saturnaliattxt

[saturnaliattxt]

Trail of the Bandit King, Part V

The battle was short and vicious.

Ulver had brought only four men, but they were the best he had, and they knew how to move quickly and quietly. They fell upon Luther and Syl on the stone shelves with such suddenness that they had no chance even to cry out.

It was only chance that Roland happened to glance up, in time to see a masked figure sieze Luther from behind, choking him with a knotted rope. Roland drew his weapon and lunged from his hiding-place.

Two warriors were upon him instantly, their hooked swords flashing, and Roland succeeded in angering them by cleaving off one’s arm at the shoulder. The point of his sword stuck in the man’s breastbone; Roland jerked it loose, showering himself with viscera, but the distraction was sufficient to allow the other to aim a low cut at Roland’s leg. He stumbled and fell, blood draining from the wound, and a slash cut the back of his neck.

At this moment their attention was diverted by Lat, who charged, screaming, from her own hiding-place, sword and dagger flashing. Roland did not see how that battle was concluded.

*

Roland should have died there, bleeding out in the damp grass of Serpent’s Pass, but he did not.

He woke late at night. An animal was nuzzling at him. It fled when he moved; he never saw what it was.

The back of his neck felt as though it was on fire. He went, gingerly, to touch it, and found that turning his body provoked unthinkable pain.

He tried to stand, and found that his wounded leg did not want him to. He slumped back to the ground.

He nearly closed his eyes, and then realized that if he did he would never open them again.

He forced himself to stand, and limped to the cave in which he’d been hidden. His sword was lying in the grass where he had dropped it. He smiled grimly at the trail of blood he left behind him.

His pack was still in the cave. There was a fat bottle of liquor within. He took a deep swig, poured a splash on each of his wounds, then took another deep swig.

He bit the flesh of his arm to keep from howling in pain.

He could not wear the pack on his shoulders. He threw away the bedroll, the cookpot, kept only the food and liquor. He strapped his sword back to his side, held the pack under his arm, and started to walk.

*

The black trees of the Undvert swamp, rising from the muddy water and the thick fog, surrounded Kund’s fortress like an army of the dead.

Travelers approached, and the rusted iron gate ground slowly open. Brigands leered over the parapets; arrows jostled at murderholes; the identity of the travelers was seen, and the threats were withdrawn.

The travelers passed through the tunnel into a courtyard beyond the black stone walls. Sunlight filtered in thin strands through the curtain of overgrowth. Sickly pools of water bubbled up through the cracked flagstones.

From an upper tower a horn was sounded: a dissonant pattern of notes, the signal that visitors had arrived. There was a delay. The travelers waited in the courtyard, while curious brigands eyed them from a distance.

Before them stood the main structure of the fortress - a creaking stone edifice constructed untold years before, by some sodden king of the swamps, now repurposed but not overly refurbished. The once-grand doors were sodden relics. They no longer closed; one was left perpetually ajar to allow passage into the great hall.

Through this opening came the bandit-king Kund.

He lacked the imposing aspect one might have expected. He was not tall, though he was not short; his frame was squat and muscular, and he was riddled with scars. His clothes were perhaps finer than most brigands’, his hair a little better-kept, his weapons better polished, but there was an unmistakeable grimness in his grey eyes, an intimation of the ruthlessness expected of a man of his reputation.

He was escorted not by a guard but by his personal slave: a naked black-haired girl, dressed in a leather harness with sufficient points of articulation that she could be easily bound in many postures; her wrists and ankles were loosely cuffed, and she stumbled, leashed, behind her brigand master.

This was the sight that Lat, Luther, and Syl beheld.

All three had been stripped to the skin (an easy task in Syl’s case), bound hand and foot, and dragged into the fortress. There they’d been thrust to their knees. Ulver and his three men stood at their back, grinning cruelly.

“Ulver,” said Kund.

“Kund,” said Ulver, with a respectful nod.

“You’ve brought prisoners,” said Kund.

“To temper bad news,” said Ulver. “Gatz is dead.”

Kund frowned.

“I feared as much,” he said. “Word was a duke put a bounty on our heads.”

“Which duke?”

“The Duke of Trast,” said Ulver. He spat. “Only there is no such duke. It’s a pseudonym, meant to lure the credulous. Like this lot.”

He prodded Luther with his foot. “Mrrff,” said Luther.

“Ungag him,” said Kund, gesturing; Ulver complied.

“My friend,” said Luther, “if I may call you that, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. My friends and I were lying in ambush for a different foe altogether, and your servant’s men came upon us quite by surprise.”

“Possible,” grunted Ulver, “but unlikely. Few use the road through Serpent’s Pass. And that you should come upon us so soon after Gatz’s death? Also, this one -” He siezed Lat by the hair and dragged her to her feet. “This one we gave to Gatz the very day he was killed. Now she’s here, free, armed, and on my trail? Hm.”

“Hm, indeed,” Kund echoed. “Had they any fellows?”

“One, but we left him dead in the pass.”

“Good. Take the man and the redhead to the torture-chambers,” said Kund. “See what we can learn about this false duke and his schemes. And have the girl brought to my quarters - I’ll have some fun with her.”

Any further protestations Luther may have had were cut off by the re-introduction of the gag. They were led away.

*

Beyond Serpent’s Pass, Ulver and his party made no attempt to cover their tracks. The swamp was their territory, after all.

Roland was grateful. He’d run out of liquor quickly, and he suspected he wouldn’t survive getting lost in the swamps. For one thing, there were rumours of terrible beasts in the Undvert; for another, his wounds were really quite bad.

Roland had heard himself described as many things. Brute was one of them; intelligent was not. But he had a certain animal cunning, and a beast’s ferocity, that had kept him alive in situations more dire than this one.

When he saw the grim monument that was Kund’s fortress, he nearly despaired of seeing his friends again. But the knowledge that he had nowhere else to go drove him on.

In his youth in the mountains of Cairt, Roland had passed idle days scaling cliff-faces sheer enough to make a master climber blanch. The walls of the castle did not frighten him. Furthermore, he knew that nights in the swamp would be dark - very dark.

In this case, darkness would be his ally.

*

Lat they put on the wooden horse. This fiendish device was simply a long plank, raised off the ground on legs, and carved to form a triangular point along its length. On this Lat was set; weights were bound to her ankles; her wrists were lashed behind her, then tied by rope to a point on the ceiling. This had the effect of putting a terrible strain in her shoulders and legs, and an immense pressure on her delicate womanhood, which sat directly on the thin arch of the horse.

Of course, such discomfort was not the end of her treatment; the leering guards were only too happy to flog her with a variety of whips, and for an extended duration, until her voice was hoarse from screaming. They hardly even bothered to question her. Perhaps they could sense she had nothing to tell them.

When at last they tired of torture, she was taken down from her perch and chained, hand and foot, to a wall in the chamber. There she could survey the collection of instruments and wonder which they might use on her tomorrow. A bowl of thin gruel was thrust before her; she lapped it up like a dog.

She did not see where they had taken Luther. No doubt he had been subjected to other novel tortures.

The night passed slowly. The sitting posture in which she’d been chained, and the freezing cold of the flagstones on her naked flesh, were not conducive to sleep. Nor were the grim thoughts running through her head. Even if she managed to escape, she would have nowhere to go, except into the inexorable grasp of the Nightmare Guard, to whom her life was forfeit upon failure. She had no hope of conquering Kund’s fortress and finding Ulver and the object alone, unarmed, and unclothed.

Consequently she was quite awake when footsteps sounded in the chamber. Grimly she feared that a brigand had come to make entertainment of her flesh; a moment later a call, cut off by a wet gurgle, told her that this was not the case.

She raised her head. From the darkness, bloodied, and clutching a blood-soaked sword, came Roland.

“Roland?” she whispered. “You’re alive!”

“Mostly,” he replied. “Hang on.”

He had a jangling bunch of keys, still slick with the jailor’s blood, and he tried twelve before finding the one that opened her shackles. Forgetting her nakedness, she fell into his arms, nearly insensate with gratitude.

“They have Luther in here somewhere,” she whispered, “and Syl is in Kund’s rooms. I don’t know where Ulver sleeps.”

“We have to be quiet,” said Roland. “If we wake the castle, all is lost.”

He handed her a weapon, and she wrapped the dead jailor’s cloak around herself. They crept into an adjacent room.

There they found Luther, in ill-humour but not much the worse for wear.

“Their techniques are amateurish,” he told Roland as they unchained him. “Eager, but lacking form. Nowhere near the skill of the Bastards of the Blackthorn.”

Now three, they crept to the courtyard, where the brigands kept a careless guard - they seemed to have little fear of discovery, here in the sodden depths of the swamp.

“I must go find Syl,” Roland whispered, “and I’ll end that bastard Kund’s life on my way. You two get Ulver and the thing you need.”

“Is it wise to seperate?” said Luther worriedly.

“Of course not,” said Roland. “It’s much safer this way.”

They passed through the open doors into the grand hall, then parted ways, Roland talking the main stair and Luther and Lat a side passage. Roland claimed to have scouted briefly, and he had a notion of how the rooms were laid out; apart from these vague directions, they were on their own.

“How are you feeling?” Luther asked Lat in a low voice, as they crept down the damp stone hall.

“Not incredible,” Lat admitted, “but I’m angry.”

“Good,” said Luther, smiling in satisfaction. “That will help a lot.”

They rounded a corner and came upon a brigand sleeping in the hallway. After a moment’s deliberation, they cut his throat and stuffed him into an empty room.

The next sentry was actually awake, but his attentions were focused on the nude slave-girl at his feet, who was busily providing him oral pleasure. This made him quite easy to kill; Lat bound and gagged the slave-girl, assuring her that they’d free her when the job was finished.

A short time later they came to a large set of doors, and, peering through, saw a well-appointed room, with carpeted floors and a four-poster bed. At the window stood a grim-faced figure in silhouette.

“Ulver,” Lat whispered darkly. “Twice now that bastard’s had me. He should have killed me when he had the chance.”

“Let’s do it quickly,” Luther advised.

He threw open the door and fired his crossbow. The bolt flashed straight toward’s Ulver’s chest, and then, inches from its target, struck some hidden barrier and splintered into a thousand pieces.

“We’re talking,” said Medvek calmly.

The magus was leaning against the wall, half-shrouded in shadow. Ulver turned from the window and raised his flagon.

“Evening,” he said.

*

Kund kept a guard outside his door at all hours, consisting of his two most trusted men. They were there more to dissuade assassination attempts than to protect against outside threats. In addition, they were not ready for the sudden appearance of a figure from the shadows, his blade suddenly at their throats. They were dead in an instant.

Just outside the heavy oak door leading into Kund’s room was his personal girl, naked and shivering against the cold; her harness had been affixed to a latch outside the door. Roland whispered: “I’m going to take the gag out, but don’t scream, okay?”

She nodded fearfully. He took it out.

“Is Kund in there?” Roland asked.

She nodded.

“Is he alone?”

“He’s with the new girl,” said the slave. Was that a hint of jealousy in her voice? Roland allowed himself a private smile. “Has he drunk much?” Roland asked.

“No more than usual,” said the girl.

“Thank you,” said Roland. “If you want, you can come with me when this is over. Also, sorry, but I can’t take risks.”

He put the gag back in her mouth, took a deep breath, and threw open the door.

The room beyond was luxurious, for a swamp-castle bedroom: there was a bucket of hot water, a thick rug, a writing-desk, and a four-poster bed. Syl’s wrists were bound to two of these posts, and her ankles to the upper portion of another; between her spread legs stood Kund, trouserless, grunting and sweating as he thrust himself into her. Syl squealed with delight at the sight of Roland. Kund stared, agape.

“What the fuck are you doing disturbing me, runt?” he demanded.

“The castle’s under attack,” said Roland.

“I didn’t hear any damn bells,” said Kund. “What’s this all about? Where are the guards?”

Roland charged, sword upraised, and Kund staggered back, his cock still half-erect and flapping in the night air. A moment later he was dead on the floor, in a spreading pool of his own blood.

“Well,” said Roland, “that was easy.”

He turned to Syl. “Are you all right?”

“I am now,” she said.

