Stolen

by Adam Collins

  ‘Where to?’ she asked.

  ‘To me stronghold in Briar. A much more befittin’ place for a valuable prize such as yourself,’ he grinned and slapped Anabel’s bottom.

  Anabel spun and punched him as hard as she could into the mouth. Blood exploded from a ruptured lip and bits of rotten teeth clattered along the wooden floor. Grik reeled backwards in shock, but before he could recover Anabel kicked him between his legs. He dropped like a man run-through. Merrith was standing to one side with hands pressed against her cheeks aghast. She quickly covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Grik was making a gasping whining sound while crumpled into a ball at their feet. Merrith smiled broadly, stood beside Anabel and whispered, ‘Are you a warrior?’

  ‘No...I played a lot of Tackball when I was growing up,’

  ‘Tackball?’ Merrith looked confused.

  ‘It’s a boy’s game, and a bit rough,’ Anabel smiled.

  Merrith looked back down at Grik, who was still curled up and making funny sounds, ‘Can you teach me how to play?’

  ‘Just as soon as we get a chance,’ said Anabel.

  It was fifteen minutes before Grik stopped rocking backwards and forwards, and thirty before he could speak. His threat to kill Anabel as soon as he regained the use of his legs didn’t hold the usual menace. Due largely to the higher pitch of his voice. He eventually came round. But instead of killing Anabel as he had promised he looked curiously wary of her. Keeping a good leg length away at all times.

  As the girls finally left Ash, it was aboard a caged slave wagon. Grik rode at the front of the twenty five man column. He seemed ill-at-ease atop his horse and was constantly shifting his body-weight as if in pain. The young women took much comfort from this and Merrith snickered whenever he winced. By late evening they had left Ash far behind. The landscape was different here. They were finally away from the swamps of southern Gantu. Here the ground was solid and the foliage different. Though still in the wetlands they were at least away from the mud and mire of the swamp. That night after eating, they both slept inside the wagon. It was uncomfortable but better than sleeping outside on the cold ground. As they lay on the bed of the rig Merrith turned to face Anabel. ‘Thank you for what you did today,’ she whispered.

  ‘He had it coming. Was that the first time, he...?’

  Merrith pulled her blanket up under her chin. She was beautiful, Anabel noted. Slim and petite with big oval brown eyes and full lips. ‘No, he...selected me, soon after I was captured,’ a few tears slipped down her face.

  Anabel gently stroked her cheek and fixed a stray strand of hair. ‘Stay strong, Merrith. We’ll get out of this somehow, I promise you.’

  Merrith smiled. ‘I have nothing left to be strong for,’ more tears flowed.

  ‘What about your family? Mother...? Father...? Husband?’

  ‘All taken. I’m not even sure if they're still in Ash. By now they could be anywhere from here to Mabak-Var,’ she pulled up the rough blanket and wiped her tears. ‘Whenever I close my eyes to sleep I remember Kern’s screams as they beat him.’

  Anabel continued to gently stroke the top of Merrith’s head. ‘Who’s Kern?’

  Merrith’s teary eyes peeked over the top of the blanket. ‘My...my betrothed. Oh Anabel, how could he ever take me back now?’ The tears were flooding down Merrith's face. ‘I feel so...dirty,’

  ‘Oh my poor Merrith this is none of your doing,’ Anabel took hold of Merrith's face in both hands. ‘Of course he'll want you back. Kern loves you, don’t you ever forget that.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it,’ Anabel smiled.

  Merrith threw her arms around Anabel and hugged her, ‘I so hope you're right, Anabel. Please be right.’

  ‘I am right. I feel it in my soul. And I’ll tell you something else,’ Anabel lifted Merrith's face up to look at her. ‘That animal Grik will have to crawl over my dead body to get to you again. And that’s a promise.’

  Merrith smiled and wiped away the last of her tears. ‘How about you, is there anyone special?’

  ‘Yes, lots. They were all special in their own way,’ grinned Anabel

  Merrith shot up onto her elbow. ‘Tell me more. How many suitors did you have? she smiled through still wet eyes.

  ‘Oh, quite a few. Though they all lacked that special…something,’ Anabel lay on her back staring at the ceiling.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Now it was Merrith's turn to stare off blankly. ‘Kern had that, something. Strong but sweet. And the dreamiest eyes.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet him. He sounds a catch,’ smiled Anabel.

