talking about, old man?”
Pete rammed the rolled up newssheet into the Sword’s eye, causing a cry of pain. “The answer’s ‘Final Faith’ you moron,” he announced.
It wasn’t the deadliest of attacks but it served its purpose. Pete slipped by him while the Sword stumbled against the wall clutching his face.
Slowly, he and the others fought their way to the exit, Aldrededor providing covering fire with the crackstaff as they moved. Furniture, glassware and ornaments were shattered or sent flying from the blasts, and Aldrededor comforted Dolorosa as she watched the inside of her beloved tavern blown apart. Both knew there was no choice in the matter, however, as their first priority was to protect what was within the stables, to say nothing of their friends. But as they, the last to back out, emerged from the door of the Flagons , they noticed an unexpected quiet in the courtyard behind them.
Both ex-pirates turned slowly. Their friends were lined up before more Swords, weapons once more at their throats. Behind the line of prisoners two barred prison carriages stood waiting.
The regulars of the Flagons stared at them apologetically.
“Sheet,” Dolorosa said.
A slow crunching from the doorway of the tavern heralded the reappearance of Gregory Morg as he walked slowly out to them. He took the knives and crackstaff from their hands.
“What do you think this is?” he said. “ A game ?”
For the first time, Morg hefted his own weapon, a cruel looking battleaxe that had been slung on his back. He walked to the line of prisoners, considering each but then choosing one seemingly at random. He nodded to the Sword holding Fester Grimlock and, as he moved away, span with a roar and sliced the battleaxe up through Fester’s torso. The merchant was thrown off his feet, twisting in the air with the force of the impact, and when his already dead body landed with a thud, his innards were forcefully spewed from his body in a glistening, steaming heap.
Hetty gagged, while the rest of the regulars railed ineffectually against their captors.
“Bastardo,” Dolorosa said slowly.
“Any further resistance and I kill another of you,” Morg said, reslinging his weapon. The murder of Fester Grimlock had meant nothing to him.
Dolorosa studied the mercenary, and Aldrededor smiled as she spoke. His beloved had always possessed a keen tactical mind. “It is my guess that we are being taken as some kind offa insurance, yes?” she said, nodding at the wagons. “A deterrent against our Kali acting against Jakuba Freel. If that issa the case, I doubt he woulda be very pleased if he discovered you had keeled any of us, hmm? Or arra you going to prove me wrong?”
Morg’s eyes narrowed and he sighed.
“Put them in the wagons,” he said to his men. “I’m going to take a look at this mysterious locked stable of theirs.”
Again, Aldrededor and Dolorosa shot each other a glance, trying, and failing, to work out a way of stopping him. It was obvious that what they needed was some kind of diversion but what was not so obvious was who provided it.
Hetty Scrubb nodded at them, then mouthed for them to be ready to get the hells out of there. The ex-pirates’ eyebrows rose – neither had been aware that the perpetually high herbalist even knew they had something to protect.
Puzzled, they watched as Ronin, Red, Jurgen, Pete and finally Hetty were bundled into one of the wagons, its barred door slammed shut behind them. They shot a glance at Morg, who was fiddling with the rune lock on the stable door, and then were themselves ushered to a wagon. Whatever it was Hetty had in mind, they hoped she would do it quickly.
She did.
Just as Aldrededor and Dolorosa were about to be bundled into darkness, the rear of Hetty’s wagon began to pour smoke, a cloud so thick and cloying it immediately threw the Swords surrounding it into confusion.
“Fire!” one yelled, but Dolorosa knew better than that. This was Hetty’s special
Pete rammed the rolled up newssheet into the Sword’s eye, causing a cry of pain. “The answer’s ‘Final Faith’ you moron,” he announced.
It wasn’t the deadliest of attacks but it served its purpose. Pete slipped by him while the Sword stumbled against the wall clutching his face.
Slowly, he and the others fought their way to the exit, Aldrededor providing covering fire with the crackstaff as they moved. Furniture, glassware and ornaments were shattered or sent flying from the blasts, and Aldrededor comforted Dolorosa as she watched the inside of her beloved tavern blown apart. Both knew there was no choice in the matter, however, as their first priority was to protect what was within the stables, to say nothing of their friends. But as they, the last to back out, emerged from the door of the Flagons , they noticed an unexpected quiet in the courtyard behind them.
Both ex-pirates turned slowly. Their friends were lined up before more Swords, weapons once more at their throats. Behind the line of prisoners two barred prison carriages stood waiting.
The regulars of the Flagons stared at them apologetically.
“Sheet,” Dolorosa said.
A slow crunching from the doorway of the tavern heralded the reappearance of Gregory Morg as he walked slowly out to them. He took the knives and crackstaff from their hands.
“What do you think this is?” he said. “ A game ?”
For the first time, Morg hefted his own weapon, a cruel looking battleaxe that had been slung on his back. He walked to the line of prisoners, considering each but then choosing one seemingly at random. He nodded to the Sword holding Fester Grimlock and, as he moved away, span with a roar and sliced the battleaxe up through Fester’s torso. The merchant was thrown off his feet, twisting in the air with the force of the impact, and when his already dead body landed with a thud, his innards were forcefully spewed from his body in a glistening, steaming heap.
Hetty gagged, while the rest of the regulars railed ineffectually against their captors.
“Bastardo,” Dolorosa said slowly.
“Any further resistance and I kill another of you,” Morg said, reslinging his weapon. The murder of Fester Grimlock had meant nothing to him.
Dolorosa studied the mercenary, and Aldrededor smiled as she spoke. His beloved had always possessed a keen tactical mind. “It is my guess that we are being taken as some kind offa insurance, yes?” she said, nodding at the wagons. “A deterrent against our Kali acting against Jakuba Freel. If that issa the case, I doubt he woulda be very pleased if he discovered you had keeled any of us, hmm? Or arra you going to prove me wrong?”
Morg’s eyes narrowed and he sighed.
“Put them in the wagons,” he said to his men. “I’m going to take a look at this mysterious locked stable of theirs.”
Again, Aldrededor and Dolorosa shot each other a glance, trying, and failing, to work out a way of stopping him. It was obvious that what they needed was some kind of diversion but what was not so obvious was who provided it.
Hetty Scrubb nodded at them, then mouthed for them to be ready to get the hells out of there. The ex-pirates’ eyebrows rose – neither had been aware that the perpetually high herbalist even knew they had something to protect.
Puzzled, they watched as Ronin, Red, Jurgen, Pete and finally Hetty were bundled into one of the wagons, its barred door slammed shut behind them. They shot a glance at Morg, who was fiddling with the rune lock on the stable door, and then were themselves ushered to a wagon. Whatever it was Hetty had in mind, they hoped she would do it quickly.
She did.
Just as Aldrededor and Dolorosa were about to be bundled into darkness, the rear of Hetty’s wagon began to pour smoke, a cloud so thick and cloying it immediately threw the Swords surrounding it into confusion.
“Fire!” one yelled, but Dolorosa knew better than that. This was Hetty’s special
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