He went to untie her ankles. “Wait,” she said.

“What?”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Well,” she said, “it would be a shame to waste this fine bed.”

Roland paused.

*

“Please, come in,” said Medvek calmly. “Or I’ll kill you both with a thought.”

Lat and Luther entered slowly, still clutching their weapons. Lat, watching Ulver, saw the muscles straining in his neck, the animal fear in the un-rotted half of the man’s face.

“If we’re disturbing anything,” said Luther, “we’ll be quite happy to -”

“Shh, now,” said Medvek. “Ulver was just telling me where to find the metathaumograph.”

With a trembling figure, Ulver pointed to a chest at the foot of the bed. Medvek went to it, flipped the lid open, and lifted out an object wrapped in cloth. He parted the cloth slightly and grinned.

“Perfect,” he said.

The door to the room flew open with a deafening crash.

In the doorway, clutching his sword, stood Roland. Blood poured down his shoulders from the wound on his neck, which had just re-opened. He limped into the room, favouring his un-injured leg.

“Drop the thing!” Roland bellowed.

Medvek looked at him quizzically.

“Do you have a horse in this fight?” he said.

“Yes,” said Roland. “One, I think you’re a prick. Two, I don’t want her to get killed by the Nightmare Guard.”

Lat blushed.

“That’s very nice of you,” said Medvek. “But really think about this, barbarian. Is some fresh pussy worth getting killed?”

“It’s not just about that,” said Roland. “It’s also about the money. And - the principle of the thing.”

“Principle,” Medvek repeated. “That’s a big word for such a very, very stupid man.”

He got to his feet and made a pushing gesture with his hand. The sudden shockwave pushed Roland off his feet and slammed him into the wall. He slid to the floor, leaving a trail of blood from his opened neck, and groped for his fallen sword. Medvek advanced almost casually, launching a silver spear, which embedded itself in Roland’s new breastplate.

Roland groped at his weapon, gasping for air, as the spear drew a trickle of blood from his veins. He couldn’t breathe; he could hardly see. Medvek twirled his wrist, and an ethereal curved blade appeared in his hand, shimmering with electric radiance.

He paused, holding the sword above Roland’s neck.

“They always die like this,” he said, a sudden note of venom in his voice. “Bleeding and begging for their lives. There’s nothing you can do.”

Medvek had made one mistake.

His mistake was forgetting the other three people in the room.

Perhaps he thought his display of power would paralyze them with fear. Perhaps he expected them to think of it as an honourable dual. Perhaps his anger at Roland had clouded his judgement.

Still, he would likely have survived: would have seen the flicker of a charging figure from the corner of his eye, the flash of a blade, and killed his enemy with the same flick of the wrist that had dispatched so many enemies before.

But he had not expected a second crossbow bolt. Luther did not dare adjust his aim; he fired at the centre of mass. The bolt embedded itself in Medvek’s silver armour.

There was a flash of light. Medvek whirled, his face twisted with rage.

“Idiot,” he hissed, twitching his fingers to kill Luther; this was when he made his second and final mistake, which was assuming that Roland was too weak to act. Roland’s hand was already on the grip of his sword, and with a brutality the magus could never have anticipated Roland, still prone, swung it in a ferocious arc, burying the weapon in the bone of Medvek’s right foot. The magus stumbled, cursing, feeling pain for the first time in years, and then Lat threw her knife. The magus made a frantic gesture that deflected the blade away from his face, and at the same moment Roland lurched to his feet, dragging the weapon up the man’s leg, and then bringing it around in another smooth motion. Medvek roared another word; the blade’s arc was disrupted, and Roland was thrust back against the wall, but this time he did not lose his grip on the weapon, and no sooner had he struck the wall than he was lunging forward again, and Lat was charging with her weapon drawn, and Luther was reloading his crossbow, and Medvek, thrown off balance by the bruise on his spine and his ruined ankle, hesitated for the single instant required for Roland to slash at his unprotected neck.

He did not quite succeed in severing the head, but drove the blade deep enough that it made no difference.

His face a mask of battle-fury, Roland withdrew the weapon, and then collapsed.

“Roland!” Luther shouted, rushing to his friend’s side.

Lat had a shortsword in hand and swerved to Ulver, who was in the act of leaping from the window.

“Bastard!” Lat hissed. A moment later he had vanished from sight. There were footsteps in the corridor. The commotion had alerted the guards.

“We need to get out of here!” Lat shouted. “Leave him!”

The anger on Luther’s face was nearly as palpable as Medvek’s shockwave. He pulled Roland to a sitting position and clutched at the head hanging from the man’s belt.

“You see this?” he said. “The head of Kund.”

The door flew open. Four brigands stood there with weapons drawn, their faces torn between confusion and fury. One of them was dragging a nude Syl by the elbow.

Luther held up the head.

“Your leader is dead,” he roared, “his lieutenant fled! Surrender and perhaps we will not kill you all!”

The brigands regarded the head of Kund in confusion.

“You’ll pay for that, scum,” one of them growled, and rushed Luther with his weapon drawn.

Roland regained his feet at the same instant. His sword lay at his side. Weaponless, drenched in blood and gore, he siezed the unwary bandit’s head and snapped his neck with one insane jerk.

“I killed Kund,” Roland screamed. “Who’s next?”

The rest of the brigands dropped their weapons.

*

Five days later, Illuvia the Grand Wizard met Vizier Makel in the royal gardens.

“I heard you recovered the object,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” said Illuvia. “And I have some good news for you - the magus won’t need to be payed?”

“Oh? Did it out of the goodness of his heart, did he?”

“No,” said Illuvia. “He’s dead. The delivery girl recovered it. And,” she added, “she had the assistance of two mercenaries - the ones that collected the bounty on Kund and his lieutenant.”

“Fascinating.” Vizier Makel waved his hand. “If there’s nothing further, then, I have work to do.”

“Of course, Vizier.”

Illuvia made her way to a secret entrance in the wall, and passed thence through the winding tunnels of her subterranean labyrinth, making each turn unconsciously. In her secret libraries, a guide waited beside the blindfolded red-headed girl, who wore a terribly nervous expression.

Illuvia went to her desk and opened one of the drawers. She gestured for the blindfold to be removed.

“Well done,” she said, setting a heavy pouch of gold in the girl’s hand. “As a professional courtesy, I won’t ask what happened to Medvek. And I should add that your life is no longer in the purview of the Nightmare Guard.”

The relief on the girl’s face was palpable.

“Enjoy your reward,” said Illuvia, “and try to keep a low profile. We’ll contact you soon. The next job,” she added, raising a finger, “won’t be quite so easy.”

*

The Iron City had many respectable clinics, but none were as capable, or as little-known, as the Black Clinic in the Shallows. Certain rumours, exchanged in dark corners of taverns and in the midst of midnight trysts, claimed that the doctors of the Black Clinic could raise the dead. Other, more reputable rumours, merely claimed that the Clinic could repair any wound with startling efficacy.

Shortly after her meeting with the Grand Wizard, Lat came there, wrapped in a dark cloak. By coincidence she arrived at the same time as Luther.

“Ah,” said Luther, inclining his chin. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“I came to pay my respects,” said Lat. “He saved my life, after all.”

“So did I,” said Luther, looking affronted.

“Yes,” said Lat, “so did you. Thanks, Luther.”

“I know, I know,” Luther grumbled. “I have grey hair; he has muscles that ripple and strain. He gets all the ladies, and what do I get? Debt and a muttered thanks.”

“No, it’s not like that,” said Lat hastily. “To tell the truth, I find his character repulsive.”

“Well, there’s no need to offend,” said Luther. “He is my friend, after all.”

Lat sighed.

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll wait for you to come out.”

“No need,” said Luther. “We’ll go together.”

They went into the clinic. Black-garbed and masked doctors nodded respectfully to Luther; he made his way, unerringly, through hallways choked with the sick, to a private room at the rear, where Roland lay in a clean bed with a view of the river.

“Roland,” said Luther cheerfully.

“Old friend,” said Roland, smiling. “I feel much improved already. Have you bought our passage to Pandassa?”

“I thought it better to wait till you’d recovered,” said Luther.

“I’ve recovered,” said Roland. “In fact, I feel more full of life than ever. Or maybe it’s my purse that feels full.”

“I recieved a letter today,” said Luther, “thanking me for my service to the Crown. It was signed by the Grand Wizard.”

“Mm.” Roland’s face darkened. “I dislike truck with wizards.”

“Me too,” said Lat fervently.

They spoke only briefly thereafter. When Luther had gone Lat came a little closer to the bed. “I wanted to thank you,” she said hesitantly.

“There’s no need,” said Roland. “It was for my own sake, after all. Though I should add: I did refrain from fucking Syl to come save your lives. If that isn’t character growth, I don’t know what is.”

“Very brave of you,” said Lat.

“Speaking of which,” said Roland, “Syl is hiding under the bed right now, so if you wouldn’t mind leaving, I have business to attend to.”

“Of course,” said Lat, blushing an incredibly deep shade of crimson.

“Unless you’d rather stay,” Roland added.

“No, thank you,” she said.

She left in more of a hurry than was perhaps warranted.

As Syl writhed and squirmed on his manhood, Roland looked out to the clogged and clouded banks of the river. It had been a good week, he told himself: he’d hardly been bored at all.

END

[saturnaliattxt]

Trail of the Bandit King, Part IV

A few hours earlier, Yalk and Benfred had made camp behind a hillock in sight of the city walls. Benfred was picking his teeth by the fire. Yalk was counting coins.

A horse approached. Yalk glanced up and reached for his crossbow.

The rider was hooded. Silver armour glinted beneath his black cloak, but he bore no weapons.

“Who’s this?” Yalk muttered.

The man approached, holding out his arms to show that he came in peace. He wore gleaming silver gauntlets. Yalk was suspicious. “Who are you?”

“I am Medvek,” the man replied. There was a subtle current of menace in his voice that made Yalk ill at ease. “I was hoping you fellows could be of help to me.”

“How so?”

“I’m looking for a redheaded girl,” said Medvek, “carrying an object that I desire to have. I heard you fellows might know something about her.”

Yalk looked and Benfred, who looked bemused. “The girl is gone,” said Yalk, “and so is the object.”

“Where is it?”

“We sold it to a traveling merchant who fences such things,” said Yalk.

“His name?”

Yalk hesitated. “I mean only to make him an offer,” Medvek assured them. “I have an enormous sum to offer in exchange for this object.”

“Maybe the man’s name is worth something to you too, then,” Yalk said.

“Well thought of,” said Medvek. He drew a heavy pouch from his cloak and tossed it to Yalk. Yalk opened it and eyed the gleaming coins with a grin.

“Well bought,” he said. “The merchant’s name is Adlin. He trades in Wastrel.”

“I know him well,” said Medvek. “You say to me: ‘Well bought,’ but have you heard it said: ‘Dearly sold?’”

“No,” said Yalk uncomfortably. A moment later a shining silver javelin had impaled him through the heart, pinning him to the ground.

Benfred leapt to his feet with a yell. He had hardly seen from whence the javelin came; only saw Medvek make a gesture, and then it was there. Before the brigand could act, Medvek made another slight motion, and a second javelin flew from his fingers, impaling the second brigand.

The javelins dissolved into silver dust and were carried off in the breeze. Medvek retrieved his coin and cut open the brigands’ bags.

“Mm,” he said, perhaps disappointed that the metathaumograph was not within. He mounted his horse and made for the city gates.

*

The return journey through the Flesh Pits was thoroughly grueling.

Lat found she had pent up a fair store of rage in her captivity, but killing skeletons was a profoundly unsatisfying job, and doing it naked was even less invigorating.

Roland, Luther, and Tula went about killing with even less vigour.

At the catacombs’ edge they were all thoroughly wearied.

For Roland, the only bright spot in the journey was the making of new acquaintances. Lat he found sullen and untalkative. The girl in white had crept behind them, petrified with terror, the riding crop still clenched between her teeth; she had removed it long enough to tell Roland her name, which was Syl.

“Syl,” said Roland. “Were you fond of Gatz?”

She shook her head vehemently.

Roland patted the head on his belt. “Then we have something in common,” he said.

