireballs will scatter those orcs like the cockroaches they are.”
“Has your vision failed you? Or have you just not noticed the giant flying boat sailing this way? The one flanked by three red dragons? There’s a six hundred-year-old lich at the helm seeking to end our bloodline. We can’t waste spells on orcs.”
The king turned to the guards manning the gate crank, who appeared to be stalling until the argument was settled. “Your king gave you an order. Lower the gate!”
It took three soldiers to push the shafts sticking out of a central axle which fed the heavy iron chain connected to the top of the gate. They each gripped their shafts and started pushing counter-clockwise.
As the gate started lowering, Randy gripped the stone ledge and leaned forward. The nearest refugees sprinted to beat the closing gate, in many cases discarding belongings they had deemed important enough to travel for miles with. Sadly, the ones with children seemed to be lagging the farthest behind. They weren’t going to make it. Randy had never felt so helpless. He wanted to plead with the king to keep the gate open a little longer, but if his own brother couldn’t convince him, Randy surely wouldn’t be able to either. Besides, Randy knew the king was only looking out for the pe
ople already within the city walls. The responsibility to make decisions like this was something Randy was grateful he’d never have.
Desmond, the king’s brother, morphed into a golden eagle and flew out of the south window. Randy was mildly curious about where he might be flying off to, but his attention was drawn to Professor Goosewaddle, staring gravely southward, not at Desmond or the doomed refugees, but at the approaching boat.
Part of why Randy liked the professor was that he never seemed to take things too seriously, like he’d lived long enough to brush off as trifles what younger folks often viewed as tragedies, always maintaining a sunny and cheerful disposition.
That wasn’t how he looked now. The professor looked old, tired, and even a little scared.
“Something on your mind, Professor?” asked Randy. He knew it was a stupid question, but he had to break the tension.
“Dragons,” said Professor Goosewaddle, not taking his eyes away from the flying boat.
“They pretty badass?”
“They are extremely powerful, and vastly intelligent. But they are mortal. Put enough arrows in them, and they’ll drop out of the sky.”
That sounded good to Randy. He frowned. “I feel like there’s a but coming.”
“But they’re also selfish and fiercely independent. It’s rare to see two red dragons of that size working together. Seeing three seemingly subservient to one master makes me wonder if all the arrows and spells in the world would be enough to fell that ship.”
Desmond was returning, gripping a screaming toddler by the arms in his gold talons. Randy and Professor Goosewaddle stepped to the side to let him in.
“Have you lost your mind?” said the king. “I can’t fight a war with this noise!”
Desmond took his human form. “I thought, since you were about to make him an orphan, you’d be best suited to raise him.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back into an eagle and flew out of the window again. Parents were raising their children above their heads, trying to get his attention.
“Desmond, come back!” the king shouted over the wails of the child. “Gods have mercy. Somebody take this child downstairs!”
“As you command, Your Majesty,” said one of the three guards manning the gate crank. Randy suspected he was just happy for an excuse to get the hell out of there.
With the gate now completely lowered, a crowd of refugees was pooling at the base of the wall, all shouting to be let in.
“Fire!” shouted a soldier on the rampart to Randy’s right.
As the king had predicted, orcs had begun to charge out of the forest where it was nearest the wall. They were met with a barrage of arrows, dropping a few of them instantly. But for the majority of them, a single arrow wasn’t enough to take them down. Orcs poured out of the forest faster than the archers could kill them.
“Fire!” An identical situation broke loose to Randy’s left.
Dead orc bodies were piling up along the base of the wall, but they were dropping closer and closer to the huddling refugees, and the torrent of orcs flowing out of the forest showed no signs of letting up. The night air was alive with the twangs of bowstrings, orcish battle cries, the screams of terrified refugees… and the pounding of heavy boots racing urgently up the stairs.
“Your Majesty!” said a high ranking soldier, judging by the quality of his armor.
The king winced. “What is it now?”
“North Gate has been breached.”
“They’re attacking from the north, too? How did they get in?”
“Not in, Your Majesty. The breach was from the inside. They got out.”
The king balled up his fists. “That pigheaded bastard! He had one job! Do nothing. How hard is that?”
“Who?” said Desmond, who had returned with a little half-elven girl. “What happened?”
“Balharr, my most cunning general, has taken it upon himself to disobey a direct order. That’s treason. I’ll have his pig head on a pike!”
“Calm down, brother,” said Desmond. “This is partially your fault for keeping him penned up when there’s a war to be fought. You denied him his purpose. He only wants to serve you. That’s not treason.”
The news-bearing soldier cleared his throat. “There’s more, Your Majesty. They wear tunics identical to the enemy’s.” He lowered his eyes. “Complete with the Bloodfist of Meb’ Garshur.”
