Friendly Fire

by Dale Lucas

  “Start with the masks,” Rem said quietly—his words a friendly invitation. “Tell us what they mean.” He’d spent enough months questioning suspects in tandem with Torval—the dwarf threatening them, beating them, while Rem tried to win them with empathy and compassion—that he finally felt worthy to try his method while Ondego watched.

  The boy sniffed, wiped his tears, shrugged. “They hid our faces,” he said. “Made us mysteries—something unknown, to be feared.”

  “Is it a cult of some sort?” Rem asked.

  The boy shook his head. “Oh no, sir, no! We would never! We’re all Aemonists, true of heart and dedicated!”

  Rem tried to keep from losing his patience. He hated being called sir.

  “We were the Sons of Edath, that’s all,” the boy said. “Like in the old stories. Defenders of the faith, of the city … We just … we just wanted to do what was right.”

  Rem looked to Ondego, recalling the prefect’s earlier summary of the old Sons of Edath legends. The prefect smirked with relish: See? Sometimes the old man knows what he’s talking about …

  Jordi carried on. “We thought, perhaps, if we could frighten them—the dwarves—then we could win justice—”

  “Justice for whom, exactly?” Ondego asked. “What justice is there in terrorizing peaceful folk who just want to work? Getting your way through fear and intimidation instead of fair competition? I don’t see much justice in that, lad—”

  “It wasn’t meant to become this!” the boy howled, suggesting his dead companion on the table. “But what else could it be … after Grendan?”

  “Who’s Grendan?” Rem asked.

  That opened the floodgates. The boy told them the whole story: the riot in the dwarven market, Grendan being waylaid and beaten to death, the cries of the stonemasons for blood and justice, the power struggle between Hrissif and Valaric. The tale he told made perfect sense, and filled Rem with a deep sense of shame that they had not managed to challenge the stonemasons more directly, to haul a few of them in when they only suspected their involvement. Perhaps if they’d taken the right steps, asked the right questions—

  “But what about all this?” Torval asked, suggesting the dead man on the slab. “Almost every bone in this man’s body is broken, boy! What did this?”

  The young apprentice shook his head. “Master dwarf, I assure you, I don’t know. I mean, I saw it—saw the beast with my own two eyes—but it was like nothing I’d ever seen. Maybe something out of a nightmare …”

  “Don’t name it, then,” Rem said. “Just describe it.”

  The boy nodded. “It was big—as tall as a man, but broad in the shoulders and through the chest. It had enormous hands—only two fingers and thumbs, I think—and its feet just looked like round, flat columns. It had the strangest shape—all out of proportion and lopsided, as though molded right from the earth by a child or something. And it seemed to be made of the earth itself. Damp mud. And bones—lots of bones.”

  “Bones?” Ondego asked.

  The boy nodded again in assurance. “Bones, sir, just pressed right into the mud and dirt that it was molded of. Its eyes were the worst, though; they were just a pair of deep wells dug into its head, but there was a light burning at the bottom of those wells—a terrible, infernal light …”

  They all looked to one another, searching for some name to lay to the thing described.

  “Necromancy?” Eriadus suggested.

  “Of the foulest sort, by the sound,” Hirk agreed.

  “But it wasn’t an animated corpse?” Rem asked. “Neither a revenant nor a lich?”

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. I’m not sure how to say it. It looked like something animated, but not reanimated.”

  “And it just came upon you?” Torval asked. Rem studied his partner. The dwarf’s face was drawn, his eyes wide. Clearly there was something in the boy’s description that had upset him.

  The boy nodded slowly, gravely. Tears began to glint in his eyes again. “We set those dwarves up for an ambush, and they fell right into it. We’d set a pitch fire in the main alley so they couldn’t retreat—but then that thing lumbered in. It came right through the flames and laid into us. Cribben here wasn’t the only one it killed—his was just the only body left behind.”

  “Your companions took the others?” Ondego asked.

  “Aye, sir. We’d all been given a partner before the mission. If that man fell, his partner was to make sure his body wasn’t left behind when we fled. Cribben and I were sworn to carry each other out, if need be … but of course he couldn’t, and I was in no shape to …”

  He fell to weeping again.