She blushed.

That was the extent of their conversation until they reached the Pits. Luther was examining Lat’s form critically. “We’d better hide that head in a bag,” he said, “and as for you, miss, a naked girl with a sword is a bad look in the Pits. You’ll need a disguise.”

“Get me some clothes, then,” said Lat.

“No need to be rude,” said Luther. “Besides, I’m afraid they don’t sell clothes in the Flesh Pits. Quite the opposite.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“She’ll have to pretend to be a slave,” said Tula. She dug in her satchel and produced a collar and cuffs. “Wear these.”

Lat groaned.

“I refuse,” she said.

“You’re free to make your own way through the Pits if you like,” said Luther, “naked, I might add, but if you want an escort, you’ll have to do it our way.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Roland assured her.

She finally complied. Bound, collared, and led on a leash, she followed them through the Pits, enduring lascivious glances from passing menfolk; her only comfort was that she was not standing on one of the myriad auction blocks. At last they gained the surface.

“Job well done,” said Roland, patting the bag at his side with satisfaction. “Now to collect our reward.”

“We’re only one-third done,” Luther reminded him, “and might I add that we didn’t get any information from Gatz before you killed him. We’ll have to rely on Ulver for that.”

“If I could break in,” said Lat.

They turned to look at her. “Could we take these off now?” she added, indicating the handcuffs.

“Not until we’re somewhere safe,” said Luther.

“Fine.” She sighed. “I assume you’re in the brigand-killing business for money.”

“Correct.”

“I was a delivery girl,” said Lat, “before I was waylaid by these same brigands. I’d like to know what happened to my package. In return, I can help you find Ulver. I know where he’s gone.”

Luther and Roland looked at one another.

“Agreed,” said Luther. “What’s this package?”

“But first,” said Lat, “I’d like some clothes. Could we get a move on, please?”

*

That night Luther and Tula sat up in the common room of the boarding-house at Winse and Pale. The matron of the house was in the back room, contentedly counting the months of back-pay Roland had just delivered; it had put her in such a good mood that she’d given them a free round of her cheapest beer.

Lat had not touched her beer. Dressed in freshly-bought leather armour, with a short sword strapped to her side, she was studying a stack of maps.

The maps were of the Iron City, but they were covered in strange symbols.

“Are those thieves’ marks?” asked Luther with great interest.

“Yes,” said Lat.

She’d stashed the maps in her rooms in the city; to her relief, they were unmolested when she returned.

“There are fences all throughout the Iron City,” Lat explained, “but only a few deal in arcane objects. Those are the ones we should visit.”

“Agreed,” said Luther, “but must we discuss it tonight? I’ve had a long day, I have a full purse, and I want to rest.”

“If I’m to help you,” said Lat, “we must hurry. This object is worth a lot to me.”

Tula was on her fifth beer.

“You’re working with a real killjoy, Luther,” she said, slurrily.

Roland was not there because he had gone to the Tavern of Desolation. Luther had persuaded him to bring only a portion of his coin. Syl had consented to go with him.

The two of them were hitting it off pretty well, Luther thought.

After a drink or two at the Desolation, Syl had decided to show Roland a dance she knew. She still wore only the scanty white garment, and the dance involved a lot of sinuous writhing. Roland worked his way through a mug and enjoyed the sight of her bare legs intertwining and of her cleavage straining against the thin cloth.

“Hey, missy,” said a burly fellow with a sneering face, putting his arm on Syl’s shoulder. She missed a step in the dance and nearly fell; he caught her rather rudely.

“Hey,” she protested.

“I’m Pag,” said the leering man. “Nice to meet you.”

He gripped her breast firmly with one dirt-caked hand. Roland got to his feet.

“Unhand her, you brute,” he said.

“Make me,” Pag suggested.

Events devolved into a brawl fairly quickly; the tavern was soon filled with blood, teeth, and discarded ladies’ undergarments. In the Desolation there was a fine line between brawls and orgies, due to the number of admiring girls eager to see feats of strength, and admiring prostitutes eager to appear impressed by said feats, and tonight the distinction was even smaller. After Roland had finished breaking Pag’s jaw, and a few other jaws for good measure, he and Syl found themselves half-hidden behind an overturned table. Syl’s garment had been torn in the commotion, and her breast and belly were thoroughly exposed.

They looked at each other for a moment, and then fell into a furious embrace. A fire broke out somewhere in the room; a man flew across the counter, shattering clay tankards. Roland took Syl with furious, bellowing thrusts, and her squeals of delight mixed with the general chaos. It was business as usual at the Desolation.

*

At dawn, Luther and Lat did a tour of the town’s ditches. He found Roland and Syl sleeping in the same one. Both looked bruised and thoroughly content.

“Time to wake up,” Luther advised, rattling Roland by the shoulder.

“Eeeugh,” Roland said, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Syl blinked and tugged at the scrap of white fabric hanging around her midriff, which was all she wore.

“Let’s go,” said Luther.

Roland groaned and stumbled to his feet. Luther handed over Roland’s notched sword and his breasplate, wrapped in sackcloth. “We have work to do,” said Luther.

“I have a headache,” said Roland. He looked at Lat. “I didn’t recognize you with clothes on,” he said.

Lat glowered. “You look good,” Roland added hastily.

Syl climbed out of the ditch and Roland patted her bare bottom. “Go to Winse and Pale,” he advised. “The matron will put you up in my room.”

The seminaked girl scampered off, and Roland followed Lat and Luther through the city, rubbing his head. “What are we doing?” he said.

“Visiting merchants,” said Lat.

“Already?”

“Quit complaining,” said Luther. “Think of the money.”

“I have lots of money,” said Roland.

“No you don’t,” said Luther. “You have lots of my money.”

This was true enough. Roland bought a cup of bitter coffee from a street-vendor and followed his companions through various unsavoury districts, in which Lat would knock on certain hidden windows, whisper secret phrases, and then speak in a low voice to unshaven gentlemen wearing unusual amounts of jewelry. Roland contented himself trading glares with the unshaven men’s bodyguards, which he supposed was his job anyway.

After three such visits Lat began to look a little crestfallen. “Only two more and still nothing,” she said.

“Don’t give up until it’s over,” Luther advised.

They rounded a corner into an alleyway, where the close-clustered rooftops blotted out the sun. The usual window was there, but the door beside it hung from one hinge, and a man lay in the street in a pool of blood.

“Hm,” said Luther.

Roland put a hand on his sword.

They approached the door slowly and peered in. Another man was slumped against the wall with a dagger embedded in his neck. There was a distinct smell of smoke.

“Hello?” Lat called into the dark hall.

An arrow flashed through the doorway and buried itself in the opposite wall. Lat leaned away.

“We come in peace!” she yelled. “What happened here?”

A hoarse voice bellowed: “What’s the goddamn password?”

“‘Blacken the lilacs’”, said Lat promptly.

“We’ve been robbed,” said the voice.

“Did someone sell you a metathaumograph recently?” Lat asked.

“Yes! And it was far hotter than I realized!”

“Who stole it?”

There was a pause. “Who are you?” said the voice suspiciously.

“Enough of this,” said Roland, barging through the door. An arrow deflected off his chest; he grunted and shoved his way into the room beyond, in which lay two more corpses and an astonishing mess. In the midst of the rubble of overturned furniture and smashed-up stolen goods squatted a mercantile fellow in stained robes, clutching a bow and hurriedly stringing a new arrow.

Roland knocked the bow out of his hand and grabbed him by the throat. “Who are you?”

“Adlin,” the man squeaked. “Just a humble merchant, at your service.”

“We’re the police,” said Roland.

Adlin’s eyes flicked from Roland to Luther and Lat, who had followed him in.

“Oh,” he said doubtfully.

“We’re here to investigate this terrible crime,” said Roland. “Who robbed you?”

“Brigands,” said Adlin. “Would you loosen your grip on my throat a bit? Thanks. As I said, brigands in black, led by a man with a half-rotted face.”

“Ulver,” said Lat darkly.

Luther raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose our allegiance will have to carry a little further,” he said.

Lat raised a finger.

“Do you hear that?” she said.

A burst of force blew through the door. Roland was thrown against the far wall; he sprawled to the floor with the wind thoroughly knocked out of him. His sword clattered on the ground some distance away.

Groggily he raised his eyes, saw Lat and Luther sprawled in similar fashion, and watched a man come through the door. The man was unarmed, but silver armour glinted under his black cloak.

The man surveyed the room, then knelt over the quivering Adlin and put a silver-gauntleted hand on his forehead.

“Adlin?” said the man softly.

“The same,” Adlin squeaked.

“It’s not your day.” Medvek surveyed the room. “Who stole it?”

“I just finished telling these gentlemen,” said Adlin, “that it was a man with a half-rotted face, who I believe goes by the name of -”

“Ulver.” Medvek withdrew his hand and walked over to Lat, who had half-risen; he thrust her back to the floor with his boot and leaned over her.

“Your red hair,” he said, “and this extraordinary coincidence, lead me to believe that you are Lat, the delivery girl. Consider your task failed and your life thus forfeit to the Nightmare Guard. I will complete the delivery. If you report to the palace gates by nightfall, the Guard may show mercy and make your end swift.”

Roland gained his footing and charged. Medvek glanced over his shoulder and flicked his wrist. A silver javelin flashed from his hand, arresting Roland’s movements by slamming square into his chest. Roland stumbled backward and fell with a loud thud.

“Palace gates, nightfall,” Medvek repeated, while Lat glared at him defiantly. He left.

Luther hurried to Roland. The silver javelin had already dissolved. Luther pulled aside the fallen man’s cloak, revealing a neat javelin-shaped hole burned through the breastplate. The point of the spear had just pricked his chest, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

“Ouch,” Roland grunted. “Who was that?”

“A magus,” said Lat grimly, getting to her feet.

“What was that about the Nightmare Guard?” Luther demanded.

Lat picked up her sword and sighed.

*

A week earlier, Lat had been led, blindfolded, through a sepulchral labyrinth in the innards of the palace.

When the blindfold was removed she found herself in a room lit only by a guttering blue torch. The walls were shelved and heavy with tomes.

A woman stood at one of the shelves, holding a tome in one hand. She raised her eyes. They glowed faintly in the dark.

Lat bowed deferentially. She was more frightened than she could ever remember being.

“This is the thief?” said the woman to Lat’s guide.

The guide nodded.

“You know who I am,” said the lady to Lat.

Lat did. This was the Grand Wizard Illuvia.

“You come well recommended,” said the Grand Wizard. “I have a simple task for you. There is a village two days east of here called Uldritch. You know it?”

Lat nodded.

“A man called Tural will meet you there,” said Illuvia. “He will give you a parcel. Deliver it here. Your guide will give you the location.

“Succeed,” continued Illuvia, “and you will be given four thousand crowns, but the real reward will be the promise of future work.”

As Lat was turning to go, Illuvia added: “And by the way, I hope you know the risk you have assumed in working for me. So long as you succeed, you will have nothing to fear; if you fail, unfortunately, I will collect my payment by collecting your life.”

Lat’s eyes darted to the dark shelves. In those dim-lit recessed, she knew, stood umbral members of the Nightmare Guard. She could almost see the yellow pinpricks of their eyes.

“But there should be no risk of failure,” Illuvia added. “This is only a test.”

It had not been a test, Lat realized, the moment she snuck a glimpse of the parcel. She’d been in over her head from the very start.

*

“We need to get to Ulver before he does,” said Lat.

“We?” Luther rubbed his head. “It seems like you’re the one in trouble with the Nightmare Guard, and that we might be better off staying out of the whole thing.”

“Then he’ll kill Ulver,” said Lat desperately, “and you’ll never catch Kund. Please: I need your help. And you have nothing to lose. You didn’t fail the Grand Wizard.”

“What’s going on?” said Adlin nervously.

“Let me confer with my friend,” said Luther.

Lat paced nervously. Roland said, in a low voice: “There’s magic involved. I’m out.”

“Right,” said Luther, in an equally low voice, “but imagine how profitable it would be to do the Grand Wizard a favour.”

“I think that magus fellow has it all well in hand.”