  ‘He has a brother. I could introduce you,’ giggled Merrith smiling broadly. Then the smile slowly faded. ‘Had a brother,’ she corrected. Then she lay back down. The moment was gone as reality returned.

  ‘I can’t wait to meet him. If he's half as good as Kern I’ll be a happy woman,’ said Anabel.

  ‘He’s at least that,’ Merrith smiled.

  There was silence for a long time as they settled down to sleep.

  ‘Anabel, are you asleep?’

  ‘Not quiet,’ answered Anabel drowsily.

  ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘You're welcome...I enjoyed it…very much.’

  24. Password

  It was late evening, Balzimar was standing close to his mule on the dirt road that lead to the main entry gate of Ash. He was using Bru as a shield against prying eyes as he examined the seeker-stone.

  ‘East or west, which is it?’ hissed Brok

  Balzimar scratched his head as he looked at the stone turning left, then right, and back to the left again, in a continuous loop. ‘This is strange indeed. It seems to be trying to point in both directions at once.’

  ‘Maybe it’s broken,’ offered Brok.

  ‘Nonsense, I just need a little time to focus,’ huffed Balzimar, clearly getting very irritated by Brok's foolish comment.

  The wizard closed his eyes. The stone continued to flick left and right, but faster now. ‘This is infuriating. It’s never done this before. It really makes no sense at all,’ he shook his head.

  ‘Never mind, we’ll use the old fashioned way. We have a spy up here who may well have helpful information. Goes by the name of Ortor Drass. We'll need to make contact,’ said Brok, remounting his horse.

  ‘Where can we find him?’ asked Brinn.

  ‘He’s the inn-keep at The Winsome Wench. We’ll make for there. Keep your wits about you, it's not a good place for a tongue-slip.’

  Brinn and Balzimar mounted and followed Brok through the wooden gates. Other than a perfunctory glance, the wall guards paid them little heed. Ash was a busy place with lots of comings and goings. The streets were little more than stone and clay and the buildings were square or rectangular flat roofed boxes constructed using untreated logs. The men that they passed looked dangerous, mostly human but now and again there were dwarves, and always in groups of three or four.

  If it was possible for Ash to have a poorer quarter then they seemed to be heading into it. Every second building had semi-clothed half starved women outside, bidding any who passed to enter. Further along, a small crowd had gathered to watch a knife fight between two very large drunken slavers. It didn’t last long, much to the disappointment of the crowd.

  After a few more streets and a couple of turns they arrived at The Winsome Wench Inn. There was a stable attached to the side, an eager stable-hand took charge of their horses for a few pennies. Brok lead the way into the smoke-filled interior of the Inn. It was busy inside. Most of the tables looked to be occupied by cut-throats and ruffians. The patrons scanned the newcomers as they entered, but curiosity sated quickly returned to their drinks and conversations. Brok walked to a table in the corner that had the look of being recently vacated. Empty tankards and plates littered its top. Soon a portly woman, neither fair nor ugly, came to remove the crockery and take their orders.

  ‘What’s i
n the pot tonight?’ asked Brok.

  ‘There’s roast mutton, or mutton stew,’ answered the woman looking mightily bored.

  ‘Any soup?’ asked Balzimar.

  ‘Yup, mutton soup,’

  ‘Seems you have a glut of mutton to shift. Did the Keep get a good price on a heard of sheep?’ smirked Balzimar.

  The woman straightened her back and looked oddly at the three men. ‘You're not in Rigby or the Prime now, mister too good for mutton! You want food or not?’

  ‘Three stews and three tankards of ale,’ interrupted Brok.

  ‘Fine,’ glowered the woman. ‘Oh I’m afraid the good silverware is out for cleanin’, will the iron cutlery do?’ she sneered as she looked at Balzimar.

  ‘Humph,’ Balzimar blew through his moustache in disdain. ‘You have a singular wit, my dear.’

  The woman turned and left to get the food and drink.

  ‘Exactly which part of - mind your tongue - did you not understand, Master Wizard?’ whispered a clearly annoyed Brok. ‘We need to keep a low profile. You’re not on a jaunt now. One slip could end up getting you skewered, and us with you.’

