JollyDoc
Explorer
HEROES
Ratbone sniffed at the base of the door for several seconds before stepping back, a low growl in his throat. His companions knew his mannerisms well enough to know a warning when they saw one. Herc stepped in to the fore, tried the knob, and cautiously pushed the door open. Within the room, wooden tables were stacked with vials, beakers, and other alchemical gear, although the southern-most one was heaped with broken vials and leaned awkwardly on a hastily repaired leg. Three large cauldrons sat against the opposite wall, one of them upended, its foul contents of rendered fats spilled over the floor. Two derro stood over one of the tables, upon which lay a moaning, semi-conscious man. Both of the little creatures yelped when they saw the hulking human standing in the doorway. Before they could react, however, Ratbone bounded past Herc, leaped the nearest table, landed and bowled over one of the derro, savaging him before he could raise the crossbow he held in one hand. The man on the table came fully awake when he saw the huge dog hurdle past, and he rolled quickly to his feet and seized a gleaming sword from the collection of gear piled in one corner. The remaining derro bolted across the room, but a swift swing of Herc’s shield snapped his neck in mid-stride.
“Put down the weapon…slowly,” Valeris said as he pressed the tip of his own blade against the stranger’s neck.
“Okay,” the man said as he lowered his sword, “but let’s not do anything rash. It would seem we have a common enemy here.”
“Who are you?” Katarina asked.
“My name is Michael,” he replied. “I am a priest of Iomedae.”
“There is no temple of your order in Korvosa,” the beguiler replied suspiciously.
“Not as such,” Michael nodded, “but there is a shrine. I am one of its tenders.”
“So what are you doing here, then?” Valeris sneered. “Long way from home, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m not exactly sure where I am,” Michael said. “The last thing I remember, I was in North Point when I came upon a group of men beating a young Shoanti boy. I tried to stop them, but there were too many. They turned on me. When I awoke, I was here, and then you arrived.”
“I’ve got news for you,” Valeris smirked, “you didn’t save the kid.”
“Valeris!” Katarina snapped.
“What does he mean?” Michael asked, his brow furrowed.
Kat turned back, exasperation in her tone. “We are here searching for the boy. His name was Gaekhen.”
“Was?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Kat sighed. “He was killed by the mob. This has set in motion a dangerous situation with the Shoanti. The boy’s body was taken by a necromancer named Rolth and supposedly brought to this place, the Dead Warrens, which lies beneath the Gray District. We’re here to recover Gaekhen’s remains and return them to his people. Will you help us?”
Michael’s eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened. “Without hesitation,” he said grimly. “Just allow me to get my gear.”
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Two open passages led from the laboratory, but the shorter of the two ended abruptly at a door that was completely boarded over, as if to keep something out…or something in.
“Now isn’t this intriguing?” O’Reginald asked.
“That’s not the word I’d use,” Valeris snipped. “What’s the point in opening it? You think they decided to lock up a dead body? You ask me, there’s nothing behind there that we need to find.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Kat mused, tapping her chin with one finger. “This is, after all, a necromancer we’re dealing with. Perhaps he would keep something valuable, like the Shoanti’s remains, behind just such a barrier. Herc, would you mind?”
Valeris threw up his hands. “It’s your funeral.”
Herc nodded and stepped forward to begin prying the boards off one-by-one. As each came loose, it did so with a rasping squeak when its rusty nails pulled free. After several noisy minutes, the door stood exposed. Herc glanced over his shoulder to make sure his friends were prepared, and then shoved it open. Beyond was what appeared to be a store room, or perhaps a pantry, but it was in shambles. Broken crates and shelves lay strewn about, with the foodstuffs, firewood and other supplies they once contained scattered across the floor. As Herc peered into the gloom, a hulking shape stepped out of the shadows. The creature seemed to be comprised of a disgusting amalgamation of dead animal parts. The foul-smelling pieces had been stitched together with thick, black thread in a shape to approximate that of a man, yet it was certainly not human. Cobbled together from bits of a dozen carcasses from half as many different species, the staggering thing uttered a gurgling cry as it shambled forth to attack. Ratbone, hunched near Herc’s feet, snarled deeply and crouched, ready to spring. Abruptly, the sickening smell of the thing washed over them, and Ratbone felt his gorge begin to rise. Then, uncontrollably, the dog began retching violently. Behind him, Valeris doubled over as well, purging his stomach in explosive heaves. The creature kept coming. Herc stepped in front of his companions, his own stomach in mild revolt, but still controllable. The carrion golem growled and swung one arm at the warrior…an arm that looked very human, and was decorated with intricate tattoos. Herc reeled from the surprising strength behind the blow, but quickly recovered and shoved forward behind his shield. Suddenly, Michael was at his side, a strip of his tabard wrapped around his face, and the gleaming sword in his hand. Together, the priest and the warrior carved the horrible construct into its component parts with brutal efficiency.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” Valeris said as he gazed down at the remains, still wiping bile from his mouth with the back of his hand. “You mean the kid’s not even in one piece? So now we’re on a scavenger hunt for body parts!”
Michael grimly picked up the severed arm and wrapped it in his cloak.
“Let’s be on,” the cleric said tonelessly. “Someone has much to answer for.”
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They found Gaekhen’s head in a room not far from the alchemy lab. The nauseating mixture of decay and strange chemicals filled the air of the large chamber. Glinting saws, pliers, long stitching needles, and other surgical equipment were organized on shelves and benches along the walls. A sturdy wooden table in the center of the room supported a large, humanoid shape…a thing stitched together from a patchwork of dozens of different bodies. The thing would have stood nearly seven-feet tall if it were to rise. The head attached to the body was too small for the massive frame, and it was crowned with brown hair and bore a distinctive scar upon its left cheek. Once more, Michael stepped stoically forward, lifted his sword, and with one, swift strike, decapitated the inanimate golem.
It was now Michael who took the lead. It was almost as if he were driven to find and avenge Gaekhen, perhaps feeling somehow responsible for the boy’s death. Beyond the stitchery, the group came upon a spartan bedchamber, unoccupied, and seemingly, unused in quite some time. A short hallway gave on to a second bedchamber. It was well-kept and contained a narrow bed, a relatively empty shelf that held only a few books and some bones and skulls, and a long bench. A male torso, the chest of which bore numerous tattoos, and with the right arm still attached, lay on the bench. The arm periodically thrashed and clutched at the air as if it were alive. Hovering in mid-air in a far corner above the bed, was another derro, clad in black robes and holding a bone wand in one hand.
“I’m in charge here while the master’s away!” the little fiend hissed. “You don’t belong here! You weren’t invited, but the master will be pleased when I present your corpses to him!”
He grabbed at the front of his robe, plucking something from it and then hurling it to the ground. It looked like a patch of some sort, but when it touched the floor, it instantly transformed into an animate skeleton, a scimitar gripped in its hand. Herc and Ratbone rushed into the room, but as the dog/druid leaped for the derro, the evil mage hurled a blast of green energy at him. Ratbone felt his strength drain from him, and he stood heaving with his head near the floor, barely able to support his own weight. Herc, however, managed to hop onto the bed, where he could just reach the derro. His sword cut deeply, and the wizard cursed and scooted away, clambering across the ceiling like a spider.
“Behind you!” Michael shouted in warning as the skeleton prepared to split Herc’s skull with its own blade. As the big warrior turned, however, the bag of bones was smashed to bits as the priest struck it with a spike-headed morningstar he’d produced from his pack. Herc nodded and turned back towards the derro, who was now hovering over Ratbone, chuckling sadistically. He unleashed a gout of scorching fire upon the druid, followed by several fiery blue bolts of energy. Ratbone wavered, nearly out on his feet, but with a last hidden reserve, he gathered himself and jumped. His teeth clamped firmly around the derro’s ankle, and where they bit, a rime of gold-flecked ice formed. The derro screamed in agony as his entire body felt suddenly heavy and sluggish. The Companions had chosen their champion well, and Ratbone’s very touch could cause those of evil heart to quail before the power of his patrons. With that last burst of effort, however, the druid was spent. He collapsed to the floor, his chest lurching like a bellows. Michael quickly knelt beside him to lend what aid he could, while Herc and Valeris took advantage of the derro’s weakened state to quickly dispatch him.