“Nonsense,” Luther murmured. “We found Lat, didn’t we? We found Adlin first. We’ve been a step ahead of him the whole way. Finish the job, and we stand to be rich as sin. We could retire.”

“I don’t want to retire.”

“Fine, then we could afford passage to Pandassa.”

Roland considered.

“Very well,” he said, “but she owes me a new breastplate.”

“We agree,” said Luther to Lat, “on the proviso that you replace the ruined breastplate. And that we recieve a portion of your reward.”

“Agreed,” said Lat instantly. “Let’s go kill Ulver.”

*

Finding Ulver was not as easy as it sounded. Unlike Gatz, he had no home base in the Iron City. His was the life of a vagrant.

Luckily, Lat knew people, and it took only the promise of a favour or two, and the cashing-in of favours owed, to determine his current trajectory. He, and his most trusted guard, had left their caravan behind. They were on their way to Kund’s fortress via a secret route that few knew.

Lat didn’t know it, but she soon learned it.

“We need to hire horses,” said Lat.

Roland rubbed his hands together. “Finally,” he said. “I’ll be glad to get out of the city for a while. Just let me fetch my things.”

“What things?” said Luther. “You’re wearing all of your things.”

“Wrong,” said Roland.

His “things” turned out to be Syl, now clad in a fetching (if cheap) jeweled necklace. She was otherwise naked, a fashion that seemed to suit her just fine.

“She can’t come with us,” Lat protested. “This is a murderous pursuit, not a pleasure cruise.”

“It is my motto to never leave behind anything I don’t care to lose,” said Roland.

It was a good motto, Lat admitted, and so shortly they were setting out from the Iron City on three fresh horses, Syl hanging onto Roland’s back. They quickly left the King’s Road, cutting northward into the sodden hills.

“He has less than a day’s head start,” Lat noted, “but he’ll be moving quickly. We’d better set a fierce pace.”

She’d picked a route through the hills meant to cut off Ulver near Serpent’s Pass, a narrow spot perfect for ambush. It would take them well into the next day to reach. Consequently, after a day’s hard riding, they made camp near a copse of trees in the hills.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Roland volunteered.

“Good,” said Lat. She laid out her bedroll, set her sword at her side, and lay in it fully armoured. Luther did the same.

Roland rolled his eyes and unburdened himself of his gear. “Get over here, girl,” he said.

Syl scurried to his side, grinning. Lat and Luther were woken a few minutes later by her squeals, promptly muffled as Roland put a hand over her mouth.

“Really?” said Lat.

“I’d hardly call that keeping watch, Roland,” Luther chided.

“Sorry,” said Roland.

He did his best to keep an eye out, but Syl was incorrigible, rubbing her bare body against all parts of him and whispering suggestions of how she might please him in his ear; finally he had no choice but to unbuckle his pants again and take her into his lap. This time he put a wadded pile of leaves in her mouth to keep her quiet.

It worked a trick, and it was not her muffled squeals that woke Luther and Lat for a second time, but the sudden arrival of the deadwolves.

As every student of monsters knows, deadwolves are formed from what remains of wolves killed by cursed magic. Five hundred years ago the wizard Mektus, angered when a wolf killed one of his pigs, uttered a curse than killed a thousand wolves across the kingdom; nothing remained of the wolves but their blackened bones, but over time mangled flesh grew on those cursed bones, extruding eyes, limbs, and mouths in a dismal parody of the wolf’s form. These deadwolves still stalked some darkened places at night.

They hunted with inhuman quiet.

Roland, distracted with thrusting himself deep into Syl’s womanhood, only glimpsed the first wolf as she arched her back in an ecstasy of pleasure, affording him a view of both her swelling breasts and the slope of the hills. Two wolves had crept over it, the only sign of their presence the glow of their myriad eyes. He threw her off, bellowing, and groped for him sword.

“Mmf?” said Syl, presuming she had disappointed in some way. She turned to see what Roland was looking at, and found herself staring into a mouth of mangled teeth.

“Attackers!” Roland roared, and Lat and Luther were on their feet instantly, weapons drawn. There were no fewer than six of the creatures, slowly advancing on their camp, absent even a threatening growl. Matted fur rose on patchy flesh; serrated teeth gnashed in deformed mouths. Lat unsheathed her sword and put her back to the fire.

“What do we do?” she said. There was panic in her voice.

Luther went calmly to the fire. He had his crossbow in one hand and a bundle of bolts in the other. He laid them by the fire and tore a scrap off his cloak.

“Hold them off for a moment,” he said.

Roland roared a battle cry. The wolves were unswayed. They advanced with slow, deliberate strides. Six feet from the radius of Roland’s blade, they stopped, awaiting some sort of signal.

A wolf as large as a horse crested the hill. From its massive, fur-matted skull dangled a parasitic second head, gnashing its own teeth with an insatiable hunger.

Its howl had a sound like glass scraping an ear. Syl screamed. Roland slashed, felling a charging wolf with one blow, while a second caught his bare ankle in its jaws. He fell and thrust out his sword, catching the wolf in one of its eyes; with a terrible absence of pain it gnashed at his foot, trying to drag him away from the fire.

Luther had finished affixing the scrap of his cloak to a bolt, and now he dipped it in the fire. He loaded the flaming bolt into the crossbow and took aim at the enormous wolf on the hillside. The arrow caught it in the flank; the flames spread instantly, lighting the darkness like a beacon, and the alpha let out a horrible cry that ground Roland’s teeth in his mouth. The wolves turned and fled. The giant wolf sped off into the dark, flames catching briefly in the grass, doused by the damp.

Roland winced and touched his leg. Luckily the wolf had been stymied by the bone; the wounds were not too deep. Luther approached with a salve and halted.

“What?” said Roland.

Lat was staring at him too, then turned away, blushing. Roland realized that his erect manhood was swaying freely.

“Ah,” he said. “My apologies.”

“Here,” said Luther, handing Syl the salve. “I’m going back to sleep.”

Syl rubbed the salve tenderly on the wound, then with equal tenderness took Roland’s manhood into her mouth. He fell into a dreamless sleep, looking up at the moon.

*

The next day they made Serpent’s Pass. At the summit of each of the twin peaks stood ruined shrines to a forgotten god; surrounding the shrines were numerous statues depicting serpents in mens’ clothes, which had given the pass its name.

They took their positions on the narrow stone shelves that ringed the pass. Below, a rude trail snaked through the grassy hills, and wound slowly down towards the Undvert Swamps.

“We’d best hope Ulver doesn’t change his course,” said Luther glumly.

“He won’t,” said Lat.

They laid their preparations. Luther lurked above with his crossbow. Roland dug pit traps and covered them with leaves. Lat and Roland found places to lurk, and from which to spring. Syl wrapped herself in a bedroll and kept her head down.

They waited.

*

What they had not anticipated was Ulver’s paranoia, which was what led him to abandon the main path through Serpent’s Pass. His new route was significantly slower but even less-travelled, and - best of all - it did not go through Serpent’s Pass. In fact, it went near it, just near enough that one could look down upon the normal ambush spots without being seen oneself.

Ulver was not amazed at what he saw. In fact, he was almost excited.

[saturnaliattxt]

Trail of the Bandit King, Part III

Lat wasn’t sure how long they left on her on the block this time; almost certainly hours, though she’d have sworn to days if asked. Luckily Yalk had not made good on his promise to insert the thorned branch into her privates, but he had amused himself by lashing it across her buttocks a few times, and she was afraid she’d done him the pleasure of yelping. Now, nude with the bag over her head and the persistent threat of strangulation, torn between being freezing cold and stifling hot, with the stinging pain in her buttocks and more tender places, she found herself feeling increasingly honest. Maybe this whole operation hadn’t been worth the money after all.

They let her down.

“Would you like to change any details of your answers?” Yalk asked.

She coughed drily. He sprinkled some water on the stone floor of the cave, and she licked it up eagerly, like a dog.

“Same question,” he said.

“No.”

“An honest girl,” said Yalk. “Hard to find these days. Is that Ulver?”

It was Ulver. Lat didn’t know him, but among freelance slavers he was a common sight.

At some point in his life Ulver had been afflicted by plague. It had rotted half his face, but an alchemist had saved him by burning the flesh, confining the plague but ruining his features in the process. Ulver was among the most physically repulsive man you could hope to meet.

The fetid flesh of his plague-half attracted persistent flies.

“Got something for me?” Ulver grunted.

They had hastily packed away the loot in their saddlebags. Yalk pointed to Lat’s naked form. “Just the one,” he said.

“But a fine specimen,” Benfred added.

Ulver prodded her with his boot. “Mm,” he said. “Fit, but not so comely.”

“Redheads fetch a good price in certain markets,” Yalk protested.

“They’re a niche.”

“A profitable one.”

“Four hundred.”

“Done,” said Yalk instantly. One of Ulver’s glum lieutenants passed the brigand a coin-purse. Another siezed Lat by the collar, dragging her to her feet. “Let’s get a move on,” said Ulver.

*

A black horse stopped outside the Inn of the Mere. Bartolemew glanced up as a hooded man entered.

The man did not carry any weapons, but his black garb and the hint of silver armour beneath bore an aura of menace.

“I’m looking for someone,” said the stranger. “A redheaded girl. Did she pass through here recently?”

Bartolemew thought about it. “Yes, one such girl did,” he said. “In a great hurry, in spite of the storm. I sold her a horse, and she was on her way.”

“Was she followed?” the man asked.

Bartolemew thought about it.

“I did notice two men left soon after she,” he said. “I didn’t know them, but I thought they had a bad look about them.”

“Thank you,” said the man. He put a handful of crowns of the table and left, mounting his black horse.

This man was Medvek the magus, to whom Vizier Makel had paid a significant sum for the recovery of his messenger.

*

“Does that sort of thing happen often,” Tula asked.

She was referring to the brawl at the Dead Man, in which Roland and Luther had successfully evaded two men to whom they seemed to owe money.

“Yes,” said Roland.

“Not really,” said Luther.

“Mm,” said Tula.

“The important thing is,” said Luther, “it’s over now. Now how are we going to get into Gatz’s tower?”

“First we need to find out where it is,” said Tula. “Luckily I know somebody who can help us - for a price.”

“What kind of price?” said Luther. “You may have guessed this, but we don’t have a lot of liquid assets at the moment.”

“We’ll arrange something,” Tula assured them. “Follow me.”

They followed her through the Pits for a while. Eventually they reached an empty auction block set beside a large brick enclosure built into the tunnel wall. Roland knew well enough that there were likely vast warrens buried behind that brick wall, containing all manner of slaving paraphernalia.

A guard stood idly by the door. Tula addressed him.

“I’m here for the Fat King,” she said.

The guard looked her up and down.

“The Fat King isn’t recieving visitors,” he said.

“Yes he is,” said Tula. “Tell him it’s One-Eye.”

“He’s not to be disturbed,” said the guard.

“Go disturb him,” said Tula, “or you’ll regret it later, as you’re shoveling your guts back into your belly.”

The guard looked surprised. “I’ll tell him,” he said, “but if he doesn’t like it, be warned that I’ll scoop your other eye out.”

A moment later he returned. “The Fat King will see you,” he said.

They went inside. “Who is the Fat King?” Roland asked Luther in a low voice.

“Never heard of him,” Luther replied.

That was no surprise. Luther was well-educated on the city’s underbelly, but it crawled with so many locusts that it would take a savant to keep track of them all.

They were led through a brief maze of bricked passages to an upper room, lit by magical everbright lanterns. (Such luxuries were not uncommon in the Flesh Pits, where light was an important commodity.) The room had two features of interest.

One was an elaborate oak chair and table, at which sat an enormously obese man who was busily gorging himself on an array of meats and cheeses.

The other consisted of two naked girls, bound and gagged, hanging by their ankles from the ceiling. They were roped together at the neck, their bare breasts pressed together in an alluring fashion. They were writhing in what was probably discomfort, but the effect was profoundly sensuous.

“Fat King,” said Tula in a tone of disrespect.

“One-Eye,” the Fat King grunted, “it’s my lunch. I hate to be disturbed at lunchtime. Who are these clowns?”

“Friends of mine,” said Tula. “We need a favour, Fat King.”