  Balzimar reddened as much as a wizard can, which is to say that the tip of his nose changed a darker shade of pink.

  ‘What does this Drass look like?’ asked Brinn.

  ‘I don’t know, but there's a password. Only he will understand what it means,’ answered Brok.

  On the other side of the bar a dwarf was playing cards with three humans, and winning by the sounds of his raucous peals of laughter. He was quite obviously drunk. The others at his table did not look to be enjoying his exuberant joviality, their sour unsmiling faces, dark with anger.

  The waitress came back with the food, placing three steaming plates of stew on the table, followed by bread, cheese, and three tankards of ale. ‘Need anything else? Some clean napkins perhaps?’ she asked, looking at Balzimar with false concern.

  ‘Yes, as a matter. Is Ortor Drass about?’ asked Brok.

  The woman straightened and frowned, thinking she was about to be complained. ‘Why do you want Ortor?’

  ‘I have a message for him from his cousin. He asked us to look him up, when we passed through.’ Brok sounded genuine.

  The woman looked over her shoulder towards the bar, ‘He’s pretty busy now. Maybe if you tell me I can pass the message on to him later,’ it was obvious that she remained unconvinced, she was not in trouble.

  ‘That’s fine. Just tell him that cousin Jared sends his respects, and hopes that the bottle of Monarch Red that he sent last time was a good vintage.’

  ‘Monarch Red? Never heard of it,’ she said scrunching up her face.

  ‘I’m just the messenger, lady. I’ll tell him myself if you point him out.’

  ‘No, there’s no need, I’ll tell him. Eat your food and enjoy.’ She walked off looking a little flustered.

  More peals of raucous laughter came from the dwarf as he placed his hand over a pile of pennies in the centre of the table and scooped them up. Brok didn’t look at the dwarf. He was preoccupied watching the serving woman. She was speaking to a fat-bellied man behind the counter of the bar. It was clear she had passed on the message correctly as Brok saw a slight change on the man’s face, and he quickly looked over in their direction. He immediately walked towards them. He was smiling broadly, ‘How is cousin Jared? It’s been far too long since we’ve last met?’

  ‘He’s in good health. But wondering how you fare? We will be returning in the morn. If you have a return message we’ll be glad to see he gets it.’

  ‘In fact I do. I have some premium Dwarf Ale that I want fetched to him. If it’s no bother?’

  ‘Not at all,’ smiled Brok.

  ‘It’s just out the back here. If it’s not too much of an imposition leaving your food for a moment?’

  ‘Lead the way,’ Brok looked from Brinn to Balzimar and smiled. ‘I’ll be back shortly. Leave my plate alone!’

  It was a ruse for any unwelcome ears and it seemed to have worked. After a quick glance around, Brinn was happy that no-one was paying them any attention. Instead the Inn’s denizens seemed much more interested in the drunken dwarf on the other side of the room.

  ‘Ah-haa, that’s me again!’ laughed the dwarf placing his cards down.

  The men at the table threw their cards down in disgust, then stood up and left. The dwarf threw his arms up in the air in mock surprise. ‘What’s the matter? Ye’re not stopping now are ye?’ he bellowed. ‘Had enough had ye?’ he laughed again, ‘Well don’t that beat all,’ he slurred and burped. Then scooped all of the pennies into his pouch and tied it onto his belt. He stood scraping his chair loudly along the floor. ‘Well now, good and gentle folk of The Wench. I bid ye all a good night, at that!’ He staggered backwards a little as he flourished his arm about in a drunken salute. ‘Ye have been most accommodatin’, but alas it's time that I--’ He burped, regurgitated a little of the ale he’d been swamping, and looked to be having trouble focusing. ‘An’...an’...I good night ye indeed,’ he finished. Then he bent, picked up a wide bladed broadsword lying at his feet, and staggered towards the door.

  After spending a minute trying to figure out how to open the door, he finally raised the latch and threw the door back, smiling. Then promptly tripped over the threshold and out into the night with a clatter. The door closed behind him with a thud and conversations quickly returned to normal.

  ‘He’s had a skin-full,’ laughed Balzimar.

