by RW Krpoun
A hundred yards further on they paused by a large log to listen for pursuit. “I don’t hear anything,” Veda whispered, pulling her wet ring mail tunic away from her body in an attempt to get some air under it. “Maybe they won’t follow.”
“Maybe.” Rolf wasn’t hopeful. “They killed ten Humans and burned or sank a river boat, so they might be happy with that, but I don’t think so.”
“Thanks for getting me off the boat, by the way,” Veda sighed. “I wouldn’t have thought of the kegs.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What’s that?”
Rolf unslung Moonblade from his back and slipped the enchanted great sword from its scabbard. “Goblins yelling; looks like we’ll have to stand and fight, sounds as if there’s not too many. Kill a few and they might lose interest.”
“Sounds like a plan,” the dark-haired woman pulled her war hammer from the back of her belt. “Wish I had my shield.”
The two remained by the log, listening as the Goblins drew closer. It didn’t sound like many, probably less than a dozen; Rolf guessed that the fishermen had gone to the fort and rounded up a few friends to come chase down the intruders, a bit of a lark on a nice summer day for the murderous bastards. Killing the ten on the boat apparently hadn’t been enough for them.
The first Goblin burst out the brush at a steady trot, proving that the force chasing them had no yasama with them, as no scout would have blundered ahead so blindly. Others were right behind him; Rolf let the second jugata come into sight and shot the first, Veda shooting the second an instant later. A light crossbow will penetrate a good plate breastplate at twenty feet, chain mail at thirty-five, ring mail out to sixty, studded leather at ninety, and cord armor out to one hundred fifty feet; the lead Goblin was hit at fifteen feet, the bolt ripping completely through his body to emerge half its length out the other side.
A half-dozen fully armed Goblins piled through the brush howling and waving their weapons, startled by the deaths of their comrades but game for a fight anyway. Rolf dropped his crossbow and stood as he grabbed up Moonblade.
A screaming Goblin came at him, wicker shield held at an angle across his torso, his short spear held underhanded, the shaft lying along the wielder’s narrow forearm; Rolf timed his swing carefully as a two-handed sword is a deadly weapon, but a slow one even in the hands of a very strong half-Orc. The sword’s enchanted edge caught the jugata on the left thigh, shearing through muscle and bone, leaving the limb hanging by a rope of muscle as the screaming, unbalanced Goblin crashed into the log, blood spurting from the ghastly wound, his spear point glancing harmlessly off of the Badger’s breastplate.
Another jugata lunged in, and Rolf skipped back a half-step as he recovered, the trunk hindering the Goblin’s pursuit; as his opponent vaulted the dead tree, Rolf came forward with a well-aimed swing, splitting the jugata’s shield in two and breaking the creature’s elbow, knocking the five-foot humanoid sprawling before he could bring his weapon into play. Decapitating the fallen Goblin with an economical chop, Rolf brought Moonblade back to the ready position and found that the fight was over; the enemy was retreating, carrying off the warrior with the ruined leg and another Goblin whose chest had been stove in by Veda’s hammer.
“That wasn’t too rough,” Veda observed, picking up a discarded Goblin shield and trying it on for size. “Not too bad. Shouldn’t we be going?”
“Yes.” Rolf severed the last corpse’s right ear and wiped his dirk clean on the Goblin’s cord armor tunic. “We had better get back to New Fork fast and tell Durek that the river is closed. We’re going to have to do something about that fort.”
“And I’m going to have to do something about you,” Veda observed as they moved off. “It’s not every day someone saves your life.”
Chapter Fifteen
Gerhard Stotz had just turned the key in the lock on his front door when he heard a carriage pull up to his gate; turning, he saw a hack-driver handing down Tera and two other women, one a short blonde, the other a brunette of average height. “You can wait at the tavern around the corner,” Tera handed the driver some coins. “Gerhard, how wonderful it is to see you. My friends and I were hoping you were interested in a game of cards tonight.” As the carriage pulled out of earshot and the tall woman came up onto the porch, she winked. “Or some sort of game, anyway.”