“You know,” said the Fat King, waving a chicken leg at them, “you have a fine form, Tula, enough that I could overlook the missing eye. Someday it could be you entertaining me at lunchtime.”

He gestured to the dangling girls. “No thank you,” said Tula.

The Fat King snorted. “I wasn’t asking,” he explained. “I never do.”

“Not everyone is cut out for slavery,” said Tula. “Some are cut out for killing. We need you to tell us something. In exchange, these bravos will perform that task you mentioned earlier. Then you can consider us even.”

The Fat King considered for a moment. “That would depend on the nature of the information you want.”

Tula looked at Luther.

Luther said: “We want to know how to get into Gatz’s tower.”

The Fat King spat out an olive pit.

“No you don’t,” he said.

“Calm yourself,” said Tula. “Rest assured, Gatz will never know where we got the information.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he’ll be dead,” said Tula.

The Fat King spat out another olive pit.

“The old man will be dead,” he said, “the young man will be lashed to an ox-cart until he dies of exhaustion, and you’ll be sucking cocks for coin, girl, is what will actually happen. Nobody has killed Gatz yet, and plenty have tried.”

“We’re better than them,” said Tula. “Remember Orion?”

“That was a messy job.”

“Successful, though.”

“If you kill Gatz, it can’t be messy.”

“It won’t be.”

(This turned out not to be true.)

“I decline,” said the Fat King. “Get out of here.”

Roland had just shut the door to the room and was barring it from the inside.

“What are you doing?” Tula said.

“Negotiating,” said Luther.

The Fat King raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t try anything funny, boys,” he said. “I can have my men here in a jiffy to carve you up.”

Roland and Luther approached the table. The Fat King glared at them. “Guards!” he bellowed.

“Wait,” said Tula. “This is a -”

She probably meant to say “mistake.” Before she could, Roland had jammed a fist into the Fat King’s face, and Luther had stepped behind him to put a knife to his throat.

Roland ate a grape.

“Tell us how to get into Gatz’s tower,” said Luther, “or I’ll carve you like a chicken.”

“Like this chicken,” said Roland, eating a chicken leg.

“Fuck you, bastard,” snarled the Fat King.

Someone rattled the door. “Open up!” roared a voice from outside. Tula looked nervously to the door.

“Do you trust your men?” Luther asked. “How quickly will they knock down the door? Quicker than it takes me to cut out one of your eyes?”

Roland tried an olive and made a face.

“Go to hell, fuckface,” the Fat King whimpered. Luther pushed the knife a little deeper, drawing a drop of blood.

“Be more respectful,” he said.

The door came down. Two burly men stepped into the room, armed with short blades. Roland turned.

“Kill them!” the Fat King hissed.

The guards hesitated. “Stand back,” Luther warned, “or I’ll kill your boss.”

The guards looked at one another uncertainly. Roland moved with unexpected swiftness, striking a weak point in the guard’s armour with a pointed fist, then bringing his other fist down on the guard’s sword arm. The weapon was in Roland’s hand before it hit the ground; he parried a blow from the other guard, then kicked him firmly in the stomach, sending him reeling.

“Ooh, not looking so good for you now,” said Luther.

Two more guards barged around the corner. One of them levelled a crossbow at Roland. Tula had retreated to a corner with her hands up.

“Shoot him!” Luther bawled.

“Don’t shoot him,” said a new voice.

The guards looked to their left.

Someone was standing in the doorway. A man in black leather clothes and a long cape. He wore a white mask over his face, inlaid with filigrees of fine silver.

To his left stood a lean woman in tight-fitted leathers. She wore a startling number of knives in sheathes arrayed across her taut frame. Her short silver hair was cropped above her slightly-pointed ears.

Elfin ancestry, Roland surmrised. Exotic.

This was Leona the Knife, one of the most feared fighters on the Plateau. Roland knew her the moment he saw the ears.

Luther and Tula knew the other man instantly. His name was unknown. In the underbelly of the Iron City, he was known as the Silvered Man.

“I’m sorry,” said the Silvered Man in an ominous baritone. “Am I interrupting something?”

His voice was so distinctive Luther marveled that his identity had not been discovered. Perhaps it was disguised.

“Sir,” choked the Fat King. “I was just in the midst of some negotiations.”

Luther had not moved the knife. “Yes,” he said, “I was just asking him some questions. But I can wait until you’re finished, if you’d like.”

The Silvered Man’s masked face swept across the two armed guards, the two guards groaning on the floor, Roland still crouched in a fighting stance, Tula standing out of the way, the two naked girls dangling from the ceiling, Luther with his knife at the Fat King’s throat.

“Quite a tableau,” he said.

“Urk,” said the Fat King.

“I’m here about a debt,” said the Silvered Man, “but maybe I can help resolve your little conflict. What were you asking the fat man about?”

Luther looked at Tula, who spoke in a squeak. “Nothing important,” she said.

“Come now,” said the Silvered Man.

“They want to know how to get into Gatz’s tower,” the Fat King blurted.

Luther grimaced.

The Silvered Man raised an eyebrow.

“This is about the bounty,” he said. “I respect your eagerness. Why don’t you tell them?”

The Fat King looked, wide eyed, at the Silvered Man.

“You want me to tell them?” he said.

The Silvered Man shrugged.

“The Pits could use a shake-up,” he said. “It could even be profitable for you, Fat Man. How about this? In exchange for this information, I’ll consider our debt square.”

The Fat King seemed quite amenable all of a sudden.

“The entrance is in the Northern Catacombs,” he said. “Go past the Rotted Cathedral and follow the marks on the wall. Only the green ones, and only those that are thrice-lined. You’ll find it.”

The Silvered Man clapped.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said.

*

Ulver’s caravan was a motley assortment of brigands, merchants, and cage-wagons, straggling up the King’s Road with brazen indifference. The sight of Ulver’s rotted face was enough to dissuade bandits; the City Watch turned a blind eye to slave-carts so long as they didn’t come through the main gates.

Lat was pushed into a cage-wagon with six other girls. All were lovely, naked creatures, shackled at the wrists, neck, and ankles. Other carts contained sturdy men or old folk; they all wore rags, which to Lat seemed distinctly unfair.

Lat would have happily struck up a conversation with her wagon-mates, had they not also been gagged. She had to content herself with a few sympathetic glances.

They rumbled down the King’s Road. Brigands gave her lascvicious glances. She guessed profitability was the only thing keeping her from ravishment.

Her two kidnappers still had the metathaumograph. They had ridden off ahead, making much better time than the caravan. They would no doubt reach the drop point well before her.

It wasn’t even the block they’d stuck in her asshole that bothered her. It was the four thousand crowns.

*

Roland, Luther, and Tula were back in the passages of the Flesh Pits.

To their immense discomfort, the Silvered Man and his bodyguard Leona had followed them.

“Why did you help us back there?” Luther asked nervously.

The Silvered Man shrugged.

“Kund is getting too powerful,” he said. “It’s about time the balance of power down here had a little shake-up. Besides, I dislike the Fat King and enjoy hearing him squeal.”

Luther nodded slowly.

“I imagine you’re worried that you owe me a favour now,” said the Silvered Man. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll find I’m a very rewarding employer.”

He stepped away into the crowd. Tula and Luther let out huge gasps of relief.

“Who was that?” Roland said.

Luther and Tula stared at him.

“He was certainly helpful,” said Roland.

The Flesh Pits were expansive, but large swathes of the old sewers and catacombs remained uncolonized. The Northern Catacombs were among these regions. They were poorly-regarded by the denizens of the Pits, as it was rumoured that monsters inhabited the old tunnels.

This made them very useful for those who lacked such superstition.

At the edge of the catacombs stood the Rotted Cathedral. This miserable edifice had once stood aboveground, until some curse caused the earth below it to give way. It had sunk slowly until the tunnels, and rot had grown on its very stones. It now squatted by the catacomb entrance like a fat toad, exuding a truly dismal stench.

The doors remained shut. Rumour had it that the congregation was still inside, and that the years had left them badly altered.

Roland passed the cathedral nervously.

“I don’t like the look of this place,” he said.

“Don’t be childish,” Tula chided.

She and Luther had lit their torches. There were no lights in these parts.

“It’s not childish to be forewarned,” Roland retorted.

He drew his sword.

They were attacked by skeletons shortly thereafter.

The dead rose from tomblike pits in the catacombs. Animated by some inscrutable rage, clinging together with scraps of muscle and flesh, bearing rusted and broken blades, the skeletons were inhumanly silent as they attacked.

Roland was thankful he’d been prepared.

The battle was not difficult. Between his sword and Tula’s short sap, they drove the skeletons back to their graves, splitting bones and shattering ribs.

The problem was the persistence of the undead. No matter how many bones they split, the skeletons would shortly re-animate, rising again with drooping jaws and rattling fingers, hungry to spread the stench of death.

“Are we on track, Luther?” asked Roland grimly.

“Yes,” said Luther, squinting down the passageway before them, his torch held aloft. “At least I think so.”

The catacombs were unthinkably ancient. Tombs and tunnels interlocked in an endless, incomprehensible labyrinth. It was said that great treasure lay within; likewise, within were countless dead.

Not all travelers were killed by animate skeletons, either. Losing oneself in the maze was an even greater danger.

Consequently many of the intersections nearer to the Pits were marked with signs and runes of divergent age and quality. Luther was keeping his eye out for a sequence of three notches, added to certain corridors with flecks of green paint. These were they guide to the tower of Gatz - providing the Fat King had not lied to them.

One can only battle skeletons for so long. Time was lost in the catacombs; it had been perhaps two hours. Light came from their dwindling supply of torches. Roland was slick with sweat. From the dark, skeletons clattered, eerily silent, lashing out with the blind fury of the dead. They trod on piles of bones that soon after writhed and rose in clouds of necromantic energy.

“We should have brought a holy man,” Roland panted.

Luther was studying a section of wall.

“I doubt a holy man would travel with us,” he said.

Tula’s mouth was set in a hard line. She, too, was strained and worn.

They reached a flight of stairs. The floor was edged with sigils.

“Divine runes,” Luther noted. “We should be safe from skeletons here.”

Roland leaned against the wall, panting.

“Then we have reached the base of Gatz’s tower,” he said.

“So it would seem.”

“We’d better rest,” said Tula. “In this state, I fear Gatz would make quick work of us.”

Luther opened his pack.

“I brought meat and wine,” he said. “Let’s have a picnic.”

*

While they were having their picnic in the catacombs, Lat was rolling through the gates of the Iron City in a cart.

The first thing she saw were the corpses outside the gate. It was common practice in the Iron City to hang particularly vile criminals from a gibbet there, so that visitors knew the city was law-abiding.

Lat recognized them, though it wasn’t easy. They were Yalk and Benfred, the two brigands who had kidnapped her on the King’s Road, and who had stolen the metathaumograph.

This was troubling.

Privately, Lat was still planning to escape, retrieve the object, and acquire her reward.

The carts rumbled through the streets. Rather brazenly, Lat thought. They avoided main streets, where the Watch might have objected to their presence, but in alleyways the guard of the city were quite ready to turn a blind eye - the sight of the half-rotted visage of Ulver probably helped with that.

Civilians paused their work to gawp at the naked girls. Shamefully, Lat attempted to conceal her form by curling into a foetal position.

At Perl and Bywend the caravan stopped, and a commotion broke out. Lat broke from her reverie and tried to glimpse what was happening. It looked as though the caravan had been assaulted; a trio of young men had leaned over a low wall with crossbows and rained bolts on the leaders. Ulver had a bolt stuck in his chest and was shouting something at his fellows; at least one brigand had been killed.

It would have been rather exciting, Lat thought, had she not been tied up and naked. Such vulnerability during an assault was unpleasant. Ulver and three brigands were shoving their way through a door in the wall; there were sounds of combat, and a moment later they emerged, bloodied but grinning.

Ulver grimaced at the bolt in his chest, siezed it and broke it off.

“It’s stuck in the plate,” he told the man beside him, who looked concerned; the brigand pulled back his cloak to reveal a dented breastplate beneath. “I’m fine.”

Lat was disappointed.