  Rem turned to find Torval, but his partner had suddenly disappeared from their little circle. Searching the chamber, he saw the dwarf lingering across the room, by the door. When Torval saw Rem staring at him, he waved him nearer. Without a word Rem joined him.

  “Got something to share, old stump?” Rem asked quietly. He stole a furtive glance to make sure that the others were still busy with Jordi.

  “It may be nothing,” Torval said, also keeping his voice low. “Or it may be the worst thing imaginable.”

  Rem felt his stomach churn. He did not care to learn Torval’s version of “the worst thing imaginable.”

  “Tell me,” Rem said, hoping that just this once, Torval wouldn’t waste time trying to protect him or keep his fears to himself.

  Torval made sure that Ondego and the others were still on the far side of the room, then plunged in. “There are old legends among my people,” Torval began, “of a time, millennia ago, when we tried to put violence and bloodshed behind us. But after renouncing the old ways, we were immediately beset by the wicked and the bloodthirsty. Orcish warbands, Tregga horse nomads, human conquerors—they all fell upon our people in turn, slaughtering us, enslaving us, terrorizing us. Hallir’s Folk were so desperate to be a people of peace—a people of honor and righteousness—that they would not even take up arms to defend themselves. They only resigned themselves to their new place in the world, slaves and prisoners, at the mercy of the gods and the creatures that oppressed and exploited them.”

  Torval drew a deep, shuddering breath then. Rem sensed the story was about to take a dark turn.

  “There was a witch, a sorceress, who sought a means of freeing and vindicating our people. She decided that if we would not fight for ourselves, then we should have a merciless champion to fight for us. She appealed to the eldritch powers that haunted the earth itself—its depths, its bowels, its unending memory—and she summoned just such a beast. It was called a Kothrum, and it was made of earth and ash and bone.”

  Rem studied his partner’s face. The worry in the dwarf’s eyes and the pained, preoccupied look on his ruddy face told Rem all he needed to know. Torval was dead serious—terrified, even—and he offered this theory, as bizarre and unreasonable as it sounded, with utter sincerity.

  “So,” Rem said, still keeping his voice low, “you think the dwarves in the quarter summoned one of these things? Set it loose on the stonemasons?”

  Torval shrugged. “It’s all that makes sense. The strength displayed, those strange footprints, the descriptions …”

  Rem nodded. Admittedly, it did fit. And Torval would know better than he what the marks of a Kothrum were, or how it should look. And while magic was a capricious practice, even its simplest operations often subject to the most arbitrary and unpredictable of laws, it wasn’t exactly outside the realm of possibility, was it?

  “What do we do, then?” Rem asked. “How do we stop it?”

  Torval shook his head. “That’s what troubles me: I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true, to be honest. I don’t want to believe it. But I do know this: if it is true, and the people of this city see that thing, or figure out what it is and who unleashed it—”

  “Garn’s forge,” Rem cursed. “They’ll burn the whole dwarven quarter to the ground!”

  The partners stole glances towa
rd their fellows across the room. Ondego was ignoring them no longer. Now he and Hirk were moving nearer.

  “I’ve got to go,” Torval said. “Tell Ondego I’ve gone after Tav, and to make sure my family’s safe. That’s half-true, anyway. But as to that thing—”

  “Do what you must,” Rem said, clapping Torval on the shoulder, “then send for me—send for all of us—when you need us. Just don’t try to take it on alone, do you hear me?”

  Torval offered a crooked smile. “I’m hardheaded,” he said, “but I’m no fool.”

  Rem studied his partner’s face. He knew, deep down, that Torval was lying. It was true, the dwarf was no fool … but if he thought he could settle this business, be the one to subdue the criminals among his people and end the Kothrum’s reign of terror, Rem did not doubt Torval would try to do it. He would see it as his duty not only as a watchwarden, but also as a dwarf.

  And worse, Rem knew there was nothing he could say to convince Torval otherwise.

  “Go,” Rem finally said.

