Chapter 10

Roll Call:

Gherota, Human Fighter, Level 1. First and foremost a front-line swordswoman, and quite skilled. Irritated by Fisk's violent, exploitative worldview.

Gurnlocke Fisk, Dwarf Warlock, Level 1. A bitter spell-slinger with powers touched by brimstone. An advocate for Machiavellian methods and strategies.

Mairrethid, Human Wizard, Level 1. Student of mechanical magic and military theory, a war mage. Both moderate rationalist and mediator.

Mez Gobbo, Goblin Rogue, Level 1. Lockpick and shadow-skulking cut-throat. Motivated by enlightened self-interest, a mercenary.

Schlobrock, Ork Cleric, Level 1. Nature-worshipping shaman and medicine woman, with a huge axe. Has trouble pronouncing the letters F, S, T and V.

First Ch 01: Poot's Angels
Previous Chapter 09

 

Five adventurers had been hired by Poot, a wealthy businessman from the wilderness settlement of Red Creek, to recover a small statue which had been stolen from him by a band of goblins. The five followed up on Poot’s information to find the goblin’s lair, penetrated it, and stole the statue with consequences of great violence. However, they made a successful escape from their pursuers, and were even now making their way back to Red Creek.

On the way, they collected a number of horses, arms, and armor that they had captured from eleven riders from Red Creek who had followed them into the hills and attacked. The three leaders of this group had each reached an idea in their minds of some transgression one of the five had made against them, so they were riding out with the expressed idea of settling up. While the coincidence was incredible, the five returned the violence with better than they had gotten, winning the day. The loot from this encounter sped them on their way after Poot’s quarry and would compose the bulk of their treasure from the eventful week, in weight if not in coin.

“Those guys who came after us as we were leaving town,” Mez said, “they’ve got friends in Red Creek.”

“I remember,” Mairrethid said, agreeing. “When some of the grunts who just seemed to be along for the ride started to falter, their commander threatened them with what their friends would do if they didn’t hold the line.”

“You expect retribution?” Gherota asked.

“Definitely,” Fisk said.

Mez agreed. “Guys like that, they rule by fear. You saw that when the fat guy convinced his guys to stand and fight, even when it was clear that they were losing. Acing eleven guys like that, it threatens the whole basis of their power. They’ll definitely come after us.”

“So,” Fisk added, “we hit them first.”

“We don’t know anything about them, though,” Mairrethid cautioned. “How big is their organization? What are their resources, and where are their fortresses? Who else might their friends be?”

“I’ll ask the right questions of the right people,” Mez said. “We should stick together, though, along the way. Guys like this, they’d love to pick us off one by one--and take you alive so they can make killing you go really slow.”

“Cidy people are zo barbaric,” Schlobrock observed.

“Don’t worry, Schlob,” Fisk replied, “we’ll give better than we get.”

“First,” Mez said, “let’s unload all of this gear and collect from Poot.”

“Yeah,” Mairrethid said. “He never told us where to meet him when we got the statue.”

“Well,” Fisk replied, “we assumed all of that secrecy and stuff when he gave us the job was because he was worried about the goblins’ friends finding out what he knew. That’s no longer a concern.”

“Yeah,” Mez said, “but let’s avoid getting yelled at. We head to the trading post first, and let him come to us himself or send a Pheg to make another appointment.”

“We’re going do ged yelled ad, no madder whad,” Schlobrock observed.

“Yeah,” Fisk agreed. “That Poot is an ass.”

“Still, I’d rather let him come find us. I’m not his dog,” Gherota said.

“That’s the plan, then.”

As they descended out of the northern hills into Red Creek, the few buildings--taverns, shops and warehouses, mostly--came into view, with the low profile of the tents of less-permanent residents who couldn’t afford tavern prices scattered around the outskirts. Tensing against dangers that didn’t exist in the lonely wilderness, while relaxing in anticipation of warm beds, baths, and their payday, the five experienced mixed feelings in their triumphant return.

