it seemed he was looking forward to molding a few Final Faith faces rather than metal for a change.
Unfortunately, neither he nor the others were prepared for the type of attack that was to come. The ground floor of the Flagons was thrown into chaos as three of the whorled glass windows were smashed in a series of determined blows from sword hilts, and through them came three canisters that spewed a green fog across the bar area.
“Swamp gas!” Dolorosa hissed, and began to cough uncontrollably. As did the others. A few seconds later they were all on their knees, weapons dropped. The gas began to dissipate and, as it did, the door to the tavern was kicked open. Swords of Dawn flooded the room, each placing a weapon at the throats of those who were incapacitated.
But other than stand guard, they made no further move.
They were waiting for something.
And that something was the creaking of the tavern’s stairs as they signalled the arrival of a figure descending them. Their uninvited guest, it seemed, knew how to make an entrance.
“My name,” he said, “is Gregory Morg.”
Dolorosa squinted at him through stinging eyes, a man dressed in robes and armour that identified him as neither Swords of Dawn or Faith, but somewhere in between. He was likely one of those damned mercenaries Jakub Freel had conscripted. “This tavern is now commandeered, and you are in the custody of the Final Faith.”
From their prone positions on the floor, Dolorosa and Aldrededor cast worried glances at each other, knowing full well what this was about. The bastards were finally coming after those near and dear to Kali, presumably in an attempt to flush her out. It wasn’t for themselves they looked worried, however, but for the innocents in the bar – Peter, Hetty and the rest – whose only connection to Kali was to provide her with a cheery welcome home after one of her adventures. They didn’t deserve to be treated this way.
“The old man and woman, these others,” Aldrededor pointed out, “know nothing. Let them go.”
Morg smiled coldly and stepped off the stairs so that he towered over the Sarcrean.
“If I let one old man go, then I would have to let another go, too,” he said, clearly referring to Aldrededor. He sneered. “Along with his ancient crone of a wife.”
Dolorosa spat on his feet.
“Calm, my darling,” Aldrededor soothed. He stared up at their captor, touching the sword held at his throat. “Do you intend to execute us, is that it? Send a message to Kali Hooper?”
“Then you do not deny your association with the outlaw?”
“Would there be much point?”
“Not really.”
Two other Swords of Dawn entered the tavern. “The perimeter of the property is secure, sir. No sign of further insurgents.”
“You have checked all of the outbuildings?”
“All apart from the stables, sir. They seem to be locked.”
“Then unlock them, man!”
“We tried, sir, but the lock is strange. Inscribed with patterns.”
Morg’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed Aldrededor’s chin and forced it up. “Runes. What do you keep in the stables?”
“What do you normally keep in stables, Gregory Morg?”
“Behind a rune-inscribed lock?”
Aldrededor grinned widely. “We stable some rare breeds.”
“The bamfcat. If it’s here, the girl may be close by. Shatter that lock and slay anything within.”
“Horse isn’t here,” Aldrededor said. “Neither is Kali Hooper.”
“We shall see. As for our captives,” Morg said, “bring the wagons.”
“Wagons?” Aldrededor repeated.
Morg smiled. “You’ll all be taking a little trip. Relocated, as it were.”
“Interesting,” Aldrededor commented. “I hope somewhere sunny.”
“My ’usband,” Dolorosa whispered urgently in his ear, “we cannot allow ourselves to be taken, and we cannot allow them into the stables.”
“I know this, my lovepeach,” Aldrededor responded through still grinning teeth. “Be patient.”
Dolorosa looked about
Unfortunately, neither he nor the others were prepared for the type of attack that was to come. The ground floor of the Flagons was thrown into chaos as three of the whorled glass windows were smashed in a series of determined blows from sword hilts, and through them came three canisters that spewed a green fog across the bar area.
“Swamp gas!” Dolorosa hissed, and began to cough uncontrollably. As did the others. A few seconds later they were all on their knees, weapons dropped. The gas began to dissipate and, as it did, the door to the tavern was kicked open. Swords of Dawn flooded the room, each placing a weapon at the throats of those who were incapacitated.
But other than stand guard, they made no further move.
They were waiting for something.
And that something was the creaking of the tavern’s stairs as they signalled the arrival of a figure descending them. Their uninvited guest, it seemed, knew how to make an entrance.
“My name,” he said, “is Gregory Morg.”
Dolorosa squinted at him through stinging eyes, a man dressed in robes and armour that identified him as neither Swords of Dawn or Faith, but somewhere in between. He was likely one of those damned mercenaries Jakub Freel had conscripted. “This tavern is now commandeered, and you are in the custody of the Final Faith.”
From their prone positions on the floor, Dolorosa and Aldrededor cast worried glances at each other, knowing full well what this was about. The bastards were finally coming after those near and dear to Kali, presumably in an attempt to flush her out. It wasn’t for themselves they looked worried, however, but for the innocents in the bar – Peter, Hetty and the rest – whose only connection to Kali was to provide her with a cheery welcome home after one of her adventures. They didn’t deserve to be treated this way.
“The old man and woman, these others,” Aldrededor pointed out, “know nothing. Let them go.”
Morg smiled coldly and stepped off the stairs so that he towered over the Sarcrean.
“If I let one old man go, then I would have to let another go, too,” he said, clearly referring to Aldrededor. He sneered. “Along with his ancient crone of a wife.”
Dolorosa spat on his feet.
“Calm, my darling,” Aldrededor soothed. He stared up at their captor, touching the sword held at his throat. “Do you intend to execute us, is that it? Send a message to Kali Hooper?”
“Then you do not deny your association with the outlaw?”
“Would there be much point?”
“Not really.”
Two other Swords of Dawn entered the tavern. “The perimeter of the property is secure, sir. No sign of further insurgents.”
“You have checked all of the outbuildings?”
“All apart from the stables, sir. They seem to be locked.”
“Then unlock them, man!”
“We tried, sir, but the lock is strange. Inscribed with patterns.”
Morg’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed Aldrededor’s chin and forced it up. “Runes. What do you keep in the stables?”
“What do you normally keep in stables, Gregory Morg?”
“Behind a rune-inscribed lock?”
Aldrededor grinned widely. “We stable some rare breeds.”
“The bamfcat. If it’s here, the girl may be close by. Shatter that lock and slay anything within.”
“Horse isn’t here,” Aldrededor said. “Neither is Kali Hooper.”
“We shall see. As for our captives,” Morg said, “bring the wagons.”
“Wagons?” Aldrededor repeated.
Morg smiled. “You’ll all be taking a little trip. Relocated, as it were.”
“Interesting,” Aldrededor commented. “I hope somewhere sunny.”
“My ’usband,” Dolorosa whispered urgently in his ear, “we cannot allow ourselves to be taken, and we cannot allow them into the stables.”
“I know this, my lovepeach,” Aldrededor responded through still grinning teeth. “Be patient.”
Dolorosa looked about
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