Randy knew what the receiving end of betrayal looked like, and that’s what he saw in the king’s tired eyes. He’d been frustrated and madder than hell just a second ago, but now he was heartbroken.
“There must be some mistake,” said Desmond. “Balharr is a good man, Winston. He wouldn’t do this.”
The king looked down at the scared half-elven girl hiding behind Desmond’s leg. “This is a disaster. I’ve failed my people in every conceivable way. Go, Desmond. Save what children you can.”
“Excuse me,” said Randy. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But if Balharr was gonna betray you, why would he sneak out the back? Why wouldn’t he just march his orcs up here, chuck all us out the window, and force the gate open?”
The king furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “That is an excellent question.”
“Steady on, men!” cried the soldier giving commands on the western side of the south rampart. “They’re falling back!”
Randy poked his head out of the window. Sure enough, the torrent of orcs pouring out of the forest had slowed to a trickle, each one getting three or four arrows in the chest as soon as he cleared the trees.
As the screaming and shouting died down in the immediate vicinity, more distant screaming and shouting could be heard coming from the woods. After a moment, orcs began running out of the forest farther away from the wall in every direction. The archers on the wall all looked at each other, collectively shrugged, and started casually picking off orcs as they came within bow range.
“What in the Abyss has gotten into those fool orcs?” said Desmond, having returned with another child.
“Bedlam,” said the king, gazing out at the sudden change in the tide of battle. “Complete and utter chaos. I’m afraid I owe Balharr an apology.” The cry of a baby brought his attention downward. “Quickly, raise the gate!”
Randy ran to the crank and manned the third shaft himself. Together, he and the two soldiers turned the crank clockwise, and the gate began to rise.
“Your Majesty,” said Professor Goosewaddle. “By my estimation, the Phantom Pinas should be within range of your more advanced spellcasters’ Fireballs.”
The king joined the professor at the window. “Can you hit it from this range?”
“I believe I can, Your Majesty.”
“Then fire at will.”
Professor Goosewaddle rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. He closed his eyes, cupped his hands in front of him, as if cradling an invisible globe, and mumbled some words in a language that Randy didn’t even come close to recognizing. When he opened his eyes and hands, a marble-sized, but intensely bright orange sphere hovered in place for a second, then darted away so fast that Randy almost couldn’t follow it.
Upon reaching the flying boat, the sphere exploded into a massive, fiery orb, which did little but expose the even more massive invisible orb surrounding the boat. Some sort of force field.
“Just as I feared,” said Professor Goosewaddle. “The Pinas is protected.”
Randy did not giggle.
But somebody else finally seemed to get the joke. A deep, hollow laugh echoed out from the boat. It was your quintessential “Muhuhahahaha!” evil villain laugh, and it grew louder with each bellowing repetition, drowning out all other sounds, until it abruptly stopped.
The night was dead silent. No one dared breathe. The huddled masses at the gate stopped pushing their way in. Those refugees still on the road stopped in their tracks.
A ray of green light, like the beam of a searchlight, shone out from the front of the boat onto the people frozen in fear, standing in the op
en gateway. The light scanned west along the base of the wall, shining on the multitude of arrow-riddled orc corpses, which began to twitch and moan.
“Lower the gate,” whispered the king. His voice trembled.
Nobody moved.
The green beam locked on the gate again, then scanned along the eastern part of the wall, shining its evil magic on the piles of dead orcs.
“Lower the gods damned gate!”
The bad-news soldier assisted the two others in turning the crank counter-clockwise, but they were far too late.
The crowd at the gate screamed.Those already inside the walls fled deeper into the city. Those on the outside of the walls ran back out onto the road or into the forest. Undead orcs swiped their powerful arms at anyone who got too close, but didn’t chase after them. They appeared to have their priorities in order, and those all amounted to securing the open gate.
Archers on either side of the gateway fired their arrows, but they were ineffectual against the undead. When the gate was low enough, two dozen orc zombie hands grabbed the bottom and shook it back and forth until they had pulled it free of the tracks it slid down on and crashed onto the ground. Hundreds of orc zombies flooded into the city.
“Your Majesty,” said the bad-news soldier. “It’s no longer safe for you here. We must get you to a secure location.”
The two soldiers who had been manning the gate crank drew their swords and took defensive positions at the top of the stairs, ready to hack away a path of undead orc if need be.
“Go, Winston,” said Desmond. “We’ll find a way through this, and your people will need you more than ever.”
The king shook his head. “I’ve done it again. I played right into his hand.” He allowed himself to be escorted to the stairs.
Things had gone from bad to not-so-bad to really bad in a very short amount of time. Randy had been trusting the king’s wisdom to get them out of this like a person might trust the pilot of an airplane that’s clearly headed into a mountain and all the engines are on fire. He couldn’t let the king leave without giving them some kind of guidance. “Um…” he said. “Your Majesty? Is there anything specific you’d like us to do?”