The first found their way to the trading post, as planned, and followed Mez around as he asked questions about who would offer the best price. When they found a cash-rich shopkeeper, they negotiated to liquidate all of the gear and all but five of the horses captured during their adventure. 145 gold was all they could swing, given a “blood and guts” markdown, but they accepted and divided the coins up, glad to be rid of the baggage.

They were surprised, however, when Poot showed up before they had finished the deal--suggesting he had run over as soon as he learned they were in town. Given how previously careful he had been to keep his association with the five secret, this new openness was definitely out of place.

“I came over as soon as I heard you were in town,” Poot said, smiling uncharacteristically. “Do you have the goods?”

“We do,” Mairrethid said.

“Can I see it?” Poot asked.

“Where’s the gold?” Fisk pressed.

Poot reached into a satchel and retrieved five small leather pouches. He tossed one of each to the five adventurers. “I went ahead and divided the five-hundred between you, when I heard you all made it back. I hope you don’t mind.”

“The less time I have to spend with the dwarf, the better,” Gherota said, scowling as she inspected the purse.

Schlobrock put one hand on Gherota’s arm, getting her attention and shooting her a look that said, “Shut up.”

“I’m sorry that you aren’t all getting along better,” Poot said, grinning openly. “Anyway, my statue?”

Schlobrock unslung her backpack and reached in. She pulled out the statue and peeled away the swaddling they’d used to transport it.

“Hand it over,” Poot said, continuing to smile.

Schlobrock advanced and handed the bundle over. Her eyes betrayed just how suspicious she was of Poot’s unexpected behavior, though she was making little effort to hide that.

“Thank you,” Poot said, taking the statue. “So, I suppose you’d like to relax a bit and clean the stink of the road off of yourselves?”

“As soon as possible,” Mez fibbed, matching Poot’s cheerfulness.

“Have any of you taken a sweat in a wood elf heat lodge?” Poot suggested. “The elves here in Red Creek built one and they rent it out. If you’re interested, it’s on me.”

“Why so generous all of a sudden?” Fisk pressed with characteristic suspicion and rudeness.

“Honestly,” Poot said without pause, “I didn’t expect you would be able to retrieve this statue. I didn’t think I’d ever lay hands on it. That’s why I handed the job to an untested crew--little for me to lose if you failed, and so much to gain if you succeeded. Rest assured, gentlemen, there will be much more work for such talented individuals.”

“The sweat sounds wonderful,” Mez said. “Let me tell you guys, they had one in Gobsport and I was in there once or twice a week. The heat, the water, just gets in your bones and loosens everything up. We’ll definitely take you up on it, Poot. But first, I need a drink and the caress of an affectionate woman who charges by the hour. Any suggestions on that front?”

“Well, there is my joint,” Poot started to say.

“I don’t know if we should impose,” Mairrethid started to caution.

“You got any bugbear women?” Mez asked.

“Er...” Poot stammered at the unusual request. “No. I don’t think there is a single bugbear female in Red Creek, working or otherwise.”

“Mom hated ‘em so I’ve gotta have ‘em,” Mez said, laughing. “You know what I mean. Let me check out the town and see if I can turn one up. If I can’t, I’m sure I’ll end up at your place.”

Poot blinked. “Okay, then.”

Mairrethid blinked, then added, “So, I’m sure you’re busy, Poot. Don’t let us take any more of your time.”

“Er...” Poot hesitated, officially at a loss for words. “Yeah, so, see you boys around.”

The five waited for Poot to leave before pulling into a huddle to discuss the situation.

“Gentlemen, boys,” Gherota snarled. “Like I’m not even here.”

“And you’re not even all that mannish,” Fisk taunted, “for a she-ape amazon so decked out in armor she could just as easily be a particularly well-muscled thirteen year-old ork boy.”

“He’s just jealous,” Mairrethid said, interrupting Gherota’s own response, “because his mother’s beard is longer than his.”

“Anyway!” Mez interjected. “So, who thinks Poot is setting us up?”

“I got that feeling from him,” Mairrethid said, nodding. “You too, Mez?”

“Dwarf women don’t have beards,” Fisk mumbled, “my mother included.”