Once Ratbone was stabilized, Michael stepped over to Gaekhen’s twitching torso and laid his hands gently upon the chest. As he did so, he murmured a quiet prayer, and white light glowed beneath his palms. Abruptly, all movement from the remains ceased.
“Rest now,” Michael whispered. “You’ll be home soon.”
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Deeper into the warrens, the companions came upon a small library. It was unoccupied, but there they found many books on necromancy and the nature of diseases and plagues. The former they ignored, but the latter, Michael claimed. He was not a healer by trade, but he knew that such tomes could always prove useful.
Further along, they found themselves in a foul-smelling cavern, bordered on three sides by ten-foot-deep pits. It was from these that the rancid smell of excrement and decay filled the air. Each pit contained a few heaps of moldy straw, a wooden trough of filthy water, a few rotting body parts, and a couple of still-living prisoners. Standing above the pits was a brutish looking creature, whose head was monstrously deformed and whose skin was thick and blubbery. When he saw the companions enter, he laughed out loud and cracked his knobby knuckles.
“Rolth give Cabbagehead big reward for your head, pretty lady!” he said, pointing at Kat. “You go in pit now! Cabbagehead feed you later! Maybe!”
With that, he lumbered forward, his ham-sized fists clenched to do battle, but before he made it halfway across the room, Herc and Valeris went to meet him. Flesh proved no match for cold steel, and it was Cabbagehead that ended up at the bottom of one of the pits in a broken heap. The prisoners below gaped up in silent horror, not knowing if their saviors had arrived, or their executioners.
“Let’s bring them up,” Ratbone said, having resumed his normal form. “Herc, Valeris, give me a hand.”
“You’re not actually thinking of bringing them with us, are you?” O’Reginald asked. “Haven’t we got enough to worry about without having to babysit a bunch of ragamuffins?”
Ratbone turned a cold glare on the young wizard, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy and threatening.
“You were once far worse than they, shiver-head,” he said, “and yet someone found you worthy of salvation. Now help, or leave.”
Wisely, O’Reginald kept any further opinions to himself.
The prisoners were malnourished and sickly-looking, and each told a similar tale of having been kidnapped from the streets of Old Korvosa by small, cloaked figures. One of them, a woman named Tiora, fell weeping at Michael’s feet.
“Father!” she wailed. “Forgive me! I’m a sinner, a thief and a pick-pocket. ‘Twas my sins that put me here, but I swear, I’ve learned my lesson! I’ll do right from now on!”
“Rise, child,” the priest said, resting a hand upon her head. “You have done nothing to deserve such a fate, but relish the second lease on life you have been given, and use your time well.”
“I will, Father,” she babbled, tears in her eyes. “I swear it! You’ll see!”
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The prisoners were escorted back to the surface, and sent on their way, but Gaekhen’s legs were still missing, and so the companions were compelled to return to the warrens. Retracing their steps, they stumbled upon one passage which they had apparently bypassed earlier. It ended in a natural cavern, the majority of which contained a nasty-looking stretch of mud…a partially collapsed sinkhole…kept damp by rivulets of water that seeped from the walls. A patch of solid ground extended into the mud to form and island, upon which was heaped a reeking pile of body parts. Against one wall, a rickety wheelbarrow sat on its side. Cautiously, Valeris, Herc and Ratbone stepped out onto the island. Suddenly, the mud exploded as a hideous monstrosity that seemed to be made up of a huge maw and tentacles, rose up from the morass. It was an otyugh, Korvosa’s ‘offal’ secret…its living waste-disposal system.
“Warm food!” it cried in a delighted, slobbery voice as it heaved itself out of the mud. One of its snake-like tentacles whipped out and seized Valeris around the waist. The duskblade screamed as it constricted around him, and drew him closer to the slavering jaws of the beast. Quickly, Herc and Ratbone leaped after their friend, hacking and biting at the otyugh as it flailed at them with its remaining tentacles. Gradually, however, the creature’s attacks became weaker and more sluggish, and it released Valeris as it heeled over into the bog, twitching. When they were sure it would not rise again, the companions turned to the grim task of examining the pile of body parts. As they feared they would, they discovered Gaekhen’s pelvis and legs buried within the refuse. Michael cleaned them as best he could, then wrapped them and placed them with his other burdens. Their mission complete, the K.I.A. left the Dead Warrens and made their way back to the Citadel.
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“Well done again,” Field Marshal Kroft congratulated them upon their return, “and welcome, Michael. It seems your assistance to the team may have made the difference between success and failure. Perhaps you’ll consider staying on?”
“Perhaps, commander,” the priest bowed. “It would seem I have more in common with my rescuers than I first knew. It seems preordained that our paths should cross.”
Cressida nodded. “Well, on to new business,” she said with a heavy sigh. “While you were away, Trinia Sabor’s trial was concluded.”
“What??” Ratbone exclaimed. “How? So soon?”
Cressida did not meet his gaze. “She was found guilty. Queen Ileosa has announced that she is to be executed at sunset today, and has invited many of Korvosa’s nobles, military officers, and anyone of real import to the Castle’s public courtyard to witness the event. I want all of you to be there as well. Something about the whole affair doesn’t sit right with me, and the way things have been going lately, I’m worried that this might trigger another riot.”
“But this isn’t right!” Ratbone shouted. “I gave that girl my word that she would have a fair trial!”
“It’s out of my hands,” Cressida said, sadly. “The Queen is the final arbiter on these matters, and with the Magister dead, there is no one to gainsay her. It’s a cruel reality that you must accept.”
Ratbone growled deep in his throat, then turned and abruptly left the room.
“Don’t worry,” Katrina said. “We’ll be there tonight…all of us. If there’s to be trouble, we’ll be ready for it.”
“Thank you,” said Cressida. “My trust in you has proven well-founded. Speak with your friend. Help him to find some peace.”
“I’m afraid that’s easier said than done,” Kat replied. “He is a man of many passions, and his word is not given lightly. I’m afraid he might cause problems.”
“For his sake,” Cressida said tensely, “I hope not, but if he does, you need to stop him from doing anything rash…anything that might bring unwanted attention.”
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The execution, it seemed, was not an affair to be missed. The toast of Korvosa was in attendance in garish gowns, fine capes, and enough jewels to blind a common man. The overall feel of the event was that of a grand ball or party, not an assassin’s public execution. As the six members of the K.I.A. jostled for a position near the gallows, Queen Ileosa emerged amid a great flourish of pomp, as heralds announced her arrival with a fanfare of music and drums. This queen was not the subdued mourner they’d met earlier. She appeared to have accepted the mantle of sole monarch, and carried herself with poise, style, and grace. She wore a green and white silk dress worth thousands of gold coins, and was attended by a small army of servants. Chief among them was Sabina, her expression neutral, but her eyes ever watchful for possible problems in the crowd. Ileosa took her seat in a high, throne-like chair at one end of the public courtyard, while the headman’s block stood ominously at the other. The executioner was a towering, muscular man wearing an executioner’s helm, and idly holding an immense axe. As sunset drew near, the expectant excitement in the crowd built. When the ominous beating of a single, large drum began, the assembled gawkers fell silent. The drum set the pace for Trinia’s procession to the headsman’s block atop the gallows. As they reached the block, one of the guardsman removed Trinia’s shackles and her hood, revealing a very frightened woman who, nonetheless, bravely held back her tears, if only barely. She was led up onto the platform, her arms bound behind her back by a leather cord, and then she was forced over the wooden block before the headsman as Queen Ileosa stood and addressed the crowd.
“Fellow Korvosans! You have suffered greatly these past few weeks. Homes have burned, family members have died, fortunes have been lost. I feel your suffering, for not only have I lost a beloved husband, but with each riot, each burning home, each act of anarchy, my heart bleeds a little more. This has been a trying time for us, yet the torment is at an end. Before you is the face of your anguish and pain. Do not be deceived by this murderer’s timid nature…she is a black-hearted assassin, a seductress and sinner, a viper amidst us all. I offer you all her death as a salve against the hatred and hurt you have suffered. Her death will not rebuild Korvosa, nor will it bring back the king, yet tomorrow will be a new dawn…a dawn over a city ready to rise from the edge of anarchy to become stronger than ever before! And so, without further delay, let us usher in this new dawn with justice! OFF WITH HER HEAD!”