One of the brigands was holding a scrap of paper on which something was printed.

“Ain’t this a picture of you?” he said, holding up the paper.

Ulver snatched the page and snarled.

“Goddammit,” he said. “Some fucker’s put a price on our heads.”

He spat.

“Let’s get a move on,” he said. “Gatz out to know about this.”

They resumed traveling.

In Wastrel they came to a squat tower standing amidst some of the more well-appointed structures. It sat in the shadow of the aristocratic manors where dwelt those nobles with money in the slaving business.

There were an unusual number of guards clustered around the place. Lat noticed a few inconspicuous fellows with bows leaning out of nearby windows.

“Mm,” grunted Ulver approvingly. “Seems Gatz already knows.”

He swung a leg off his horse. “Bring the redhead,” he ordered.

A brigand opened the cage and hauled Lat out by the hair. She managed a muffled protest.

Ulver and two bodyguards proceeded into the tower, nodding to the guards, dragging Lat ungently behind. At the tower door they were welcomed by a girl in a skimpy white garment. “Gatz is ready to see you,” she reported.

“Damn right he is,” Ulver replied.

They went up the steps to an office. Gatz, behind the desk, lowered his glasses.

“Ulver,” said Gatz.

“Gatz,” said Ulver. “Fresh shipment. Brought this one for you.”

He gestured to Lat, who struggled unhappily in the brigand’s grip. Gatz surveyed her body and nodded.

“A sprightly filly,” he said approvingly. “Put her over there; I’ll instruct her later.”

Lat was bound by the wrists to a bar in the corner, forcing her onto tiptoe.

“Someone put a bounty on us,” reported Ulver.

“Yes, I heard,” said Gatz. “I’m working to find out who. In the meantime, I recommend you keep a low profile.”

Ulver indicated the broken bolt protruding from his chest.

“Already had some fun,” he said.

Gatz raised an eyebrow.

“Increase your guard,” he advised, “and let Jag deliver the rest to the Flesh Pits.”

“Fine.”

Ulver left. When he was gone Gatz clapped, summoning the girl in white.

“It’s been a stressful day,” said Gatz. “Let’s have some fun. Bring me wine and the materials.”

The girl nodded and scurried away. Gatz rose and went to Lat, stroking the side of her breast with one finger.

“You have an unusual beauty to you,” he said. “It’s raw, striking. You look muscular: you’ve done labour. Fought? Yes, I think so. Now you will learn a new lesson.”

“Mmph,” said Lat.

“We’ll take this out later,” said Gatz, tapping the gag. “For now it’s best that you just listen.”

The girl in white returned, carrying a flagon of wine in her hand and a riding-crop between her teeth. She knelt at Gatz’s feet. He took the the objects, sipped the wine, and slashed the air with the crop.

Lat winced.

“I���ve always said that pain is a great teacher,” said Gatz. “Are you ready to learn?”

The door flew open. A guard staggered through with a bolt protruding from his eye.

“A-a-ack,” he gasped.

Gatz frowned. He put the crop back in the girl’s mouth and strode to his desk.

“Intruders,” he said glumly, ringing a bell, which chimed loudly through the tower. “How inconsiderate.”

There were sounds of a commotion outside, increasing in volume.

Another guard stumbled through the door, clutching a slit throat. “A-a-a-ck,” he gasped.

“Yes, I understand,” said Gatz, hefting a large crossbow with his left hand and holding the wine-glass in his right.

Lat had noticed that the knots binding her to the crossbar were less strict than those she’d become accustomed to. Perhaps her captors had assumed she wouldn’t attempt to escape once she was within the enemy stronghold.

They had assumed incorrectly.

The door flew open and someone rushed in; Gatz pulled the trigger on his crossbow and a bolt jammed itself into the man’s neck. He sputtered and slumped to the floor. It was another guard.

“Oops,” said Gatz. He slugged back a drink of wine, set the glass down, and wound the crossbow.

A man stormed into the room, lithely clearing the stack of corpses. He held a notched longsword. He was splattered with blood, though Lat thought it was not his own. He was tall and well-built and had fiery black eyes.

“Ah,” said Gatz, raising the crossbow. “You’re not a guard.”

“I’m Roland of Cairt,” said the intruder.

Lat would have cheered, if she could.

Gatz fired the crossbow. At the same instant the man shifted slightly left and ducked. The bolt flew over his shoulder. Gatz cursed and fumbled under the desk for a blade.

“How did you get in?” Gatz demanded, now clutching a sword in one hand and his wine-glass in the other.

“Basement,” said Roland, approaching.

“You’ll never get out,” said Gatz. “My men will soon have every entrance covered.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Roland.

Gatz threw the last of the wine in Roland’s face and lunged. The intruder was briefly startled by the splash of liquid; Gatz drove the point of the blade straight into his chest, but found it turned aside by the hidden breastplate. He stumbled. Roland took a step back and struck out mightily, buring the side of his weapon in Gatz’s shoulder; the brigand let out a strangled scream and fell back against the desk, losing his grip on his weapon, while Roland wrenched the blade free in a fountain of blood.

He took a step back, watching the screaming Gatz with interest, and then reached out and tugged lightly on the man’s hair. Gatz slumped onto his knees, still howling in pain.

“Hold still,” said Roland, assuming an executioner’s stance.

Lat broke free just as Gatz’s head rolled on the floor.

The girl in white was huddled in the corner with the riding-crop still clutched between her teeth. Her face was white as her clothes.

“Mmph,” said Lat, struggling free of the ropes and wrenching the gag from her mouth.

“Hello,” said Roland, noticing her for the first time, and not without admiration.

Luther burst through the door, holding a crossbow. “This is no time for lovemaking, Roland,” he snapped. “There are two many guards. We need to flee.”

“Let me help you,” said Lat. She picked up Gatz’s fallen sword.

Luther raised an eyebrow.

“You’re naked,” he said.

“I’ve noticed,” said Lat.

“No time to get dressed,” said Roland. “We can escape through the catacombs.”

He beckoned to the girl in white.

“Come on,” he said. “You’ll find better employment with us.”

They left the room. Tula was on the stairs with a crossbow, dissuading guards from approaching.

“We’re trapped,” she said. “They’ll overwhelm us as soon as they realize our numbers.”

“We’re up one,” said Roland. “Let’s push through.”

He had attached Gatz’s head to his belt by the hair.

Tula took in the severed head and the naked, armed Lat with aplomb. “Death and glory, then,” she said.

The guards had fortified a position at the foot of the stairs. They were expecting a siege, not a charge. The element of surprise was just enough to allow the party to push through into the rooms beneath the tower.

“Hurry!” Roland bellowed, kicking open a door. They fled down a flight of steps; Tula slammed and barred the door behind them, and the guards disdained to follow, perhaps thinking it best to cut their losses.

Lat had blood on her blade. She felt quite satisfied, although the cool air of the catacombs threatened to bite.

“That went pretty well, I think,” said Roland.

[saturnaliattxt]

Trail of the Bandit King, Part II

Roland’s room in the boarding house was exceptionally dismal. It had a fine view of a back alley, from which a stench of human discharges constantly emanated. He could look out at any hour of the day and see his choice of rats, brigands, and whores.

In a bag near the foot of the bed were a few coins, a battered leatherbound book, and some ragged clothes. A thief would probably be disappointed at their take, should they break into this room.

A very inquisitive thief might move the bed; only the most determined of thieves would notice the loose floorboard, and then pry it up to expose what was beneath. Roland had been a thief himself for a while, and knew their ways well. He knew that anyone robbing this boarding house was likely to be desperate, and not likely to search hard for hidden compartments.

From under the floorboard he retrieved his most treasured of possessions. One was a battered breastplate, which he wore over a shirt of boiled leather and under his own shirt of rags. Another was a notched longsword in a ragged scabbard. This he strapped to his belt. The last was a long knife with its own scabbard, which he concealed in a secret pocket of his vest.

Over this outfit he threw his tattered cloak, and set out into the street, where Luther was waiting.

“There’s the Roland I know,” said Luther admiringly.

“Right,” said Roland. “Now where’s this bastard Kund?”

“Not so fast,” Luther admonished. “Kund is not your run-of-the-mill villain. We can’t just march up to his hovel and smite him.”

“No?”

“No. For one, because we don’t know the precise location of this fortress. Only that it’s somewhere in the hills just off the King’s Road.”

“So do we plan to hike through the hills calling his name, then?”

“That would take weeks, and we would certainly be mauled by wild beasts before we found him. Furthermore, assaulting him in his fortress may not be the wisest course of action. We are only two men.”

“What, then?” said Roland impatiently. “Just tell me your damn plan and let’s do it.”

“I will, then,” said Luther. “One of Kund’s lieutenants is a man named Gatz. You may remember him from the notice. The man is a notorious slaver, and often sells his take in the secret flesh-pits in Wastrel.”

Wastrel being a district in the city in which the City Watch diplomatically refrained from policing. The aristocrats of Wastrel paid their taxes, after all, and they could afford to pay a lot.

“So you propose,” said Roland, “that we go to Wastrel, find this Gatz, and pry some information out of him, then turn his head in for gold.”

“Exactly,” said Luther. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yes,” said Roland.

*

As it happened, Gatz was at that very moment overseeing some business in Wastrel.

His office was in an old stone tower, part of the old fortifications atop which the Iron City had been built. Few of them remained, which lent the crumbling stone edifice an aura of mystery that Gatz appreciated. It had taken nearly eight months to refurbish it to his specifications. Now it was a rather elegant feature in Wastrel’s general decrepitude.

Gatz was sitting at his desk, carved from a solid block of mahogany, and studying some paperwork. He always had a lot of paperwork these days. Plenty due to his aristocratic sponsors, and much more from his menagerie of business interests.

Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” said Gatz.

A slender young woman entered the room. She was strikingly beautiful, dressed in a tight-fitting white garment. Her legs and arms were bare; her breasts strained, invitingly, at the thin fabric. “Master Gatz,” she murmured apologetically,, “there is someone here to see you.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. He claims to be a representative of the City Watch.”

“Send him up.”

Gatz put on his spectacles and returned to his paperwork. A moment later a flushed young man stormed into the room. He wore patchwork armour under his shabby clothes. His right hand sat on the pommel of a sheathed sword; in his right he clutched a scrap of paper.

“Are you Gatz, lieutenant of the brigand Kund?” the young man demanded.

Gatz raised his spectacles.

“Yes,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I am Richel,” he said, “and I am here to claim the bounty on your head. Surrender to me alive, and I will not be forced to kill you.”

He brandished the piece of paper.

“Let me see that,” said Gatz, pointing.

The young man looked surprised. He edged closer and put the page on the desk.

Gatz lowered his spectacles. “‘The Duke of Trast offers a reward of one thousand etc. etc,’” he mumbled, “‘two fifty for lieutenants Gatz and Ulver, etc. etc.’ Hm. Have you met the Duke of Trast?”

“No,” said Richel. “Will you come with me, or shall I be forced to -”

“Yes, yes,” said Gatz. “Will you agree to the following? Return to the Duke of Trast and his agents, and tell them to withdraw this ridiculous bounty, or I will be forced to enact severe sanctions.”

With a slightly shaky grip, Richel half-drew his sword from its scabbard. “This is your last chance, criminal scum,” he said.

Gatz set his glasses down on the table and then lunged, with terrifying swiftness. A blade flashed in his hand; a moment later Richel was on the floor, pale-faced with shock, his bloodied sword-hand lying severed at his side.

Gatz planted a foot on his chest. “If you manage not to bleed out on your way,” he said, “please remember to deliver my message.”

“Aaaack,” gasped Richel.

The door opened, and the girl in white looked in nervously. “Is everything all right, Master Gatz?”

“Yes,” said Gatz. “Send up Pedrick and tell him there’s a mess that needs cleaning.”

*

Lat was not sure how much time had passed. The bag over her head, for one thing, made everything quite dark. They had made her stand on a log, then ran a length of rope from the noose to the ceiling; she had to stand on tiptoe to avoid strangling herself. In addition to this discomfort, she was still quite naked, and there was a thick knob of wood jammed into her asshole.