“No, but I’m not good at reading people,” Mez said. “But everything he was saying and doing was wrong. It was out of character for him, for one thing. For another, when someone’s suddenly your new best friend, it is usually because the wrong person is tired of hearing you breath. And a sweat lodge? Yeah, there was one of those in Gobsport, and more folks got the old Caesar Salad* there than probably anywhere else in town.”

“I follow up to the Caesar Salad part,” Gherota said.

“It is a steam room, so you’re hot and sticky, which means you don’t want to go in there with your armor, your clothes, much off anything. The elves go naked. Mostly, in Gobsport, we used towels and stuff. Anyway, even if you do bring in some protective magic items and a weapon, you’re way more vulnerable than any other time--even more than sleeping in your bed at home.”

“So that’s where they choose to attack.” Gherota nodding, following.

“That’s what your mom said,” Fisk said, trying to jab at Gherota, who stared at him blankly.

Mairrethid tried to keep things moving along. “So, Poot’s either with the guys who rode out after us, or he’s selling us out. This is a bad position, we’re in.”

“We are waiting to get hit, and it will come tonight if not sooner, no matter what we do.” Mez rubbed his eyes, running through the possibilities in his mind. “If we run, they come after us, we lose initiative, and it is very likely they’ll deploy a superior force. So, the least-bad option is to attack now, if only to disrupt and weaken them before we run.”

“But who do we attack?” Mairrethid asked.

“Ledz azk dhe shopkeeper,” Schlobrock suggested. “He haz do work in a dirdy down, zo he probably knowz whose bad.”

“He probably doesn’t want to get involved,” Mairrethid said, shaking his head.

“We involve him,” Fisk barked. “What he wants doesn’t matter, and whatever he’s worried about, we tell him that we’ll kill him if we think he’s lying.”

“What if he tells the truth and we still think he’s lying?” Mairrethid asked.

“We kill him and asked someone else.” Fisk folded his arm. “And your mom is lying.”

“Please stop with the your moms?” Mez pleaded.

“Ledz dry id,” Schlobrock said. “We dond acdually habe to kill him.”

“Yes we do,” Fisk said, “in case we think he’s lying and have to ask someone else.”

Mairrethid urged things along. “Let’s postpone that screaming match until and unless we come to it.”

 

*”Caesar Salad” is a reference to assassination, as related in the Sagas of Caesar Salad. But that’s another story. (And “Caesar Salad” has nothing to do with sex or butts, you dirty birdies.)

Next Chapter 11

Ch 01: Poot's Angels

Five men had arrived early for a meeting with a man who was late.

They gathered in a warehouse on the outskirts of a small town, known as Red Rock for a distinctive landmark on the river. The town had formed as a trading outpost, fortuitously positioned at the intersection of two roads, both of which benefited from the Red Rock ferry. Travelers, just passing through, always outnumbered the locals, and what community did exist was perpetually drowning in the anonymity and transience that was its lifeblood.

All five, gathered in the warehouse, were transients who had made their way to Red Rock looking for exactly the kind of work that thrived on anonymity. A local operator, Pheg, had been looking for mercenaries and, one by one over the course of a week, met and interviewed each of the five, giving them this date and location for a meeting. Finding themselves in an empty warehouse, with no sign of Pheg or anyone else, they introduced themselves to the other complete strangers and chatted a bit.

Mairrethid, a human wizard, was the last of the five to assemble. He introduced himself to the others with an outgoing but not particularly charismatic smile. He was a tall man, wearing a long, double-breasted black leather coat buttoned all the way up to its high collar. His hair was closely cropped, under a narrow-brimmed cap, and one of his eyes was milky and failed to track with the other. He carried a mage’s staff in one hand and wore a dagger openly at his hip.