As the headsman hefted his axe, the already silent crowd froze in anticipation. Yet, just before he swung, the executioner gave a strange little grunt and staggered. His raised axe faltered as he reached with one hand to the small of his back, and then brought it to his face, the fingers dripping with blood. An instant later, he cried out in pain and dropped the axe as a dagger embedded itself in the back of his other hand. The axe sank itself in the block, inches from Trinia’s head, and the headsman doubled over in pain, revealing a second dagger already embedded in his lower back. Trinia rose to her knees and glanced up at the executioner in shock as a scream echoed through the crowded courtyard.
“By the gods! It’s Blackjack!”
An instant later, a man dressed in a hooded cloak and leather armor sprang onto the executioner’s block. He wielded a rapier in one hand and a dagger in the other. He cut the bonds on Trinia’s wrists and then threw the dagger down to pin the headsman’s left foot to the wood below. He quickly helped Trinia to her feet and then briefly turned to address the shocked crowd.
“Yes indeed, my queen! Let us usher in justice, but let that be justice for Korvosa, not this shambles you petulantly call a monarchy! Long live Korvosa! Down with the Queen!”
Blackjack’s words spread like fire, causing the crowd to erupt into a frenzy of activity. Some demanded that he release the assassin, while others called for the queen to step down from the Crimson Throne. Queen Ileosa stood stunned for a few moments, whispered something to Sabina, and then quickly turned to flee into Castle Korvosa, Sabina and a dozen guards behind her to cover her retreat. The remaining guards in the courtyard moved towards the gallows to apprehend Blackjack, but the gathered nobles, thirsty for blood, made it difficult to move. At the same time, the executioner, recovering from his initial shock and pain, lifted his axe once more over Blackjack, who seemed to have momentarily forgotten the man in his apparent delight at having forced the queen to flee.
Now, the legend of Blackjack was well known throughout Korvosa…an infamous, masked hero for the people. Tales of his moves against corrupt politicians, cruel nobles, and greedy merchants had been part of the city’s culture for two centuries, and although he hadn’t made an appearance in the last decade, his stories remained as popular as ever among the peasants. Because he had existed for such a long time, few believed him to be a single person. The most popular rumor surround him placed him a series of men, with one training a replacement each generation. All of this, the members of the K.I.A. knew as well, especially Ratbone, whose childhood in the slums of Korvosa had been filled with the exciting adventures of the masked man. Now, the legend stood before them, in the flesh, only it seemed as if his long story was about to be brought to an abrupt end. Seconds counted, and each member of the company searched their own conscience and soul in that span of time.
Valeris was the first to react. The duskblade cared nothing for children’s stories, but he certainly held no love for the monarchy or the establishment either. He found the chaos exciting, and he wanted to see it last a little longer. With a quick flicker of his fingers and a few spoken words, he conjured a disembodied hand directly behind the headsman. The hand seized the executioner by the ankle and pulled, sending the big man sprawling to the platform, his axe flying from his hands.
Katarina, as a practitioner of the Harrow, had known something momentous was going to occur this day, but she had feared the worst. Now, seeing Blackjack, she knew this was the moment fate had predicted, and she knew that it was time to act out her part. Calling upon Zellara’s spirit, she used the magic of the Harrow to create the illusion of a large, billowing cloud of smoke that quickly obscured the scene atop the gallows.
Michael’s thoughts on the subject were more complex. The priest, due to the harshness of his own upbringing, and his subsequent salvation by the Church, saw everything in terms of justice being served. The situation with Trinia was clearly out of his control, but one thing troubled him imminently…the fate of the headsman. The executioner was an innocent, to the priest’s way of thinking, simply a soldier doing his job. He did not deserve to die for that. Pushing his way through the crowd, the priest leaped atop the platform, and knelt beside the fallen man, white light from his hands staunching the blood from the headsman’s wounds. Michael’s gaze met that of Blackjack, and the vigilante simply nodded.
Ratbone had no compunction whatsoever about what was transpiring. In fact, had Blackjack not appeared, the druid was on the verge of charging the gallows himself. Now, he didn’t hesitate, shifting into his ape-like form and bounding up the gallows’ stairs. Once there, he seized the axe and held it well away from the headsman’s reach, preparing to defend the platform should the guards push through.
Herc was a mercenary, but he was not without loyalty. His friends had made their decisions, and he would support them. Stepping into the illusory smoke, he stood on the stairs, sword drawn and shield raised, ready for the coming storm.
Lost in the general hubbub was O’Reginald. The recovering addict had not lived to the ripe old age of 23 by not minding his own business, and from where he stood, the risks of aiding Trinia Sabor and Blackjack far outweighed the benefits (which were few, as far as he could see). As the chaos unfolded, the young wizard melted away into the crowd.
As for Blackjack, he took the opportunity given to him by the K.I.A., yelling for Trinia to lock her arms around his neck, and then quickly leaped from the scaffold to scale the courtyard wall. When he reached the top, he bowed deeply to his saviors, while Trinia lifted one hand in salute, and then both disappeared over the far side. In the courtyard itself, mayhem reigned. The guards had still not reached the gallows due to the press of the crowd, and the remaining members of the K.I.A. used the multiple distractions to blend into the mob. Later, when the tales of the day’s events were retold, only the actions of Blackjack were clearly recalled. If others were involved, it was only peripheral, and their identities were anonymous. For the moment, the company’s loyalties were not called into question, but a fundamental shift had occurred in Korvosa’s attitude. Change was coming.
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In the days following Blackjack’s daring rescue of the king’s accused assassin, the Korvosan Guard scoured the city for the fugitives, to no avail, and the enraged queen set a royal bounty of 5,000 gold coins for the recapture of Trinia Sabor. Wildly embellished news of the event spread quickly to every corner of the city, and left all to wonder why Korvosa’s long-absent hero chose that time to reappear, and why he had rescued a convicted killer. Even so, even the most fantastic news eventually becomes old, and thus life in the city returned to some semblance of normalcy in the following two weeks. And then, as so often happens, something else happened to draw the attention of the citizens to a new enigma. Just before midnight one evening, the peace was shattered by a wooden screech, followed by the thunder of a trebuchet being fired. Again and again the sounds echoed from the Wall of Eodred near North Bridge, waking nearly all of North Point. Across the river in Trail’s End, people woke just in time to see a sleek brig burn and swiftly sink into the wine-dark waters.
The following morning, gossip buzzed through the city, and fanciful tales ran wild. Every tavern and street corner was abuzz with rumors of pirate raiders and ghost ships. The Crimson Throne remained quiet on the matter, however, with even the loosest-tongued politicos seemingly knowing nothing of the previous night’s events. With so many far wilder and more interesting tales circulating, the facts of the matter quickly became lost among the frenzied speculations. Katarina, however, had more than mere conjecture on her side. She had the power of Zellara’s Harrow deck to direct her along more reliable avenues of information. She spent the following morning among the inhabitants of North Point, asking pointed questions, and listening intently to the tales she heard. By day’s end, she had learned several pieces of information that she felt held at least grains of truth. The mostly widely held speculation was that the Guard had fired upon, and destroyed a ship full of foolish pirates from Riddleport who had obviously hoped to sneak into the heart of the city under cover of night. Kat believed that there was indeed a ship involved, but she highly doubted the pirate theory. She heard from more reliable sources that indeed, a sinister-looking ship had refused inspection as it sailed into the river. When it neared North Bridge and still failed to make its intentions known, the watch had fired upon and destroyed it. Furthermore, according to these sources, none of the guardsmen who signaled of shouted out to the ship received a response. Some said that no one was on board at all.
For his part, Valeris was curious as to the night’s events as well, but mainly for selfish reasons. In the aftermath of Gaedren Lamm’s death, the duskblade had managed to gather to himself several of the “Little Lambs.” Though he treated them better, and actually paid them for the efforts, he ultimately still followed Lamm’s fundamental principle: to have a cadre of pickpockets and cutpurses at his disposal, and reap the profits of their endeavors. Of course, none of his companions were aware of his after-hours activities, and that was just how he liked it. To that end, when he got wind of the possibility of a shipwreck in the middle of the Jeggare, visions of gold flashed through his mind. Working his contacts among the Guard, he discovered only that an order was given to fire upon a yellow light upon the water. This little detail intrigued Valeris, and when he inquired about the significance of ships bearing yellow lights among the sailors in the dock district, he discovered that such a signal was a nautical warning identifying a ship under quarantine. Just like that, his dreams of pirate gold vanished in a puff of smoke.