“If that falls out,” Yalk warned her, “I’ll stick a bigger one in.”

It had not fallen out, but she didn’t know how long she could remain like this before giving in to exhaustion and strangling herself. Her aching bottom seemed like a minor problem in comparison.

She amused herself listening to Yalk and Benfred. They were playing some sort of card game and frequently arguing about the rules.

“It’s robbery,” Benfred protested, as Yalk presumably fleeced him out of a hefty pot.

“Who taught you to play this game?” Yalk said. “Sixes beat fives; it’s quite simple.”

“Not when the keep is full.”

“The keep is only for kings and queens.”

“That’s not how I learned it.”

Lat shifted, trying to ease the soreness in her neck, and felt a sharp churn of discomfort in her bowels. The block of wood really had been jammed in deep.

“Should we let her down?” Benfred wondered.

“Let her stew a little longer,” said Yalk. “I want her to be good and cooperative. More beer?”

“Of course.”

The thought of drinking liquid of any kind made Lat salivate.

At last they cut her down. Grinning, Yalk removed the block of wood from her. She winced and let out a small squeak of pain.

“Now,” said Yalk, “are you feeling more cooperative?”

“Mmf,” she said.

He removed the gag.

“Sorry,” he said. “Same question.”

“I already told you everything I know,” she said.

Yalk frowned.

“I doubt that,” he said. “For example: who gave you this object?”

She was silent. Yalk held up a waterskin. “Want a drink?”

She looked at it longingly. He opened it and took a long draught, letting it spill down his chin.

“Mm,” he said. “Delicious. From whom did you recieve this object, little missy?”

“The Silvered Man,” she said.

Yalk looked at Benfred. “Does that sound plausible?” he asked.

Benfred shrugged. The Silvered Man was a well-known crime lord in the Iron City; his identity was unknown, but he was thought to be an important aristocrat, perhaps related to the King himself.

“He is said to have an interest in arcane objects,” said Yalk. “Let’s say I find your story plausible. To where were you meant to deliver it?”

“To a dead drop in the city,” said Lat.

“For a promised reward?”

“To be left in the dead drop,” she said.

“How much?”

“Four thousand crowns.”

Yalk whistled.

“Assuming I believe you,” he said, “that is certainly a generous reward. Where is this dead drop?”

Lat hesitated. Yalk picked up a branch covered in hooked thorns.

“Just so you know,” he said, “the next step is to jam this inside of you. I haven’t decided which hole yet.”

“In a house in the Candle District,” said Lat finally. “The red-roofed house down the street from the Witch and Brew. I was to give a password to the guard and go inside.”

“What was the password?”

“‘To each man, let him gain what is required.’”

“Good story,” said Yalk, twirling the branch. “I’m going to let you think for a while. Let me know if you want to change any details of that story of yours by screaming.”

*

The Flesh Pits lay beneath Wastrel in a sprawling network of renovated sewers and catacombs. Before the involvement of the aristocracy, business was attended to underground in order to keep it from the public eye. Once the business attained semi-legitimacy thanks to economic advantage, it remained belowground for convenience and because the businessmen involved thought it lent the enterprise a certain mystique. Of course, everything was much more comfortable and well-furnished now.

The Flesh Pits had many entrances. Roland and Luther chose one near the edge of the district, accessible through the back of a meadery. A code phrase spoken to the overseer was sufficient to grant them access. They surrendered their weapons to a stone-faced guard, then descended a flight of steps and entered the Pits proper.

For the pleasure of visitors, the Pits did not contain only slave-markets but also taverns, brothels, coffee-houses, and dining rooms. The upper levels tended to the more expensive and luxurious side, while lower levels grew increasingly seedy; wealthy customers preferred not to walk so far. Luther and Roland made their way to the second level, where Luther judged they were most likely to meet with success.

Here wide passageways supported by buttresses wound through myriad shops. The streets were thick with customers, many of whom came solely to gawk and partake of the cheaper delights of the Pits. The auction-houses were numerous, and those that were not selling at the moment always had something on display: sturdy young men, bare-chested to show their musculature, suitable for hard labour; skilled craftspeople shackled to their tools; minor magical adepts with cold iron collars to impede their magical prowess; beautiful girls in skimpy garments or nothing at all, swaying for the pleasure of onlookers. Flesh of all concievable shapes and sizes were available.

Luther made a beeline past the auction blocks to a tavern called the Dead Man, where he claimed one could find good information.

The interior was thick with smoke, beer, and the stink of sweat. Half-naked girls moved through the crowd, offering themselves to anyone with silver.

Luther sat Roland at a table, ordered two fat mugs of beer, and then set out to look for someone. Roland satisfied himself by watching the denizens of the tavern.

An ample-bosomed girl wearing a few thin strips of ribbon approached him and leaned over the table.

“You look lonely,” she said in a husky whisper. “Want some company?”

Roland examined her. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps my physical beauty is worthy of a discount.”

He flexed a prodigious muscle. She giggled. “For you, half price,” she said. “Twenty silver.”

Roland had paid careful attention to the conversation around him, and was aware that twenty silver was not half price but full price, but he counted it out nonetheless.

“Should we go somewhere?” he said.

“Why not right here?” she said. “Nobody’s looking.”

She crawled under the table. Roland raised an eyebrow.

A moment later Luther returned with a stranger in tow. The stranger was a tall, gaunt woman. She wore a long coat and a patch over her left eye. Her blonde hair was cropped short.

“Roland,” said Luther, “this is my old friend Tula. She’s agreed to help us.”

“Hello,” said Roland in as even a voice as he could muster.

Tula frowned. “Have a seat,” said Luther.

She sat across from Roland, deftly raising her legs to avoid kicking the girl under the table. Luther, unaware, made no such gesture. “Hey!” came the girl’s voice from below, and Luther started.

“Who on earth is that?” he said.

“An acquaintance of mine,” said Roland.

“Clear off,” said Luther, directing his voice under the table. “We have work to do.”

“She cost me twenty crowns, dammit,” said Roland.

The girl sulked off. Luther sighed.

“What have I told you about your spending?” he said. “You’re living well beyond your means.”

“I just -”

“Never mind. Tula knows where Gatz is,” he said.

“He rarely leaves his offices these days,” said Tula. “He’s Kund’s main man in town. The brigand gathers shipments of slaves, and Ulver delivers them through secret channels to Gatz, who handles their transition to the Pits.”

“We can work backward from Gatz to Ulver,” Luther explained.

“I understand,” said Roland. “But there is a problem.”

“What?”

“I doubt we’re the first to think of this,” he said. “What if someone else has already gone after Gatz?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Tula. “Gatz is not well known here, but those who do know him, fear him. He’s not a threat to be tackled lightly.”

“Good,” said Roland. “Shall we go kill him, then?”

“Whoa there!” Luther raised his eyebrows. “Have some patience. We can’t just barge in there and attack the man; he’s bound to have legions of guards. Some subterfuge will be required.”

“As in?”

“His tower connects directly to the Pits,” Tula explained. “If we find the point of entry, we can slip in through the back door and gut him in his sleep.”

“That hardly seems sporting,” said Roland.

“It’s the best way,” said Luther. “Now we just have to decide whose pockets we need to line to find that secret entrance.”

They got up to leave. “You owe me twenty crowns,” Roland said, looking longingly at the girl in ribbons.

“I’ll set it against your debt,” said Luther.

They went to the door. A sturdy fellow in stained work-clothes blocked their path.

“Luther,” said this greasy character, “that you?”

Luther sighed.

“Merk,” he said, “there’s no need for this tomfoolery.”

“Me and my people feel differently,” said the oafish Merk. “You stiffed us sixty crowns on that deal, and your friend’s to blame too.” He pointed a squarish finger at Roland. Roland frowned.

“What deal is this?” Tula asked Roland in a low voice.

“Smuggling,” Roland replied.

“Did you stiff them?”

“I can’t recall. Probably.”

“I hope you have sixty crowns on you,” said Merk, “plus the interest of sixty crowns that you owe us by now, or me and my friends will have to take our payment in teeth. Your teeth.”

Merk balled up his fists. Roland glanced over his shoulder. Two equally bulky characters were looming behind them.

“As it happens,” said Luther, digging in his pocket, “I have one hundred and twenty coins in a pouch right now, ready to be paid to you. And a little bonus of ten crowns for your trouble.”

Merk looked surprised. “Hand it over, then,” he said.

Luther removed the heavy pouch from his pocket and then suddenly lashed it like a flail, striking Merk square between the eyes. The big man let out a faint bellow and toppled. Roland ducked a punch from one of the men behind him, turned, parried a blow, feinted for the ribs, then caught him on the chin. The man howled and stumbled. Roland siezed the opportunity to heft the man’s bulk and fling him onto a table. The table shattered, spraying wine and shards of glass everywhere.

“Run!” said Luther.

Luckily it was quite easy to lose a tail in the Flesh Pits.

[saturnaliattxt]

Trail of the Bandit King, Part I

It was near midnight. For the past six days a storm had been brewing above the ring of the Circle Mountains. Now, finally, it had unleashed its fury, and the peaks and surrounding lands bore the full brunt of the relentless wind and rain. A winding path led from the Blank-Faced Monastery at the central peak, met the King’s Road at the base, and proceeded thence into the Iron City; along this route passed a horse and rider, moving with a ferocious speed to match the storm itself.

The rider was soaked, wind-lashed, hunched over the berserk mount, urging it to ever-greater feats of speed.

The horse at last gave way near the fork of the King’s Road at the crossroads town of Merewaith. The rider leapt from the stumbling horse, removed the bag and saddle from the dying animal, and stomped into town.

Merewaith had little business at midnight, and so the rider was unmolested as they made their way to the Inn of the Mere at the town’s heart. They threw open the door, catching the eye of the few boozy patrons in the common room.

“Eh?” said Bartolemew mildly. He ambled from his place at the bar to the counter.

The rider approached and threw back their hood, revealing the face of a comely young woman with a mane of fiery red hair. She drew a few admiring whistles from the bar.

“Need a room?” said Bartolemew, opening his ledger and running a finger down the list.

“No,” said the girl. “A fresh horse.”

Bartolemew raised an eyebrow. “On a night like this? You’d be better off resting until morning, pardon me for saying so.”

The sentence was puncuated by a roar of thunder outside. Defiantly, the girl slapped a heavy pouch of silver on the countertop. “A horse,” she repeated.

Bartolemew tested the weight of the pouch. “As the lady wishes,” he said mildly, “though let it be noted it’s against my better judgement.”

She did not reply. Bartolemew led her from the inn to the stables. In the common room, a scarred man raised an eyebrow at his fellow.

“A well-proportioned lass,” he murmured, “and well-monied too by the looks of it.”

“Alone, too,” his companion replied.

“And yet the weather,” said the first man, tilting an ear to the sounds at the rain-lashed windows.

“Inclement, certainly,” murmured the second man. “Some would say devils create such weather to hide misdeeds.”

“Then it is decided,” said the first man.

They rose, checking that certain objects were well-concealed in their cloaks, and went outside.

These two men happened to be named Yalk and Benfred. Both were hard of face and black of heart. They wore long knives prominently, but their garments concealed many other implements more devious in nature.

They lurked near the stables as the girl and Bartolemew completed their transaction, and moments later had mounted their own steeds and set off down the road. The girl was not difficult to track, as she was the only rider on the road that night, and there were few side-routes once one was on the track to the Iron City. Still, her relentless speed, combined with the heavy rain, made keeping up difficult. Soon they had lost sight of her in the chaos.

But fortune was on the side of the two scoundrels that night, for after nearly an hour during which their course was uncertain, they heard the frightened bray of a horse through the din of the rain, and soon after passed a horse that had fallen on the road. They turned their horses about quickly. Sure enough, the girl’s fresh horse had caught its hoof on the flags and broken its leg. It lay whimpering in the road; the girl had been thrown free of the poor animal, and was now standing clear of its thrashing hooves, looking hesitantly to the saddlebags.

She looked up at the two interlopers. “Pardon me, miss,” bawled Yalk over the storm. “You seem to be in trouble. Perhaps we can help you?”