  Torval stared at Rem for just a moment, as though searching for the right words. Finally he offered them. “You’ve made me proud,” he said.

  Rem wanted to offer something in return, but it was too late. Torval turned and departed. Ondego arrived just as Torval disappeared through the door.

  “Where’s he off to?” the prefect asked.

  “Family business,” Rem said, feeling a great pang of fear and sadness in the center of him. He shouldn’t let him go, should he? He should join him, protect him—

  “We need to snatch them, now,” Ondego said, “before they’ve too much time to regroup or scatter.”

  “Snatch who?” Rem asked, his determination to run after Torval now blown to dust.

  “The stonemasons,” Ondego said. “Since you’ve talked to them, and you know their faces, I need you on point in the raid.”

  Rem considered for a moment—the barest instant—telling Ondego about Torval’s fears regarding the Kothrum … but thought better of it. He feared for Torval, true, but he also needed to trust him. Let the dwarf do what he had to do, learn what he had to learn. In the meantime Rem should see to his duties here.

  “Ready, sir,” Rem said with a nod. “Lead on.”

  Ondego looked back to where Jordi stood, still weeping, over the body of his dead companion. The sad-eyed prefect sighed and shook his head.

  “Cocks and cunts, this is going to be a mess,” Ondego said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Queydon was put in charge of the raid, but she made it clear that once the stonemasons were apprehended, she would count on Rem to do the dragon’s share of the talking and finger-pointing, since he’d already treated with the men they were about to arrest. Their first stop would be the guildhall itself, where they would gather any and all present, as well as any printed rolls they could find of the membership. From there the team of watchwardens they’d assembled would spread out through the ward in search of the men on those rolls. Rem thought that as fine a plan as any, despite all the ways it could backfire on them. The simple fact was, there was no easy, stealthy way to snatch these men without a lot of research and preparation. If Ondego wanted them now, his men would have to move fast and bring in as many as they could—secrecy and finesse be damned.

  At the end of the block nearest the guildhall, Queydon divided the party. Four of them would slip in ahead and take up stations on the northern and southern sides of the guildhall, in adjacent alleys, to make sure no one managed to slither out through a window or some such. A squad of six would be ready at the mouth of the courtyard at the guildhall’s back door to snatch any who tried to flee that way. The rest of them—close to twenty—would guard the front entrance or go in to arrest any and all they found on-site.

  As they prepared to take up their positions, Queydon pulled Rem aside. “Not first,” she said. “Second. Let Hildebran lead the way. You follow, keep your eyes open, make sure the key figures don’t slip away.”

  Rem nodded. “Aye, Sergeant. As commanded.”

  Queydon nodded, satisfied. Hildebran, the big northerner, took his point position on the opposite side of the door from Rem. He carried with him an iron battering ram—the perfect size to be wielded by a single man, albeit one of considerable strength. Inhaling, he drew the big, blunt instrument back for a strike. Just as he prepared to ram down the guildhall door, Queydon gave a standard watchwarden’s greeting. Her voice was louder, harder, than Rem had ever heard it.

  “Wardwatch!” she shouted. “We’re coming in!”

  Hildebran slammed the battering ram into the door, and the slab of banded oak all but leapt off its hinges. Before they were even through the door, the house dog barked and snarled and charged the barbarian. Rem watched as Hildebran smoothly stepped aside, allowing one of the other men to slide in with a looped catchpole—the sort used by beast handlers in blood sport rings to hold their angry contestants at bay. As the snarling guard dog charged, the dog handler slipped the noose at the end of the catchpole around the beast’s throat and pulled tight. The dog snarled, snapped, bit, scratched, but it was no use. It was held fast, unable to approach its captor or anyone else. As the dog man wrestled the fighting mongrel into the street and away from the entrance, Rem and the rest of the watchwardens poured into the guildhall.

  What they found inside surprised Rem, who had half expected an empty hall at such a late hour. Before them, however, were nearly fifty men, all crammed into the great room around a roaring fire. True, they were now running to and fro, colliding with one another, seeking exits or preparing to stand and fight as the watchwardens poured in, but from the large number of dropped ale horns and beer steins evident, the brightness and warmth of the fire, and the great number of men on hand, it looked as if the watchwardens had interrupted an official gathering.