Philip gave the trio a half hour to get Stotz completely distracted and then walked nonchalantly down the alley carrying a roll of what appeared to be kitchen firewood over his shoulder. Coming to Stotz’ back door, he pretended to knock, then causally opened the door and went in, a routine delivery. Inside he closed and barred the door, then slipped downstairs where he unlocked one of the storage rooms and concealed several pieces of Stotz’s handiwork inside his bundle, Carefully relocking the door, he slipped back upstairs and listened: he heard women’s voices, a man issuing commands, and the crack of a whip of some sort meeting flesh. Slipping out the front door, his load now disguised as a bundle of laundry with clothes that had been rolled and hidden in the bundle of firewood, he used his key to engage the lock and strolled off down the street, just another workman at the end of the day.
He was sitting on the bed working the stiffness out of a complex harness of narrow straps when Tonya came in. “Home is the warrior, fresh from the field,” he observed, standing to up kiss her. “How was it?”
“Simple enough, the whores did all the work while I played ring-mistress; I see you got what we need.”
“Easy as pie, you’ve probably made your last visit to master Stotz’s playpen.”
“I hope so; it wasn’t too bad this time, I just sat on top of the shelves and issued orders, after I had slipped downstairs to unbar the back door, that is; he thinks I took one of the girls into his bedroom for a little experimentation, but I just ripped up the bed while she made noises. He had a wonderful time, the girls made triple pay, and I didn’t have to lay a finger on him or anyone else, so everyone was pretty pleased by the time we were done. What’s that you’re limbering up?”
“A harness that holds this ball of gummy material in a victim’s mouth, gagging them,” he held it up and showed her how it worked. “I tried it on, and you can’t make a sound when it’s in place, but the straps are real stiff. Some of these things I can’t figure out, though.”
Tonya sighed. “Here, let me look, I ought to know every piece by now.”
Elonia leaned out of the carriage, the bright morning sun picking out the highlights in her hair. “Master van Feuchter,” she called. “Hello.”
The silver-haired gentleman, who had just exited from a cafe, turned and caught a glimpse of her, smiled, and strolled over, his every step a study in elegance. “Why, it is the Dorfellers, how nice to see you again. I was planning on sending a pair of invitations to your lodgings this very week, the Duchess’ affairs have been laid to rest and I’ve planned an odd little party to honor her memory.” He kissed Elonia’s hand and shook Maxmillian’s.
“How exciting. We’ve just finished the sale of several lots of very good stones and are on our way to celebrate, perhaps you would be so kind as to join us and toast our good fortune.”
“An excellent idea,” the nobleman swung neatly up into the carriage to sit beside the Seeress. “Where do you plan to indulge in this revelry?”
“A quaint little wine shop we found on Saison street.”
“Saison street? The little place near the Temple of Kiy, the name escapes me but they have brass lamps flanking a green door?”
“Yes, it seems quite nice.”
“An excellent choice, they have an amazing cellar.” The three chatted amiably about this and that as the carriage clattered through the cobbled streets, van Feuchter dominating the conversation and the ‘Dorfellers’ putting their observations in as required. Finally the white-haired man paused in a description of a bit of scandal involving two prosperous merchant houses to take a sudden awareness of his surroundings, one hand faltering in the middle
of an eloquent gesture. “I believe your driver has turned off a street short. That on our left is the Temple, we need another block down Saison.”
“Oh, we’re to leave the carriage in the Temple stables,” Elonia shrugged casually. “We’ll walk from there. As you were saying?”
Van Feuchter warily eyed the open side gate to the walled Temple compound. “Seems a bit irregular: why doesn’t he drop us off first, before taking the carriage in, and why use a temple stable?”
“Oh, it seemed convenient, and it is such a lovely day, I thought a walk would be nice,” the Seeress gushed.
“Good point; might as well get off here, no point in going all the way into the stables.” van Feuchter, all humor gone from his eyes, half-rose to tap the driver on the shoulder.
Maxmillian lifted a cocked and loaded crossbow from under the lap-cloak tossed carelessly on the seat beside him and pointed it at the cultist, keeping the weapon below the carriage’s side although the only people in sight were a few ragged children kicking a ball halfway down the street, which had the Temple’s wall on one side and a windowless expanse of warehouse on the other. “Sit down, van Feuchter.”
