* * *
Winceham and Ned had been silently climbing down the many stories of the keep. Winceham could be perfectly silent when he needed to; he scouted ahead and made sure the way was clear before Ned followed in his steps.
It was for the most part, an easy way in. There wasn’t such a thing as patrols, but rather bands of merry pirates with a lot of time on their hands and little to do other than participate in pissing and drinking contests, though not necessarily in that exact order. A few rooms had pirates in the guise of guards posted outside who instead of actually guarding them, played craps, cards, and other gambling games, usually with very lopsided results that ended in sharp instruments being used to clarify things.
All in all, Winceham listened, watched and waited, before Ned followed.
They hadn’t ran onto anything especially interesting or dangerous; there was a vague hope the woodkin would be held in the dungeons deep below, but other than that the complete lack of noisy conundrums above meant that the sisters were either brilliantly successful in their task, or in grave danger. Winceham expressed that belief with a whisper, and Ned replied with almost a hiss:
“Maybe they’re waiting.”
“For what? Dinnertime?” asked Winceham, his face screwed up in anger. He was about to take another step forward and lead them another floor down when he heard a duo of pirates conversing casually as they came down a corridor to meet the staircase:
“Oy, how do we go about that then?” said one, scratching his head under his hat, evidently befuddled.
“Well, I suppose we ditch them in the pit and let the crocs do the rest,” replied the other with a shrug.
“No, you see I was wondering, how do we push them inside the pit. I mean, there’s like more than just two of them,” insisted the somewhat not-so-bright-as-his colleague pirate.
“Boyo, you’re right! How ’bout we kill’em first so they don’t move about and all?” said the other with mock surprise and excitement which did not carry over as intended.
“Dunno ’bout that, boss said feed them to crocs alive or it spoils their meat,” came the wavering answer.
“Well, he won’t know the difference know, will he?” said the other with a mischievous grin that could’ve been sparkling had more teeth been available.
Winceham nodded to Ned and then casually appeared in front of them from behind the staircase wall:
“What is it with you pirates and dental hygiene?” he asked with a cocky grin.
“Is it one of them? What’s it doin’ down ’ere?” asked the pirate uneasily, while the other turned and replied with a frown of uncertainty:
“No, too short, not blue enough. Oy, boyo, stick’em!” said the pirate and brandished a cutlass. To his surprise though, Winceham wasn’t standing where he was supposed to be. Instead, the pirate now faced Ned’s crossbow, and his rather dull partner had a stiletto sticking out of his gut.
“The woodkin, if you please?” said Winceham and waved his bloodied stiletto menacingly. Ned kept the crossbow trained at the now glum-looking pirate, who had to ask:
“Who?”
“The woodkin, the elves, the dark-skinned fellas you captured!” said Winceham with a slight growl. The pirate still didn’t seem to cooperate.
“What ’bout them?”
“And I thought you were the brighter of the pair. The people you were gonna feed to the crocs!” said Winceham angrily, trying to keep his voice below a shout.
“What? The pigs?”
“That’s going too far even for the likes of you, sirrah,” said Winceham with a snarl and felt a sudden urge to stab the pirate vehemently. Ned stayed his arm and asked the pirate:
“What pigs?”
“The pigs, in the sty! We were gonna feed them to the crocs in the moat!”
“Where are the woodkin then?” asked Winceham urgently.
“Who?” asked the pirate with an ever more frightened, bewildered voice.
“Please, Ned. Let me,” said Winceham, his voice trembling from aggravation, an ill-tempered gleam in his eye, the stiletto swinging in his hand.
“The jungle folk. Where are they?” asked Ned as calmly as possible.
“Oh, them you mean? Off-world with the last shipment!”
“The last shipment?” asked Ned and Winceham followed suit:
“Off-world?”
Then they heard a cry echo down the walls. And then another. They were high-pitched and sounded familiar.
“A woman’s cries,” said Winceham under his breath and instinctively looked up, from where the sound came.
“The sisters!” yelled Ned and ran up the staircase as if the world was about to end.
Winceham told the pirate:
“Duck.”
“What?” asked the pirate with a screwed up face, unable to understand. Winceham sighed.
“Never mind, too tall anyway,” he said and tripped the pirate, sending him careening down the stairs. Sounds of broken bones and muffled cries echoed, while Winceham ran up the staircase as fast as any halfuin could.
Party of Five Page 8