  As they sped into the room, Rem scanned his surroundings. Immediately he picked out the steward, Valaric, along with the bearded fellow Valaric had named as their treasurer. He saw no sign of Hrissif, the sneering man whose brother had been killed. Rem waved his arms and cried out, “There! Those two! Officers of the guild!”

  Several watchwardens streamed around Rem, charging right toward Valaric and the old treasurer. Before Rem could see if they nabbed their quarry or not, someone came speeding in from his left and tackled him. Down he went in a frenzy of flailing arms, hitting the floor with terrific force, the breath knocked out of him almost immediately. He tried to regain himself, but already his adversary was beating him mercilessly. If Rem was not mistaken, his attacker’s weapon was a pewter serving tray.

  Rem kicked, rolled, struggled. He kept his arms over his face and head, trying his best to deflect the worst and most direct blows. The man was straddling him, cursing him, and the force of his blows, coupled with the fierceness of his attack, suggested that he was ready to kill Rem—or, for that matter, anyone who dared violate the sanctity of his fraternal guildhall.

  Just as Rem was about to raise his voice and call out for help, the man was suddenly snatched right off him. He seemed to rise up into the air with a surprised croak, then went flying, slamming into a trestle table six feet away, smashing it with his muscled bulk. Rem uncovered his face and blinked. Hildebran stood over him, hand out to help him back to his feet.

  “Trouble, valley boy?”

  Rem took the barbarian’s hand and was yanked upright. “Nothing a savage from the fjords of Kosterland can’t fix, eh?”

  Hildebran smiled crookedly. “You’re welcome. Don’t let it happen again.”

  Rem nodded and they rejoined the fray. Across the room Valaric didn’t seem to be putting up a fight at all. He stood calmly as watchwardens clapped him into manacles, and seemed to be working hard to be heard above the din of all the fighting and chaos around him. Rem stepped nearer to hear what he was saying, and realized that he was, in fact, urging any men in his vicinity to surrender without resistance—to stand where they were and offer their hands for shackling.

>   Not the actions of a guilty man at all.

  Or perhaps the actions of a very guilty man, totally untroubled by the blood on his hands, eager to be a martyr for his cause. Gods, weren’t those sorts always the worst?

  But Rem could not tell, for the moment, just which of those sorts this Valaric was. He knew only that the steward was now in custody, and that a number of his companions were already in chains. A few brawls unfolded around the room. Shouting down a back hallway suggested that some men had escaped entirely, or were still fighting in the rear courtyard. But here and now, so far as Rem was concerned, their primary mission was complete.

  The sense of satisfaction that Rem briefly entertained within the guildhall fled entirely when he emerged again into the cold night air. A crowd had gathered in the street outside the hall, held at bay by the watchwardens who’d been left to guard the entrance. A few stonemasons snatched in their attempted flight were gathered nearby, on their knees in the gelid mud, hands manacled behind their backs. While two watchwardens oversaw the gathered prisoners, another four walked the perimeter, forcing back the locals as they pressed in to get a good look at the unfolding chaos, to make their doubts known and their dissatisfaction plain.

  “Is this how the wardwatch treats honest, law-abiding tradesmen?” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “Just what are these men guilty of, pray tell?” someone else yelled.

  “It’s those bloody dwarves in the Warrens,” a third voice cried out. “They’ve bought half this city with their smithies and gems, and now they own the wardwatch, too!”

  Rem was tempted to engage the crowd, to respond directly to all those aspersions and more. But he knew it was a fool’s errand. There would be no point in engaging these folk; they were frightened by what they saw, and they did not fully understand it. It was right that they should be a little upset by it all, even if some context might have changed their minds. But most important was the abiding wisdom that one should never, ever try to engage in a logical argument with a person in emotional distress. You would not be heard, and you could not win. And so, much as it pained him, Rem resolved to go on about his business and do his duty, whether it made him look like the enemy to these folk or not.