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A few days later found Herc window shopping near the Citadel, in the market for a new shield. Suddenly, a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, and he tensed reflexively, his hand going to the pommel of his sword.
“At ease, soldier,” a familiar voice said.
Herc turned and found himself staring at the face of Grau, the Guardsman he and his friends had found wandering drunk during the initial riots after Eodred’s death.
“Sergeant,” Herc nodded. “Didn’t expect to see you wandering around here. Are you off-duty?”
“Not exactly,” Grau said. This isn’t a coincidental meeting. I…have a favor to ask. My niece is sick. I don’t know what she has and neither does anyone in Trail’s End. She’s broken out all over in red pocks and can barely keep down food, or even the swill that good-for-nothing herbalist gave her. Her mother’s talking about going to the Bank of Abadar, but her family can’t afford to pay the prices their clerics would demand. Then I remembered how you and your friends handled yourselves during the riots, and how you helped me out, and I figured you all could help. A bunch of resourceful folk like you, I’d bet if you don’t already have a way to fix this, you must know who can. Surely you can’t just sit by while a child suffers, can you?”
“I can’t speak for the others,” Herc said, “but I feel sure they’d be willing to help. I’ll gather them, and we’ll meet you in Trail’s end by sunset.”
“Thank you,” Grau said, a wet sheen in his eyes as he gripped Herc’s shoulder.
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“Trail’s End?” O’Reginald asked. “The slum across the river?”
“Mind your tongue,” Katarina snapped. “Many of my people call that ‘slum’ home. It’s not their fault that the so-called civilized people of this city marginalize and stereotype them.”
“Does anyone else find it more than coincidence that Trail’s End is very near where that ship was sunk,” Valeris interrupted, “a plague ship, I might add, and now we hear of a child having fallen ill with some mysterious disease?”
“A mystery indeed,” Michael said, “and mysteries, by their nature, ask to be solved. In any event, we won’t know anything if we don’t at least have a look. Perhaps the books we found in the necromancer’s library will be of assistance.”
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Trail’s End was indeed poor, and reputedly dangerous, a haven for Varisians sprinkled with a few Shoanti and socially disaffected Chelaxians. Yet, to the visitors, it felt more like a small town than any district within the city proper. To be sure, the criminal element was obvious and impossible to ignore in the faces of dozens of toughs and thugs who loitered on the streets, but they tended to target Chelaxians to the exclusion of all others, and with Katarina among them, the K.I.A. passed through unmolested. The home of Tayce Soldado, Grau’s sister, was a squat, two-story wooden building in desperate need of repair and gardening. Overall, the house felt like the home of a family too busy living to bother with tedious chores. Inside, it was remarkably clean and well-kept, filled with worn, well-used furniture and decorated with the crafts and scribblings of children. Two boys were playing quietly in the living room when Grau entered with the companions.
“My nephews,” he said by way of introduction, “Charlo and Rello. Good boys.”
Suddenly, a spasm of ragged coughing filled the house from above. Grau looked up with concern on his face, but then his eyes cut abruptly to the kitchen, where a dark-skinned young man dressed in robes was brewing some concoction that smelled of cinnamon and anise. Grau’s expression turned to one of obvious displeasure, and he turned and headed upstairs. A few moments later, the companions below heard a sternly whispered conversation, with Grau scolding Tayce for racking up a bill with an expensive and worthless healer when he had told her that he would handle things. Tayce defended her decision, restating the direness of her daughter Brienna’s condition. Ratbone glanced at the herbalist, and it was only then that he saw the holy symbol hanging around the man’s neck…a symbol of Abadar. Disgust etched on his face, he started up the stairs. After a moment, Katarina and Michael followed, leaving Valeris, Herc and O’Reginald in the living room.
The creaky steps opened up into a bedroom loft above the main room of the Soldado home. A young girl with auburn hair lay in one of the beds, her slight frame dwarfed by the bed’s size and the pile of pillows, afghans, and quilts surrounding her. Splotches of an angry red rash covered her face and arms, appearing in irregular shapes and sizes. Suddenly, her restlessness was interrupted by a violent fit of hacking coughs that jerked her entire frame, lifting her well off her pillows. The spasm passed after a moment, dropping her back to the bed, but seemingly having done little to ease her breathing. Tayce Soldado, standing over her daughter’s bed, possessed a simple beauty, scarcely hidden by her disheveled appearance and wan features. It was obvious she hadn’t slept in days. Despite her personal state, she greeted her guests sincerely.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, and then her eyes fell upon Michael’s holy symbol. “Father!” she gasped in heartbreaking relief. “Please, can you help her?”
“I’ll do my best,” Michael replied gently. “Tell me, when did the child’s symptoms first appear?”
“Two days ago,” Tayce answered. “She was completely fine before then.”
“I see,” Michael nodded. “May I examine her?”
Tayce stepped aside, and beckoned him over. The priest sat down on the bed beside Brienna and bent close to her. The rash that covered her was vesicular in its appearance, concentrated mostly on her face, but rapidly spreading down her neck. Her glands were swollen into large, tender buboes, and when Michael pressed his ear to her chest, he could hear a deep, unhealthy rattle within. As he pulled away, he drew his books from his satchel and began to flip rapidly through them. Several minutes passed before he shook his head in frustration.
“I see no match for these symptoms,” he said. “This may very well be some entirely new affliction, or perhaps I’m just too ignorant to recognize it.”
“You don’t have to know its nature to cure it with magic, do you?” Ratbone asked.
“No,” Michael acknowledged, “but my healing skills are not foremost among my order. I can research the spell, but it will take time…time that I’m not sure she has.”
Ratbone turned to Tayce. “How much is the Abadaran asking for his services?”
“Fifty gold coins for the herbs,” she said, her eyes downcast, “but three times as much for a complete cure.”
“Bastard!” Ratbone hissed under his breath, then he reached inside his tunic and withdrew a heavy purse that clinked with the sound of gold on gold. “Take it,” he said to Tayce. “All of it.”
Tayce’s mouth worked, but no words could express the emotions she felt. As tears rolled down her face, she simply embraced the druid, burying her face in his shoulder.
Meanwhile, downstairs O’Reginald abruptly stood and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Valeris asked.
“To the river,” the wizard replied. “Just a hunch, but I’m going to collect some of the water…have it analyzed when we get back to the city.”
Valeris snickered. “Sounds like a goose-chase to me, but suit yourself. It’s not like there’s anything else to do around this armpit.”
When the duskblade turned back to Herc to see if the warrior agreed with his assessment, he saw that his companion had walked into the kitchen and was talking to the priest.
“I’m Herc,” the fighter said, extending his hand.
“Ishani Dhatri,” the cleric replied, reaching out his own hand in response.
“So what’s the story?” Herc asked. “What’s wrong with the girl?”
Ishani shook his head. “I don’t recognize the exact combination of her symptoms, but I fear that this might be a harbinger of a new disease.”
“Then why haven’t you cured her yet?” Herc asked pointedly.
Ishani sighed in frustration. “If I had been sent for earlier, perhaps I could, but I’m afraid that my duties at the Golden One’s Vault required me to entreat him for similar miracles already this day. Even if I could, though, the tenets of my church force me to request a donation for Abadar’s power…one that I suspect these simple folk could scarcely afford.”
“Here’s your blood money,” Ratbone said with a snarl as he, Tayce and the others entered the kitchen. “Now will you cure her?”
Ishani sighed again. “As I was just explaining to your friend, it will have to wait until tomorrow, but with the price met, I promise to do so at sunrise.”
“That’s a promise that you are staking your life upon, ‘priest.’” Ratbone said. “In the meantime, it is within my ability to slow the progress of the disease. I will stay here with the girl until your return.”
Ishani nodded. “Then I shall take my leave.” As he turned to go, however, he paused and turned back. “Please do not judge me too harshly. My faith is…difficult to understand by laymen. Some of my more charitable work sometimes requires the aid of those outside the church’s rigid hierarchies. Perhaps in the future you might be amenable to my contacting you.”
He then opened the door and left without another word.