She looked skeptical for a moment. It was to Yalk and Benfred’s advantage that the storm concealed their features; anyone who saw their scarred, scowling faces would certainly be moved to mistrust. Instead the girl, desperate, conceded that she required aid. “I need that bag,” she called, pointing, “and to reach the Iron City as soon as possible!”

“We’d be happy to help, miss,” Yalk bellowed. Both men dismounted. Benfred hung back while Yalk rummaged in his saddlebags, producing a heavy crossbow; he loaded it and, stopping a few paces shy of the thrashing horse, fired a bolt. It sank into the horse’s throat, and the animal ceased to move at last.

“Thank you,” said the girl with a tone of relief, moving towards the saddlebags. It was at this moment that Benfred, who had taken advantage of the distraction to creep closer, siezed her arms from behind.

She let out a furious shout and, bringing up her legs, landed a hard kick on Benfred’s shin. He roared with pain but kept his grip. Yalk dropped the crossbow and lunged, pulling a cloth sack over the girl’s head.

Even with this disadvantage, the girl put up an admirable struggle. It took the two men working together to wrestle her to the ground and bind her hands and ankles. A moment later they had thrown her over the back of Benfred’s horse. Yalk attached her saddlebag to his own horse, and they set off down the road in the direction of the Iron City.

*

If one were to enter the Iron City through its main gates, one might be struck by a sense of grandeur and scale. The immense spires of the Temple and the Palace stand symmetrically on the horizon; carts, horses, and foot-traffic proceed in orderly lines down the paved street, and one can look down directly upon the Plaza of Saints, with its immaculate gardens and luxurious marketplaces.

But those who are not new to the city, and who know what sort of thing they like, might veer off the main road and instead enter a maze of narrow alleys, passing into the district known as the Shallows. Here shanty-like dwellings are stacked eight high, and the noisy markets sell decidedly less wholesome goods.

If one has been here before, he will pass by the melee of Pebble Street and the muggers of the Drowned Plaza, turning left at the Sunken Crossroads until he comes to the crooked building with the ancient sign that reads THE TAVERN OF THE DESOLATION. Throwing open the door, such a man will find everything he desires: cheap beer, wanton women, and drunken sailors eager for a brawl.

At night in the Iron City, there is no place more lively that the Tavern of the Desolation. In the morning, there is no place so apocalyptic. While workers tend to the mess with expressions of resignation, men stumble home, filled with regret and covered in wounds whose origins they do not remember.

It is in such a state that Roland of Cairt found himself that morning. His clothes had been shabby before, but each night made them shabbier; they had been patched so often that little of the original garment remained. His purse was empty. He had a throbbing bruise above his left eye and bite-marks on his right arm. Best of all, he had no memory of what had happened, apart from a vague notion that a ship-captain from Indvel had insulted him.

He hauled himself out of the gutter and set to meandering through the mazing streets of the Shallows. He passed a few brigands, who kept out of his way, rightly judging that he carried nothing of value and anyway would not be worth the trouble. A few ragged children jeered at him, but lost interest when he failed to respond. A few passing women turned up their noses at the odour emanating from him.

He came to a shambles of a boarding-house at the corner of Winse and Pale, and, knocking open the door, slumped in the common room and demanded soup. The pinch-faced matron of the place put a bowl in front of him and said: “You owe me fifty crowns, sir. This is the last bowl unless you pay up.”

Roland of Cairt winced as the matron’s shrill voice wreaked havoc on his throbbing head. “Of course, of course,” he mumbled.

The soup was thin and tasted faintly of excrement. He ate it all anyway. As he was standing to go, he saw a figure in the door.

“Going somewhere, Roland?” said the man.

Roland looked him up and down. The man was tall, wearing a long coat that had probably once been fine but now looked rather shabby. His beard, greying, was impeccably tended.

“Luther,” Roland groaned.

“The same,” said the man. “Let me guess: you spent all of last night’s coin on drink.”

“Not just on drink,” Roland protested.

“Mm.” Luther looked unimpressed. “Now, destitute, you mean to ask me for another loan.”

“Only as I fear the madame intends to evict me,” said Roland.

“Why bother?” said Luther. “You never spend the night here anyway. The moment any coin comes into your pocket, it drains out that very evening.”

“Mm,” said Roland. “And why do you suppose that is, you old bastard?”

“Because you’re a drunk old fool, I’d wager.”

“It’s because I’m bored, Luther,” Roland snapped. “It’s been weeks since anything exciting has happened. There’s no work here these days: everyone only wants rats killed or debts collected, or stuff of that nature. We should go to Pandassa. I’ve heard there’s a plague of goat-men there that need killing.”

Luther slapped Roland on the back, prompting another grimace. “Chin up, old boy,” said Luther. “Look what I’ve got.”

He thrust a scrap of paper into Roland’s hands. Roland stared at it for a long moment. “What’s this?” he said.

“A notice,” said Luther.

“It’s all blurring together,” said Roland.

“You drunk idiot,” said Luther. He snatched the page back. “It reads: ‘The Duke of Trast offers a reward of one thousand crowns to anyone bringing him the head of the brigand Kund, whose band of scoundrels have plagued the King’s Road for too long. An additional reward of two hundred fifty crowns each will be awarded for the heads of his lieutenants, Gatz and Ulver. Be warned that the brigands are believed to have orc-blood, and to be prone to a ferocity sufficient to shrivel the hearts of men. Report to the office of Trast, with the intact head, to claim your reward. Those offering false heads shall be whipped, etc.’ What do you think?”

“More brigands,” Roland grumbled.

“What, the infamous Kund?” said Luther. “I’ve heard he’s killed at least a hundred men, and stolen enough gold to pave half the King’s Road with coins. It sounds like a worthy task to me.”

“It sound boring,” said Roland.

“Get yourself together, you idiot,” Luther snapped. “It’s the best job you’ve had all year, and maybe the best in five, if you can count that high, you dunce. Sober up and fetch your sword. If we’re going to collect this reward, we’d best be started soon.”

*

In the upper spires of the Grand Palace sat Vizier Makel. His face was twisted in his customary grimace.

From the height of the Prince’s Tower he could look down upon the sprawling gardens of the Palace, or extend his sight a bit further to look upon the filth and wealth of the entire Iron City. A glance to one side, and he could see the parapets of the spire of the Temple.

None of these sights appeared to impress him. He was brooding.

Someone came up the steps. A beautiful woman in flowing purple robes, her hair raven-black, her eyes pits of coal: Illuvia the Arch-Wizard. She was nearly one hundred and twenty years old, Makel knew, but vanity (and perhaps cunning) caused her to disguise her true age. A perceptive onlooker would not place her at more than thirty years.

“Makel,” said Illuvia.

The Vizier turned. Though half her age, he always felt old and decrepit in the Arch-Wizard’s presence. He was aware of the bags under his eyes and of his comparatively drab garments.

“Illuvia,” he said.

“Where is your messenger?”

Makel looked mournfully at the winding serpent that was the main road of the city. It spiraled northward, passing through the Grand Gates and becoming the King’s Road. There was no end of traffic on the road.

“Hasn’t come,” he said.

“Isn’t that a bad sign?”

“Yes.”

He gave the wizard a sidelong glance. “The storm last night. Was that of natural origin?”

“Yes, of course.” Illuvia waved a dismissive hand. “But villains are happy enough to take advantage of such natural events. I fear our messenger has been waylaid.”

“We must send someone,” said Makel.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Illuvia. “I require only your seal, and I will send my best man.”

“Who is that?”

“Does it matter to you?” Illuvia cast him a look of scorn. “You will only continue to sit here in your tower, doing nothing, regardless of who I send.”

“Staying here is to my political advantage,” said Makel mildly, “and to yours. Who will you send?”

She sighed. “Medvek the magus,” she said. “He is an adept in the arcane arts and with the curved blade. If your messenger has been waylaid by brigands, he will quickly set the matter straight.”

“In that case, you have my official approval.”

She produced a document from her robes; he set the Vizier’s seal to the page. The magic ink hissed, producing a hardly-visible shower of sparks.

As he placed the seal, he scanned the words of the document. His eyes landed on a rather large figure, given in gold pieces.

“This Medvek is expensive,” he observed.

“The best always are,” said Illuvia. “We both know how important this matter is.”

“Of course.”

She turned to go. Halfway down the steps she paused to add: “Not to tell you your business, Makel, but next time you might want to appoint a more competent messenger.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Makel.

*

The messenger’s name was Lat.

She woke, groaning. Her head was throbbing.

She could not see.

She was conscious of being bound. Her wrists behind her back; her ankles together. A noose held the sack firmly in place on her head.

She was lying on the floor. The biting cold on her skin told her that she was naked.

“Mmmf,” she said.

There was a gag in her mouth.

It was not a good situation.

“She’s awake,” said a cheerful voice.

“Thank the gods,” said a second voice. “I thought she might be dead. That would certainly be a disappointment.”

She recognized the voices as those of Yalk and Benfred, the two brigands who had waylaid her on the road. She assumed that had been the previous night.

Yalk’s voice was closer to her ear: “Sorry about that knock on the head. You put up such a fuss, we had no choice.”

“Ask her about the thing,” said Benfred.

“Good idea,” said Yalk. “Shall we have a chat?”

He fiddled with the knots for a moment, then pulled the bag off her head. Looking directly into his scarred face, Lat wondered how she’d ever trusted him.

They were in some sort of cave. Light streamed through openings in the walls. Benfred was hunched over the remains of a cookfire.

Her saddlebag had been torn open, and its contents were spread across the floor. Benfred was picking through them.

“I’m going to take the gag out,” Yalk said. “Go ahead and make a racket; there’s no one around to hear except us, and you’ll only make us angry. Based on your position, I assume you find that undesirable.”

He took out the gag. Lat spat out a mouthful of sawdust.

“You’ll be worth more undamaged,” Yalk informed her, “but I’m not above causing a little bit of subtle harm. Keep that in mind as I ask you questions. What’s this?”

He pushed a bundle in front of her face. It had been packed at the very bottom of her saddlebag, concealed amongst various knickknacks of no consequence. The brigands were certainly thorough.

“Give me back my clothes,” said Lat.

Yalk surveyed her naked body.

“I’d rather not,” he said.

“That object will kill you if you tamper with it,” she said. “Give me back my clothes and let me go, and I’ll tell you how to use it.”

She had no intention of letting them have the object, but was desperate to improve her position. She thought she would feel better bargaining if she were dressed and untied.

“A generous offer,” said Yalk. “Here’s my counter-offer.”

He held up a thick chunk of wood. It was knobbled and vaguely tube-shaped.

“Tell me what it is,” he said, “or I’ll jam this into your asshole.”

Lat considered the offer.

“All right,” she said. “It’s a metathaumograph.”

Benfred was paying close attention now.

“Explain,” said Yalk.

“A metathaumograph,” said Lat. “It’s used to measure levels of magic. Go ahead, open it.”

Yalk unwrapped the bundle. The object within was made of some sort of polished metal; it had a faint green gleam to it. It was carved in the shape of a human head, eyeless and with a gaping mouth. It was small enough to fit in the palm of the hand.

“Aim the mouth at yourself,” she said, “and speak a command word, and it will tell you if you have any magical tendencies.”

Yalk laughed.

“I already know I have none,” he said. “Do you have any magical tendencies?”

He aimed the head at her. She flinched involuntarily.

“Hm,” said Yalk. “I begin to think you lied to me. Had I spoken the command word just then, would you have been evaporated?”

“I’m not sure,” Lat admitted.

“What’s the command word?” He pointed the head at the floor.

“I don’t dare say it.”

Yalk waved the knob of wood.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Very,” she said. “If I said it now, we’d all be destroyed.”

“Is it some sort of death-ray?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the sort of answer that gets you a block of wood in your asshole,” said Yalk.

“I really don’t know,” she pleaded. The block of wood was looking larger every second, and she was not liking the trend of the conversation. “I was told to deliver it, and that it was horribly dangerous, but nothing else.”

“Then how do you know about the command word?”

“I made up the stuff about the command word.”

“You’re a very inconsistent liar,” said Yalk. “The upshot is that I don’t trust you at all. Our compatriots won’t be here for a while - perhaps we should give you some time to think.”