The slender man sat back carefully, a grim light in his eyes as Elonia lifted her skirt and plucked a throwing knife from a sheath strapped to her thigh. “This is somewhat irregular, Maxim; I doubt I’m carrying ten Marks.”
“We’re hardly interested in your money,” Maxmillian grinned sourly. “Although we’ll take it.”
“He’s one of yours?” Van Feuchter pointed at the driver with his chin.
“Yes. Hold your wrists close together in front of you, please.” Maxmillian kept the crossbow steady as Elonia carefully buckled leather manacles connected by a single steel loop around the cultist’s wrists and then knelt to strap another pair, clipped to a short polished steel chain, to his ankles. A three foot braided leather cable connected the ankle and wrist restraints, making walking a slow and careful process while preventing van Feuchter from raising his hands above waist level when standing, or kicking when seated.
A faint sheen of sweat broke out across van Feuchter’s face as the carriage rolled through the gate and halted in the courtyard. “You may kill me, but I will not leave this carriage.”
“All right, this will do to talk,” Maxmillian nodded, then suddenly leaned forward to drive the iron cocking stirrup of the crossbow into the man’s solar plexus, Elonia’s foot on the cable stopping van Feuchter’s hands from raising high enough to defend himself. As the cultist flopped forward, gagging for air, the historian grabbed a fistful of hair and held him steady while the seeress shoved the gag-ball into van Feuchter’s mouth and fastened the harness around his head that would secure it in place, then added a thick leather collar with a braided leather leash attached. A leather belt was buckled tightly around his waist while Pug, who had been driving, held the nobleman down, and the wrist manacles fastened to it.
While Elonia ran to close the courtyard gates, Maxmillian and Pug, greatly aided by the finely crafted Stotz restraint gear, dragged van Feuchter bodily from the carriage and through the nearby door into a chapel, where they deposited him on the floor near the alter.
Pug went back outside to raise the carriage’s cover while Maxmillian stood on the leash to fix van Feuchter in place and Elonia sat on the chapel’s cool stone floor next to him.
“This is a nice chapel,” she observed, looking about the place. “They were kind to let us use it.” She glanced at the ashen-faced cultist, whose eyes were bugging out as he tried to chew through the gag ball. “You don’t look comfortable, good sir; why would you not want to be in a holy place of one of the Eight ?” she leaned forward and picked up a tuft of white hair that had dropped from van Feuchter’s head to the floor. “Could it be that your affiliation with the Sphere keeps you from ageing at a normal rate, perhaps as slow as one year for every four that passes? It doesn’t seem to be working in here, does it?” She watched as a parchment-like sheen crept over the man’s skin, and the furrows of wrinkles deepened in his face even as more hair fell out.
“Time seems to be determined to catch up, doesn't it?” Maxmillian observed. “Will he recover the effects if we take him outside?”
“Some,” the Seeress nodded thoughtfully. “Some, but not all. Right now he is in his sprightly early forties, albeit the white hair; wait thirty minutes and I would guess he’ll be seventy, and recover only a decade, two at the most when he goes back outside. Would you say that would be the case, Master van Feuchter? I’m going to remove the ball now, but first let me assure you that you can scream until you ageing lungs burst and no one will hear you in here.” She unbuckled the harness and van Feuchter spat the damaged ball out.
“I take it you are not in Teasau to sell gems,” the cultist observed with a touch of his old charm showing.
“Hardly. Tell us about your cult.” Elonia tossed the gag harness into a bag.
“I dislike that word, and this place. Take me outside and we’ll talk in detail.”
“Answer in detail and we’ll take you outside when you’re done, if you’re still alive; I understand terrible things occur when a cultist who is aligned with the Sphere dies in a holy place,” Elonia smiled. “Tell me what you know about us.”
“Yourselves? We’ve had you watched, but there has been nothing noticed that is out of the ordinary; you sell stones, and have no contacts with anyone who could be considered a threat. How would cult-hunters tie us to Priller’s suicide?” He shook his head. “Of course, you murdered the Duchess.”