Ratbone sniffed at the base of the door for several seconds before stepping back, a low growl in his throat. His companions knew his mannerisms well enough to know a warning when they saw one. Herc stepped in to the fore, tried the knob, and cautiously pushed the door open. Within the room, wooden tables were stacked with vials, beakers, and other alchemical gear, although the southern-most one was heaped with broken vials and leaned awkwardly on a hastily repaired leg. Three large cauldrons sat against the opposite wall, one of them upended, its foul contents of rendered fats spilled over the floor. Two derro stood over one of the tables, upon which lay a moaning, semi-conscious man. Both of the little creatures yelped when they saw the hulking human standing in the doorway. Before they could react, however, Ratbone bounded past Herc, leaped the nearest table, landed and bowled over one of the derro, savaging him before he could raise the crossbow he held in one hand. The man on the table came fully awake when he saw the huge dog hurdle past, and he rolled quickly to his feet and seized a gleaming sword from the collection of gear piled in one corner. The remaining derro bolted across the room, but a swift swing of Herc’s shield snapped his neck in mid-stride.
“Put down the weapon…slowly,” Valeris said as he pressed the tip of his own blade against the stranger’s neck.
“Okay,” the man said as he lowered his sword, “but let’s not do anything rash. It would seem we have a common enemy here.”
“Who are you?” Katarina asked.
“My name is Michael,” he replied. “I am a priest of Iomedae.”
“There is no temple of your order in Korvosa,” the beguiler replied suspiciously.
“Not as such,” Michael nodded, “but there is a shrine. I am one of its tenders.”
“So what are you doing here, then?” Valeris sneered. “Long way from home, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m not exactly sure where I am,” Michael said. “The last thing I remember, I was in North Point when I came upon a group of men beating a young Shoanti boy. I tried to stop them, but there were too many. They turned on me. When I awoke, I was here, and then you arrived.”
“I’ve got news for you,” Valeris smirked, “you didn’t save the kid.”
“Valeris!” Katarina snapped.
“What does he mean?” Michael asked, his brow furrowed.
Kat turned back, exasperation in her tone. “We are here searching for the boy. His name was Gaekhen.”
“Was?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Kat sighed. “He was killed by the mob. This has set in motion a dangerous situation with the Shoanti. The boy’s body was taken by a necromancer named Rolth and supposedly brought to this place, the Dead Warrens, which lies beneath the Gray District. We’re here to recover Gaekhen’s remains and return them to his people. Will you help us?”
Michael’s eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened. “Without hesitation,” he said grimly. “Just allow me to get my gear.”
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Two open passages led from the laboratory, but the shorter of the two ended abruptly at a door that was completely boarded over, as if to keep something out…or something in.
“Now isn’t this intriguing?” O’Reginald asked.
“That’s not the word I’d use,” Valeris snipped. “What’s the point in opening it? You think they decided to lock up a dead body? You ask me, there’s nothing behind there that we need to find.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Kat mused, tapping her chin with one finger. “This is, after all, a necromancer we’re dealing with. Perhaps he would keep something valuable, like the Shoanti’s remains, behind just such a barrier. Herc, would you mind?”
Valeris threw up his hands. “It’s your funeral.”
Herc nodded and stepped forward to begin prying the boards off one-by-one. As each came loose, it did so with a rasping squeak when its rusty nails pulled free. After several noisy minutes, the door stood exposed. Herc glanced over his shoulder to make sure his friends were prepared, and then shoved it open. Beyond was what appeared to be a store room, or perhaps a pantry, but it was in shambles. Broken crates and shelves lay strewn about, with the foodstuffs, firewood and other supplies they once contained scattered across the floor. As Herc peered into the gloom, a hulking shape stepped out of the shadows. The creature seemed to be comprised of a disgusting amalgamation of dead animal parts. The foul-smelling pieces had been stitched together with thick, black thread in a shape to approximate that of a man, yet it was certainly not human. Cobbled together from bits of a dozen carcasses from half as many different species, the staggering thing uttered a gurgling cry as it shambled forth to attack. Ratbone, hunched near Herc’s feet, snarled deeply and crouched, ready to spring. Abruptly, the sickening smell of the thing washed over them, and Ratbone felt his gorge begin to rise. Then, uncontrollably, the dog began retching violently. Behind him, Valeris doubled over as well, purging his stomach in explosive heaves. The creature kept coming. Herc stepped in front of his companions, his own stomach in mild revolt, but still controllable. The carrion golem growled and swung one arm at the warrior…an arm that looked very human, and was decorated with intricate tattoos. Herc reeled from the surprising strength behind the blow, but quickly recovered and shoved forward behind his shield. Suddenly, Michael was at his side, a strip of his tabard wrapped around his face, and the gleaming sword in his hand. Together, the priest and the warrior carved the horrible construct into its component parts with brutal efficiency.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” Valeris said as he gazed down at the remains, still wiping bile from his mouth with the back of his hand. “You mean the kid’s not even in one piece? So now we’re on a scavenger hunt for body parts!”
Michael grimly picked up the severed arm and wrapped it in his cloak.
“Let’s be on,” the cleric said tonelessly. “Someone has much to answer for.”
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They found Gaekhen’s head in a room not far from the alchemy lab. The nauseating mixture of decay and strange chemicals filled the air of the large chamber. Glinting saws, pliers, long stitching needles, and other surgical equipment were organized on shelves and benches along the walls. A sturdy wooden table in the center of the room supported a large, humanoid shape…a thing stitched together from a patchwork of dozens of different bodies. The thing would have stood nearly seven-feet tall if it were to rise. The head attached to the body was too small for the massive frame, and it was crowned with brown hair and bore a distinctive scar upon its left cheek. Once more, Michael stepped stoically forward, lifted his sword, and with one, swift strike, decapitated the inanimate golem.
It was now Michael who took the lead. It was almost as if he were driven to find and avenge Gaekhen, perhaps feeling somehow responsible for the boy’s death. Beyond the stitchery, the group came upon a spartan bedchamber, unoccupied, and seemingly, unused in quite some time. A short hallway gave on to a second bedchamber. It was well-kept and contained a narrow bed, a relatively empty shelf that held only a few books and some bones and skulls, and a long bench. A male torso, the chest of which bore numerous tattoos, and with the right arm still attached, lay on the bench. The arm periodically thrashed and clutched at the air as if it were alive. Hovering in mid-air in a far corner above the bed, was another derro, clad in black robes and holding a bone wand in one hand.
“I’m in charge here while the master’s away!” the little fiend hissed. “You don’t belong here! You weren’t invited, but the master will be pleased when I present your corpses to him!”
He grabbed at the front of his robe, plucking something from it and then hurling it to the ground. It looked like a patch of some sort, but when it touched the floor, it instantly transformed into an animate skeleton, a scimitar gripped in its hand. Herc and Ratbone rushed into the room, but as the dog/druid leaped for the derro, the evil mage hurled a blast of green energy at him. Ratbone felt his strength drain from him, and he stood heaving with his head near the floor, barely able to support his own weight. Herc, however, managed to hop onto the bed, where he could just reach the derro. His sword cut deeply, and the wizard cursed and scooted away, clambering across the ceiling like a spider.
“Behind you!” Michael shouted in warning as the skeleton prepared to split Herc’s skull with its own blade. As the big warrior turned, however, the bag of bones was smashed to bits as the priest struck it with a spike-headed morningstar he’d produced from his pack. Herc nodded and turned back towards the derro, who was now hovering over Ratbone, chuckling sadistically. He unleashed a gout of scorching fire upon the druid, followed by several fiery blue bolts of energy. Ratbone wavered, nearly out on his feet, but with a last hidden reserve, he gathered himself and jumped. His teeth clamped firmly around the derro’s ankle, and where they bit, a rime of gold-flecked ice formed. The derro screamed in agony as his entire body felt suddenly heavy and sluggish. The Companions had chosen their champion well, and Ratbone’s very touch could cause those of evil heart to quail before the power of his patrons. With that last burst of effort, however, the druid was spent. He collapsed to the floor, his chest lurching like a bellows. Michael quickly knelt beside him to lend what aid he could, while Herc and Valeris took advantage of the derro’s weakened state to quickly dispatch him.