Mez, a goblin rogue, made the appropriate social rejoinders to Mairrethid and the others, but largely kept to himself. The tiny man was three-foot-five, with long ropey arms whose knuckles nearly touched the floor. His extensive body hair was a rusty brown fur, and a particularly red patch of longer hair was cropped into a close beard around his large, fanged mouth. His wide-set ears were pointy and moved independently towards every sound, like those of a mule, and each had several dull metal studs as piercings. He wore a loose-fitting black wool shirt, trousers, cloak, and a matching linen kerchief on his head, pulled down low over his brow to keep out the sun. All of this baggy black did a passingly adequate job of concealing leather armor and a half-dozen knives, as well as a small crossbow on his belt at the small of his back.

Gurnlocke Fisk, a dwarf warlock, had bronze skin, dark eyes, and a brown beard shot through with gray and red, trimmed into a short point. He was decked out in a light suit of leather armor, stained black and red, with an untailored wolf fur thrown over his shoulders. He leaned on a warhammer he had been using as a walking stick.

Fisk introduced himself as a student and aspiring master of the world’s mysteries. Mairrethid, himself a professed student of the arcane, pressed Fisk for greater detail but Fisk politely told him to keep his eyes in his own spellbook. Mairrethid tactfully shifted conversation to the quality of local metalcraft, which Fisk appeared not to have great interest in, though he was competent enough in the topic and polite enough in his manner to participate.

Gherota, a human fighter, didn’t say much to the others and rolled her eyes a lot. She looked more comfortable in her suit of scale mail than Mairrethid did in his high-collared coat. She was decked out with a heavy shield on her back and an assortment of weapons from her belt, most prominently a bastard sword with her left hand perpetually resting on the pommel.

Schlobrock, an ork shaman, was an enthusiastic participant in every conversation, though every time she opened her mouth to add something, a heavy accent and predilection for non sequitors left her mostly ignored by the others. Her thickly muscled frame was covered in chain mail, with enough specimens of flora and fauna dangling for drying and storage to completely obscure her figure. An oversized axe and a small quiver of javelins on her back were both visible and prominent.

A door swung open at the far end of the warehouse, heralding the entry of a squat, thick man. It wasn’t Pheg, but all five recognized him despite having been in Red Rock for less than two weeks. His named was Poot, and he controlled a large portion of the power, money and business in the town and its environs. For a man running late, he wasted surprisingly little time.

“Pheg tells me that the five of you are looking for work, and on my behalf invited you all here to meet with me.” Poot slid into a half-sitting position against a pile of grain sacks. “I’m going to tell you what I expect: capable men with a tolerance for personal danger and few compunctions around the use of violence in the pursuit of wealth and power. I work with people who have sense enough to stay on the right side of the law. If you can live up to that, I’m happy to meet you. Otherwise, use the door.”

The five gathered in front of Poot didn’t appear to have much to say in response.

“Here’s the job.” He tossed a folded parchment to Mairrethid. “I assume one of you five can read a map. It leads to a house up in the hills, currently used by a pack of goblin scum who stole something that belongs to me. There’s a sketch with the map; I’ll pay five-hundred gold for its return. The rest you take from those wolf-pup scum-suckers is yours.”

“You got a problem going up against goblins, Mez?” Gherota asked. Her voice was charged with accusation.

“Their flesh bleeds and their gold shines, like anyone else,” Mez replied. “However, I don’t take any job without money up front.”

“Did I say this was a job?” Poot retorted. “This is a try-out, not a job. Prove your mettle, and you’re eligible for a job. Try to find another buyer for the goods, and the guys I send after you will be the type I pay up front. Got it?”

Mez shrugged.

“I don’t expect you to have any questions, so I’ll leave you with that. Next time I see you, have my property.”

Poot promptly stood, turned, and walked out of the warehouse.

“He did say it was a job,” Mez grumbled, after Poot was gone.

“Seriously,” Gherota replied. “What a jerk.”

“What’ve we got?” Fisk asked, ignoring the others.

Mairrethid was already unfolding the map. A small sketch fell to the ground in the process. Mairrethid picked it up, looking at it first. “A small statue, probably part of some sort of primitive religious services, six inches high, stone.”

Fisk gestured for Mairrethid to pass it to him, and Mairrethid complied, shifting his attention to the map. “And it looks like we’re going on a nature hike. This house is a good fifty miles out, in the northern hills.”