  ‘I don’t think his card friends have taken kindly to losing their money.’ Brinn nodded in the direction of the three men that had been playing cards with the dwarf. They were huddled in deep conversation. After a moment they stood, drained the last of their ale and left through the back door.

  ‘Old Man, stay here! Tell Brok that I won’t be long,’ Brinn stood to leave.

  ‘You should stay out of it. It’s not our concern,’ advised Balzimar.

  ‘I just hate seeing a drunken man being taken advantage of...it’s a recent quirk.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing. You heard what Brok said about keeping a low profile.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet.’ he smiled as he left.

  Outside it was getting darker. Brinn looked first one way then the other, but there was no sign of the dwarf nor the men. He walked a little way up the road then heard muffled noises coming from an alley between two buildings. As he turned the corner he saw two of the men holding the dwarf down. One of them had a blood smeared broken nose. The third man was picking himself up from the ground. It was obvious from the wound on his head that he'd also taken a blow. There was a glint of metal in his right hand. He had a knife.

  ‘That’s enough, let him go!,’ ordered Brinn.

  The man with the knife turned to face him. ‘Mind your business, less you want a taste!’ he held up the blade for Brinn to see.

  Brinn walked a few steps closer, ‘Last chance. Just walk away now and nothing will come of it.’

  The one with the knife turned and looked over his shoulder at his two partners, then turned back smiling. ‘Some just don’t know when ta walk on by,’ he was shaking his head as he took up a defensive pose holding the knife out in front.

  ‘You can keep the money. I just want my friend,’ said Brinn.

  The Dwarf struggled harder on hearing the offer. One of the men had a hand clamped over the dwarf’s mouth so that the only sounds he could make were muffled grunts.

  ‘Too late for that,’ he shook his head. ‘I’ve had to listen to that windbag all evenin’, crowin’ ‘bout how he was king of the dwarves, laughin’ an’ smellin’ the place up while he cheated us out of our money. So ‘less your lookin’ to join him you’d best back on up the alley right now,’

  The man had an insane glint in his eye. Brinn knew he wanted more than the dwarf’s money. He shook his head, ‘Can't do that,’

  ‘You’ve had fair warnin’,’ he lunged at Brinn and tried to stick him with the k
nife.

  Brinn side-stepped and grabbed hold of the cut-throat’s wrist with one hand while quickly kicking him into the stomach. The man doubled over and as he did Brinn bent the trapped arm back and shoved the knife into the assailant’s throat. The body didn’t drop immediately. It remained upright for a few seconds, gently shaking, before finally collapsing in a heap onto the ground. The dead man’s friends looked on spellbound by the speed of the kill. Then one of them threw the dwarf’s moneybag on the ground and they both ran for their lives in the opposite direction.

  ‘Thanks stranger, that was a noble thing ya did. My name’s Helfwen,’ The dwarf had sobered up quite considerably.

  ‘Glad to help out a fellow traveller.’

  Just then alarm bells started ringing all around the town.

  ‘It seems our friend here is well connected. We’d better make ourselves disappear.’ said the dwarf looking around. But when he turned back to face Brinn there was no-one there.

  ‘A ghost, that’s what he is! A ghost-man!’ Helfwen looked up and down the alley but he was alone. He bent and retrieved his moneybag and then scurried away to the safety of his lodgings. It was time, he decided, to put some distance between himself and that body lying in the dark.

  Brinn returned to the inn. Brok and Balzimar were sitting at their table waiting. Brok didn’t look happy as Brinn took his seat. ‘Where were you? he asked gruffly.

  ‘Just getting some air,’

  ‘It’s okay, you can drop the pretence, the wizard told me where you went. I suppose the alarms are your fault?’

  ‘Just doing a good deed.’

  ‘And dropping us in pig-muck because of it,’ growled Brok banging the table.

  ‘He was practically helpless. I couldn’t just turn my back and ignore what was going to happen. I have trouble enough sleeping at night as it is. Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same?’

  Brok bit his lip, and then nodded, ‘Probably.’

  Brinn sat back smiling.

  ‘But more than likely I wouldn’t!’ Brok's eyes blazed. ‘Knowing the danger we're in and the cost if we fail. So wipe that stupid smile off of your face and give me your word that from now on the mission comes first!’ hissed Brok, trying to keep his voice low so that the other patrons would not hear.