Once Ratbone was stabilized, Michael stepped over to Gaekhen’s twitching torso and laid his hands gently upon the chest. As he did so, he murmured a quiet prayer, and white light glowed beneath his palms. Abruptly, all movement from the remains ceased.
“Rest now,” Michael whispered. “You’ll be home soon.”
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Deeper into the warrens, the companions came upon a small library. It was unoccupied, but there they found many books on necromancy and the nature of diseases and plagues. The former they ignored, but the latter, Michael claimed. He was not a healer by trade, but he knew that such tomes could always prove useful.
Further along, they found themselves in a foul-smelling cavern, bordered on three sides by ten-foot-deep pits. It was from these that the rancid smell of excrement and decay filled the air. Each pit contained a few heaps of moldy straw, a wooden trough of filthy water, a few rotting body parts, and a couple of still-living prisoners. Standing above the pits was a brutish looking creature, whose head was monstrously deformed and whose skin was thick and blubbery. When he saw the companions enter, he laughed out loud and cracked his knobby knuckles.
“Rolth give Cabbagehead big reward for your head, pretty lady!” he said, pointing at Kat. “You go in pit now! Cabbagehead feed you later! Maybe!”
With that, he lumbered forward, his ham-sized fists clenched to do battle, but before he made it halfway across the room, Herc and Valeris went to meet him. Flesh proved no match for cold steel, and it was Cabbagehead that ended up at the bottom of one of the pits in a broken heap. The prisoners below gaped up in silent horror, not knowing if their saviors had arrived, or their executioners.
“Let’s bring them up,” Ratbone said, having resumed his normal form. “Herc, Valeris, give me a hand.”
“You’re not actually thinking of bringing them with us, are you?” O’Reginald asked. “Haven’t we got enough to worry about without having to babysit a bunch of ragamuffins?”
Ratbone turned a cold glare on the young wizard, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy and threatening.
“You were once far worse than they, shiver-head,” he said, “and yet someone found you worthy of salvation. Now help, or leave.”
Wisely, O’Reginald kept any further opinions to himself.
The prisoners were malnourished and sickly-looking, and each told a similar tale of having been kidnapped from the streets of Old Korvosa by small, cloaked figures. One of them, a woman named Tiora, fell weeping at Michael’s feet.
“Father!” she wailed. “Forgive me! I’m a sinner, a thief and a pick-pocket. ‘Twas my sins that put me here, but I swear, I’ve learned my lesson! I’ll do right from now on!”
“Rise, child,” the priest said, resting a hand upon her head. “You have done nothing to deserve such a fate, but relish the second lease on life you have been given, and use your time well.”
“I will, Father,” she babbled, tears in her eyes. “I swear it! You’ll see!”
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The prisoners were escorted back to the surface, and sent on their way, but Gaekhen’s legs were still missing, and so the companions were compelled to return to the warrens. Retracing their steps, they stumbled upon one passage which they had apparently bypassed earlier. It ended in a natural cavern, the majority of which contained a nasty-looking stretch of mud…a partially collapsed sinkhole…kept damp by rivulets of water that seeped from the walls. A patch of solid ground extended into the mud to form and island, upon which was heaped a reeking pile of body parts. Against one wall, a rickety wheelbarrow sat on its side. Cautiously, Valeris, Herc and Ratbone stepped out onto the island. Suddenly, the mud exploded as a hideous monstrosity that seemed to be made up of a huge maw and tentacles, rose up from the morass. It was an otyugh, Korvosa’s ‘offal’ secret…its living waste-disposal system.
“Warm food!” it cried in a delighted, slobbery voice as it heaved itself out of the mud. One of its snake-like tentacles whipped out and seized Valeris around the waist. The duskblade screamed as it constricted around him, and drew him closer to the slavering jaws of the beast. Quickly, Herc and Ratbone leaped after their friend, hacking and biting at the otyugh as it flailed at them with its remaining tentacles. Gradually, however, the creature’s attacks became weaker and more sluggish, and it released Valeris as it heeled over into the bog, twitching. When they were sure it would not rise again, the companions turned to the grim task of examining the pile of body parts. As they feared they would, they discovered Gaekhen’s pelvis and legs buried within the refuse. Michael cleaned them as best he could, then wrapped them and placed them with his other burdens. Their mission complete, the K.I.A. left the Dead Warrens and made their way back to the Citadel.
________________________________________________________
“Well done again,” Field Marshal Kroft congratulated them upon their return, “and welcome, Michael. It seems your assistance to the team may have made the difference between success and failure. Perhaps you’ll consider staying on?”
“Perhaps, commander,” the priest bowed. “It would seem I have more in common with my rescuers than I first knew. It seems preordained that our paths should cross.”
Cressida nodded. “Well, on to new business,” she said with a heavy sigh. “While you were away, Trinia Sabor’s trial was concluded.”
“What??” Ratbone exclaimed. “How? So soon?”
Cressida did not meet his gaze. “She was found guilty. Queen Ileosa has announced that she is to be executed at sunset today, and has invited many of Korvosa’s nobles, military officers, and anyone of real import to the Castle’s public courtyard to witness the event. I want all of you to be there as well. Something about the whole affair doesn’t sit right with me, and the way things have been going lately, I’m worried that this might trigger another riot.”
“But this isn’t right!” Ratbone shouted. “I gave that girl my word that she would have a fair trial!”
“It’s out of my hands,” Cressida said, sadly. “The Queen is the final arbiter on these matters, and with the Magister dead, there is no one to gainsay her. It’s a cruel reality that you must accept.”
Ratbone growled deep in his throat, then turned and abruptly left the room.
“Don’t worry,” Katrina said. “We’ll be there tonight…all of us. If there’s to be trouble, we’ll be ready for it.”
“Thank you,” said Cressida. “My trust in you has proven well-founded. Speak with your friend. Help him to find some peace.”
“I’m afraid that’s easier said than done,” Kat replied. “He is a man of many passions, and his word is not given lightly. I’m afraid he might cause problems.”
“For his sake,” Cressida said tensely, “I hope not, but if he does, you need to stop him from doing anything rash…anything that might bring unwanted attention.”
_____________________________________________________
The execution, it seemed, was not an affair to be missed. The toast of Korvosa was in attendance in garish gowns, fine capes, and enough jewels to blind a common man. The overall feel of the event was that of a grand ball or party, not an assassin’s public execution. As the six members of the K.I.A. jostled for a position near the gallows, Queen Ileosa emerged amid a great flourish of pomp, as heralds announced her arrival with a fanfare of music and drums. This queen was not the subdued mourner they’d met earlier. She appeared to have accepted the mantle of sole monarch, and carried herself with poise, style, and grace. She wore a green and white silk dress worth thousands of gold coins, and was attended by a small army of servants. Chief among them was Sabina, her expression neutral, but her eyes ever watchful for possible problems in the crowd. Ileosa took her seat in a high, throne-like chair at one end of the public courtyard, while the headman’s block stood ominously at the other. The executioner was a towering, muscular man wearing an executioner’s helm, and idly holding an immense axe. As sunset drew near, the expectant excitement in the crowd built. When the ominous beating of a single, large drum began, the assembled gawkers fell silent. The drum set the pace for Trinia’s procession to the headsman’s block atop the gallows. As they reached the block, one of the guardsman removed Trinia’s shackles and her hood, revealing a very frightened woman who, nonetheless, bravely held back her tears, if only barely. She was led up onto the platform, her arms bound behind her back by a leather cord, and then she was forced over the wooden block before the headsman as Queen Ileosa stood and addressed the crowd.
“Fellow Korvosans! You have suffered greatly these past few weeks. Homes have burned, family members have died, fortunes have been lost. I feel your suffering, for not only have I lost a beloved husband, but with each riot, each burning home, each act of anarchy, my heart bleeds a little more. This has been a trying time for us, yet the torment is at an end. Before you is the face of your anguish and pain. Do not be deceived by this murderer’s timid nature…she is a black-hearted assassin, a seductress and sinner, a viper amidst us all. I offer you all her death as a salve against the hatred and hurt you have suffered. Her death will not rebuild Korvosa, nor will it bring back the king, yet tomorrow will be a new dawn…a dawn over a city ready to rise from the edge of anarchy to become stronger than ever before! And so, without further delay, let us usher in this new dawn with justice! OFF WITH HER HEAD!”