“Yes.” Elonia checked his bindings.
He looked at the manacles. “Stotz’s work, that explains a bit; we knew he had taken up with a married woman, brought her to a gathering in fact, but she and her husband were watched and had no unusual contacts, except that the husband was not the drunkard the wife had led Gerhard to believe. I suppose you two are connected....ah: the mercenaries, I see. Gerhard made the badges for us, but how did you learn about Priller? He had no connection to Gerhard, only to the Duchess.”
“Luck,” Elonia admitted frankly. “Luck and a bit of hastiness on your group’s part. When is the next ceremony that involves the Orbheart?”
“If you destroy the Orbheart, I will die; I am ninety years old and from a family that is notoriously short-lived.”
“If I leave you in here until you are ninety, which won’t waste much of my day, you will die very badly. If you help us, I will take you outside and let you recover before I kill you, which will be quick. Choose.”
“Then of course I’ll help.”
Elonia smiled gently as she brushed some loose hair from the cultist’s receding hairline. “I am a Seeress, and while you are shielded from a great many things, I’ll be able to tell if you are lying. I want to know when the next summoning of the Sphere will be, and where the Orbheart is stored, and I’ll wait here until you’ve told me the truth, or until you are dead.”
Spitting out a yellowed tooth, van Feuchter carefully studied the Badger Corporal. “What is your involvement in all of this? I can pay you far more than your Company ever can.”
She shook her head slowly. “Sorry. Money isn’t all that important to me.” She looked up at Maxmillian. “What about you?”
He grinned. “Getting paid and living to spend it would be difficult.”
She shrugged as she met van Feuchter’s eyes. “Back to the same spot.”
“They’ll avenge me.”
“Perhaps, although it will do you no good; the rest of your group will be enjoying their lengthened lifetimes and the pleasures of the gatherings, which your horrid death will have purchased for them. And once we’re out of Teasau avenging you will be very difficult. Would they really mount such an effort?” The expression on his face answered her question. “Are they worth it? Is their future happiness, comfort, and luxury worth your suffering, indignity, and lingering agony?”
Minutes passed; van Feuchter’s face reflected the inner turmoil as his meticulous
ly trimmed silver hair fell from his scalp, two more teeth dropped from their worn sockets, and his skin creased and spotted with encroaching age. As his limbs began to tremble with palsy and his heart began to skip beats the cultist’s nerve broke. “The next Summoning is in five week’s time, on the second of Banteil. The Orbheart isn't stored in Teasau. Now take me outside.”
“Not just yet,” Elonia murmured, placing both hands on the man’s forehead. “Repeat the date for the next summoning twenty times.” When the cultist had finished she nodded. “Yes, that’s right; now, tell me how to find where the Orbheart is stored, slowly, and keep repeating until I tell you to stop.” As the cracked, wheezing voice mumbled Maxmillian carefully took notes.
Finally Elonia stood and gestured for Pug and Maxmillian to pick van Feuchter up. “Take him outside and put him in the carriage; we’ll honor our part of the bargain.”
Elonia was walking towards her lodgings, a cloth shopping bag loaded with a few personal items on her arm; Maxmillian and Pug were taking van Feuchter’s corpse outside the walls to dispose of it, having dropped off the Seeress as Elonia was too memorable to take along on such a delicate job. The female Badger had made a few purchases on her way back to their lodgings and was planning to have a glass of wine in the cafe across the street from their boarding house while she waited for Maxmillian to return.
“Easy, lass, mind your step,” a voice called behind her as the clatter of horse’s hooves suddenly drew close. She hopped nimbly to the side as pair of horses were reined in alongside her, finally halting with the driver of the closed carriage directly on line with her. “Are you all right, good lady? The beasts spooked at a bloody mongrel, been fighting from the looks of it.” The driver leaned down towards her, a husky man red-faced in the summer heat, one foot braced against the strain of the brake lever’s spring, a long-handled coachman’s whip in hand, sunlight playing off the polished brass ball on its butt. “I’m very sorry.”