“Ah,” Schlobrock cooed, grinning. “Nadure.”

“I want to know more about the target,” Mez said. “Think it’d piss off the boss if I asked a few questions about this location before we leave?”

“I’m of the same mind,” Mairrethid agreed, “but Poot said we aren’t supposed to have any more questions. He might be worried about the targets getting a warning before we’re able to make contact. But I’m new in town here, and I’m not even sure where to start asking questions.”

“You could just say you agree that it’d piss him off,” Gherota retorted with a snort. “And I agree. That man’s looking for excuses not to pay everyone he does business with.”

“If these goblins are working as highwaymen, then there should be word about ‘em all over town. If they are a little more clever and ambitious, they’ve got contacts here in Red Rock, and any questions we ask are likely to get back to them.” Mez scratched his chin, thinking.

Fisk made a suggestion, without looking away from the sketch of Poot’s missing statue. “Grab some low-ranking stable boy no one would miss, someone who goes to sleep every night with manure under his fingernails. Some guy who works with the teamsters and merchants. Follow him around until he’s alone, ask your questions, and then rob and murder him. If anyone in league with the target is smart enough to figure the crime for anything besides random violence, then we’re probably screwed anyway.”

“Are you zerious?” Schlobrock asked.

“Nah,” Fisk replied without missing a beat. “Stable boys are never worth robbing, for gold or information or anything else. Something they teach you in mustache-twirling academy.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Gherota asked, “but I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

Fisk winked to Mez, and Mez stifled a chuckle.

“Mez has a point,” Mairrethid interrupted. “If Poot’s going against the wrong kind of people, we can’t give any sign of who we’re about to take on. I hate operating blind, but I don’t see an alternative.”

“If Poot’s going against the wrong kind of people,” Gherota asked, “why are we so eager to do the same?”

“Money,” Fisk answered, with finality. He changed the subject and held up the sketch of Poot’s statue. “This sketch depicts an ancient halfling fertility idol, less a part of religious services as the wizard suggested than a component in a magic ritual, probably a harvest prayer or something similarly profitable and harmless.”

“Ledz go,” Schlubrock urged. “We wazde dime here. Dalk on dhe road.”

“There’s wisdom in that,” Mez said, laughing.

“Poot didn’t appoint a leader or anything. It is dangerous to go into combat without a commander.” Mairrethid shrugged as he made his suggestion, “I would be pleased to offer my services in that regard.”

“I agree that we need a leader, but men who follow wizards into combat invariably die a horrible death.” Gherota shook her head. “I have experience in dozens of campaigns, and while I never thought of myself as much of an officer, I trust my own decisive judgment and I assure you that the rest of you can, too.”

Fisk rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you both believe giving orders to your comrades is a lofty burden, a sacrifice you’re willing to shoulder alone and whatever else. Half of dwarf religion is based around the same concept, but I’m afraid I have to call bull hockey on that. We’re not soldiers. We’re not warriors. And the only oath I serve is that I’ll serve no mortal before myself and take no order that doesn’t strike me as a particularly clever suggestion. So can it on the leadership crap.”

“Here here,” Mez applauded.

“Yeah,” Schlobrock added.

“You’re kinda a mercenary bastard, aren’t you?” Gherota asked.

Fisk grinned at her, the first time he had smiled since they met.

“Fair enough,” Mairrethid answered. “Do you want to take a vote then? Are we ready to leave town now, or wait for morning?”

“Now,” Mez said.

“Dwo nightz on dhe road ib we leabe now,” Schlobrock mused. “I zay leabe now.”

“I’ve got all my stuff with me, and I’m paid up at the tavern,” Gherota said. “Now’s good for me.”

“That’s a majority then, unless anyone wants to make a counterargument that has yet to be overruled?” Mairrethid asked.

“Good enough,” Fisk added after a moment of silence. “Should we take a vote on my stableboy idea?”

After another moment of silence, Fisk grumbled, “I was kidding. You guys have no sense of humor when it comes to slaughtering the innocent.”

Next Ch 02: Semi-Random Violence