As the headsman hefted his axe, the already silent crowd froze in anticipation. Yet, just before he swung, the executioner gave a strange little grunt and staggered. His raised axe faltered as he reached with one hand to the small of his back, and then brought it to his face, the fingers dripping with blood. An instant later, he cried out in pain and dropped the axe as a dagger embedded itself in the back of his other hand. The axe sank itself in the block, inches from Trinia’s head, and the headsman doubled over in pain, revealing a second dagger already embedded in his lower back. Trinia rose to her knees and glanced up at the executioner in shock as a scream echoed through the crowded courtyard.
“By the gods! It’s Blackjack!”
An instant later, a man dressed in a hooded cloak and leather armor sprang onto the executioner’s block. He wielded a rapier in one hand and a dagger in the other. He cut the bonds on Trinia’s wrists and then threw the dagger down to pin the headsman’s left foot to the wood below. He quickly helped Trinia to her feet and then briefly turned to address the shocked crowd.
“Yes indeed, my queen! Let us usher in justice, but let that be justice for Korvosa, not this shambles you petulantly call a monarchy! Long live Korvosa! Down with the Queen!”
Blackjack’s words spread like fire, causing the crowd to erupt into a frenzy of activity. Some demanded that he release the assassin, while others called for the queen to step down from the Crimson Throne. Queen Ileosa stood stunned for a few moments, whispered something to Sabina, and then quickly turned to flee into Castle Korvosa, Sabina and a dozen guards behind her to cover her retreat. The remaining guards in the courtyard moved towards the gallows to apprehend Blackjack, but the gathered nobles, thirsty for blood, made it difficult to move. At the same time, the executioner, recovering from his initial shock and pain, lifted his axe once more over Blackjack, who seemed to have momentarily forgotten the man in his apparent delight at having forced the queen to flee.
Now, the legend of Blackjack was well known throughout Korvosa…an infamous, masked hero for the people. Tales of his moves against corrupt politicians, cruel nobles, and greedy merchants had been part of the city’s culture for two centuries, and although he hadn’t made an appearance in the last decade, his stories remained as popular as ever among the peasants. Because he had existed for such a long time, few believed him to be a single person. The most popular rumor surround him placed him a series of men, with one training a replacement each generation. All of this, the members of the K.I.A. knew as well, especially Ratbone, whose childhood in the slums of Korvosa had been filled with the exciting adventures of the masked man. Now, the legend stood before them, in the flesh, only it seemed as if his long story was about to be brought to an abrupt end. Seconds counted, and each member of the company searched their own conscience and soul in that span of time.
Valeris was the first to react. The duskblade cared nothing for children’s stories, but he certainly held no love for the monarchy or the establishment either. He found the chaos exciting, and he wanted to see it last a little longer. With a quick flicker of his fingers and a few spoken words, he conjured a disembodied hand directly behind the headsman. The hand seized the executioner by the ankle and pulled, sending the big man sprawling to the platform, his axe flying from his hands.
Katarina, as a practitioner of the Harrow, had known something momentous was going to occur this day, but she had feared the worst. Now, seeing Blackjack, she knew this was the moment fate had predicted, and she knew that it was time to act out her part. Calling upon Zellara’s spirit, she used the magic of the Harrow to create the illusion of a large, billowing cloud of smoke that quickly obscured the scene atop the gallows.
Michael’s thoughts on the subject were more complex. The priest, due to the harshness of his own upbringing, and his subsequent salvation by the Church, saw everything in terms of justice being served. The situation with Trinia was clearly out of his control, but one thing troubled him imminently…the fate of the headsman. The executioner was an innocent, to the priest’s way of thinking, simply a soldier doing his job. He did not deserve to die for that. Pushing his way through the crowd, the priest leaped atop the platform, and knelt beside the fallen man, white light from his hands staunching the blood from the headsman’s wounds. Michael’s gaze met that of Blackjack, and the vigilante simply nodded.
Ratbone had no compunction whatsoever about what was transpiring. In fact, had Blackjack not appeared, the druid was on the verge of charging the gallows himself. Now, he didn’t hesitate, shifting into his ape-like form and bounding up the gallows’ stairs. Once there, he seized the axe and held it well away from the headsman’s reach, preparing to defend the platform should the guards push through.
Herc was a mercenary, but he was not without loyalty. His friends had made their decisions, and he would support them. Stepping into the illusory smoke, he stood on the stairs, sword drawn and shield raised, ready for the coming storm.
Lost in the general hubbub was O’Reginald. The recovering addict had not lived to the ripe old age of 23 by not minding his own business, and from where he stood, the risks of aiding Trinia Sabor and Blackjack far outweighed the benefits (which were few, as far as he could see). As the chaos unfolded, the young wizard melted away into the crowd.
As for Blackjack, he took the opportunity given to him by the K.I.A., yelling for Trinia to lock her arms around his neck, and then quickly leaped from the scaffold to scale the courtyard wall. When he reached the top, he bowed deeply to his saviors, while Trinia lifted one hand in salute, and then both disappeared over the far side. In the courtyard itself, mayhem reigned. The guards had still not reached the gallows due to the press of the crowd, and the remaining members of the K.I.A. used the multiple distractions to blend into the mob. Later, when the tales of the day’s events were retold, only the actions of Blackjack were clearly recalled. If others were involved, it was only peripheral, and their identities were anonymous. For the moment, the company’s loyalties were not called into question, but a fundamental shift had occurred in Korvosa’s attitude. Change was coming.
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In the days following Blackjack’s daring rescue of the king’s accused assassin, the Korvosan Guard scoured the city for the fugitives, to no avail, and the enraged queen set a royal bounty of 5,000 gold coins for the recapture of Trinia Sabor. Wildly embellished news of the event spread quickly to every corner of the city, and left all to wonder why Korvosa’s long-absent hero chose that time to reappear, and why he had rescued a convicted killer. Even so, even the most fantastic news eventually becomes old, and thus life in the city returned to some semblance of normalcy in the following two weeks. And then, as so often happens, something else happened to draw the attention of the citizens to a new enigma. Just before midnight one evening, the peace was shattered by a wooden screech, followed by the thunder of a trebuchet being fired. Again and again the sounds echoed from the Wall of Eodred near North Bridge, waking nearly all of North Point. Across the river in Trail’s End, people woke just in time to see a sleek brig burn and swiftly sink into the wine-dark waters.
The following morning, gossip buzzed through the city, and fanciful tales ran wild. Every tavern and street corner was abuzz with rumors of pirate raiders and ghost ships. The Crimson Throne remained quiet on the matter, however, with even the loosest-tongued politicos seemingly knowing nothing of the previous night’s events. With so many far wilder and more interesting tales circulating, the facts of the matter quickly became lost among the frenzied speculations. Katarina, however, had more than mere conjecture on her side. She had the power of Zellara’s Harrow deck to direct her along more reliable avenues of information. She spent the following morning among the inhabitants of North Point, asking pointed questions, and listening intently to the tales she heard. By day’s end, she had learned several pieces of information that she felt held at least grains of truth. The mostly widely held speculation was that the Guard had fired upon, and destroyed a ship full of foolish pirates from Riddleport who had obviously hoped to sneak into the heart of the city under cover of night. Kat believed that there was indeed a ship involved, but she highly doubted the pirate theory. She heard from more reliable sources that indeed, a sinister-looking ship had refused inspection as it sailed into the river. When it neared North Bridge and still failed to make its intentions known, the watch had fired upon and destroyed it. Furthermore, according to these sources, none of the guardsmen who signaled of shouted out to the ship received a response. Some said that no one was on board at all.
For his part, Valeris was curious as to the night’s events as well, but mainly for selfish reasons. In the aftermath of Gaedren Lamm’s death, the duskblade had managed to gather to himself several of the “Little Lambs.” Though he treated them better, and actually paid them for the efforts, he ultimately still followed Lamm’s fundamental principle: to have a cadre of pickpockets and cutpurses at his disposal, and reap the profits of their endeavors. Of course, none of his companions were aware of his after-hours activities, and that was just how he liked it. To that end, when he got wind of the possibility of a shipwreck in the middle of the Jeggare, visions of gold flashed through his mind. Working his contacts among the Guard, he discovered only that an order was given to fire upon a yellow light upon the water. This little detail intrigued Valeris, and when he inquired about the significance of ships bearing yellow lights among the sailors in the dock district, he discovered that such a signal was a nautical warning identifying a ship under quarantine. Just like that, his dreams of pirate gold vanished in a puff of smoke.
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A few days later found Herc window shopping near the Citadel, in the market for a new shield. Suddenly, a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, and he tensed reflexively, his hand going to the pommel of his sword.
“At ease, soldier,” a familiar voice said.
Herc turned and found himself staring at the face of Grau, the Guardsman he and his friends had found wandering drunk during the initial riots after Eodred’s death.
“Sergeant,” Herc nodded. “Didn’t expect to see you wandering around here. Are you off-duty?”
“Not exactly,” Grau said. This isn’t a coincidental meeting. I…have a favor to ask. My niece is sick. I don’t know what she has and neither does anyone in Trail’s End. She’s broken out all over in red pocks and can barely keep down food, or even the swill that good-for-nothing herbalist gave her. Her mother’s talking about going to the Bank of Abadar, but her family can’t afford to pay the prices their clerics would demand. Then I remembered how you and your friends handled yourselves during the riots, and how you helped me out, and I figured you all could help. A bunch of resourceful folk like you, I’d bet if you don’t already have a way to fix this, you must know who can. Surely you can’t just sit by while a child suffers, can you?”
“I can’t speak for the others,” Herc said, “but I feel sure they’d be willing to help. I’ll gather them, and we’ll meet you in Trail’s end by sunset.”
“Thank you,” Grau said, a wet sheen in his eyes as he gripped Herc’s shoulder.
______________________________________________________
“Trail’s End?” O’Reginald asked. “The slum across the river?”
“Mind your tongue,” Katarina snapped. “Many of my people call that ‘slum’ home. It’s not their fault that the so-called civilized people of this city marginalize and stereotype them.”
“Does anyone else find it more than coincidence that Trail’s End is very near where that ship was sunk,” Valeris interrupted, “a plague ship, I might add, and now we hear of a child having fallen ill with some mysterious disease?”
“A mystery indeed,” Michael said, “and mysteries, by their nature, ask to be solved. In any event, we won’t know anything if we don’t at least have a look. Perhaps the books we found in the necromancer’s library will be of assistance.”
___________________________________________________
Trail’s End was indeed poor, and reputedly dangerous, a haven for Varisians sprinkled with a few Shoanti and socially disaffected Chelaxians. Yet, to the visitors, it felt more like a small town than any district within the city proper. To be sure, the criminal element was obvious and impossible to ignore in the faces of dozens of toughs and thugs who loitered on the streets, but they tended to target Chelaxians to the exclusion of all others, and with Katarina among them, the K.I.A. passed through unmolested. The home of Tayce Soldado, Grau’s sister, was a squat, two-story wooden building in desperate need of repair and gardening. Overall, the house felt like the home of a family too busy living to bother with tedious chores. Inside, it was remarkably clean and well-kept, filled with worn, well-used furniture and decorated with the crafts and scribblings of children. Two boys were playing quietly in the living room when Grau entered with the companions.
“My nephews,” he said by way of introduction, “Charlo and Rello. Good boys.”
Suddenly, a spasm of ragged coughing filled the house from above. Grau looked up with concern on his face, but then his eyes cut abruptly to the kitchen, where a dark-skinned young man dressed in robes was brewing some concoction that smelled of cinnamon and anise. Grau’s expression turned to one of obvious displeasure, and he turned and headed upstairs. A few moments later, the companions below heard a sternly whispered conversation, with Grau scolding Tayce for racking up a bill with an expensive and worthless healer when he had told her that he would handle things. Tayce defended her decision, restating the direness of her daughter Brienna’s condition. Ratbone glanced at the herbalist, and it was only then that he saw the holy symbol hanging around the man’s neck…a symbol of Abadar. Disgust etched on his face, he started up the stairs. After a moment, Katarina and Michael followed, leaving Valeris, Herc and O’Reginald in the living room.
The creaky steps opened up into a bedroom loft above the main room of the Soldado home. A young girl with auburn hair lay in one of the beds, her slight frame dwarfed by the bed’s size and the pile of pillows, afghans, and quilts surrounding her. Splotches of an angry red rash covered her face and arms, appearing in irregular shapes and sizes. Suddenly, her restlessness was interrupted by a violent fit of hacking coughs that jerked her entire frame, lifting her well off her pillows. The spasm passed after a moment, dropping her back to the bed, but seemingly having done little to ease her breathing. Tayce Soldado, standing over her daughter’s bed, possessed a simple beauty, scarcely hidden by her disheveled appearance and wan features. It was obvious she hadn’t slept in days. Despite her personal state, she greeted her guests sincerely.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said, and then her eyes fell upon Michael’s holy symbol. “Father!” she gasped in heartbreaking relief. “Please, can you help her?”
“I’ll do my best,” Michael replied gently. “Tell me, when did the child’s symptoms first appear?”
“Two days ago,” Tayce answered. “She was completely fine before then.”
“I see,” Michael nodded. “May I examine her?”
Tayce stepped aside, and beckoned him over. The priest sat down on the bed beside Brienna and bent close to her. The rash that covered her was vesicular in its appearance, concentrated mostly on her face, but rapidly spreading down her neck. Her glands were swollen into large, tender buboes, and when Michael pressed his ear to her chest, he could hear a deep, unhealthy rattle within. As he pulled away, he drew his books from his satchel and began to flip rapidly through them. Several minutes passed before he shook his head in frustration.
“I see no match for these symptoms,” he said. “This may very well be some entirely new affliction, or perhaps I’m just too ignorant to recognize it.”
“You don’t have to know its nature to cure it with magic, do you?” Ratbone asked.
“No,” Michael acknowledged, “but my healing skills are not foremost among my order. I can research the spell, but it will take time…time that I’m not sure she has.”
Ratbone turned to Tayce. “How much is the Abadaran asking for his services?”
“Fifty gold coins for the herbs,” she said, her eyes downcast, “but three times as much for a complete cure.”
“Bastard!” Ratbone hissed under his breath, then he reached inside his tunic and withdrew a heavy purse that clinked with the sound of gold on gold. “Take it,” he said to Tayce. “All of it.”
Tayce’s mouth worked, but no words could express the emotions she felt. As tears rolled down her face, she simply embraced the druid, burying her face in his shoulder.
Meanwhile, downstairs O’Reginald abruptly stood and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Valeris asked.
“To the river,” the wizard replied. “Just a hunch, but I’m going to collect some of the water…have it analyzed when we get back to the city.”
Valeris snickered. “Sounds like a goose-chase to me, but suit yourself. It’s not like there’s anything else to do around this armpit.”
When the duskblade turned back to Herc to see if the warrior agreed with his assessment, he saw that his companion had walked into the kitchen and was talking to the priest.
“I’m Herc,” the fighter said, extending his hand.
“Ishani Dhatri,” the cleric replied, reaching out his own hand in response.
“So what’s the story?” Herc asked. “What’s wrong with the girl?”
Ishani shook his head. “I don’t recognize the exact combination of her symptoms, but I fear that this might be a harbinger of a new disease.”
“Then why haven’t you cured her yet?” Herc asked pointedly.
Ishani sighed in frustration. “If I had been sent for earlier, perhaps I could, but I’m afraid that my duties at the Golden One’s Vault required me to entreat him for similar miracles already this day. Even if I could, though, the tenets of my church force me to request a donation for Abadar’s power…one that I suspect these simple folk could scarcely afford.”
“Here’s your blood money,” Ratbone said with a snarl as he, Tayce and the others entered the kitchen. “Now will you cure her?”
Ishani sighed again. “As I was just explaining to your friend, it will have to wait until tomorrow, but with the price met, I promise to do so at sunrise.”
“That’s a promise that you are staking your life upon, ‘priest.’” Ratbone said. “In the meantime, it is within my ability to slow the progress of the disease. I will stay here with the girl until your return.”
Ishani nodded. “Then I shall take my leave.” As he turned to go, however, he paused and turned back. “Please do not judge me too harshly. My faith is…difficult to understand by laymen. Some of my more charitable work sometimes requires the aid of those outside the church’s rigid hierarchies. Perhaps in the future you might be amenable to my contacting you.”
He then opened the door and left without another word.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
Any gaming going on this weekend, JollyDoc?
