Rem’s first reaction was not one of fear, or even shock, but a strange sort of impatience at the sudden intrusion. Sheba screamed and leapt toward the inner wall of the shop. Torval, meanwhile, fell back a few steps and blinked in disbelief.
But there was no arguing the fact. There stood the big, hulking shape, the same albino orc that had eyed them after their deadly exchange in the street that morning and that had been haunting them just an hour or so later, right on Torval’s doorstep. This time, the beast didn’t seem inclined to simply tuck tail and run. Its red eyes flashed, it roared savagely, then it strode into the room, making tracks toward its nearest target: Torval.
Rem heard himself call out in fear, a warning, as though Torval did not see the beast, or was not equal to meeting it. But a moment later, Rem realized just how wrong he was. Torval raised his maul, gritted his teeth like a bear in a fighting pit, and beckoned the orc nearer with an open hand.
“Come on, you knuckle-dragging son of a whore!” Torval shouted. “Have at it!”
Then the dwarf stepped forward to meet the beast, even though it was twice his size and apparently quite upset with him.
Rem—suddenly realizing that Sheba had retreated right into his arms—tried to call out to his partner and warn him. “Get out of there!” he cried dumbly, even though he could see clearly that there was nowhere for Torval to go, and that Torval himself was already determined to take the fight to the enemy.
Then Torval charged, closing the space between him and the enraged orc. Rem saw the dwarf plunge headlong into the orc’s midsection, trying to use his head as a battering ram, the same way he had with the Creeper’s bouncers. His head impacted with the orc’s abdominals, and the monster bent double, but it seemed more annoyed than injured or winded. Before it could lay hands on him, Torval landed two hard strikes with his maul, one to each of the orc’s legs. Roaring, the beast snatched up Torval in both hands, lifted him as high as it could in the cramped, low-ceilinged little back room, and tossed the dwarf into one of the chamber’s walls. Torval hit the wall—and the shelves it supported, and the bric-a-brac littering the shelves—then thumped to the floor in a mess of broken jars and bottles, old dried herbs, and magical implements.
Rem saw a chance to get Sheba to safety, since the orc—for that single instant—was occupied with Torval. He shoved the conjuress toward the door to the front room and urged her to make a run for it. A moment later, the orc closed in on Torval, shoving aside the butcher’s block that supported the silver bowl full of water that Sheba had used for her reading. The monolith of wood hit the wall just inches from Rem with a thunderous crash and fell to pieces. Rem snatched up one of the broken legs of the butcher’s block to use as a bludgeon and charged the orc.
He got in three good whacks with the broken table leg, but none of them seemed to slow the creature down. As Rem drew back for a fourth whack, the orc turned toward him and shoved him roughly aside. The gesture was one of complete, annoyed dismissal, but it carried with it enough force to send Rem tumbling across the little room, where he slammed into the opposite wall and fell into a heap on the floor.
Rem lay there dazed, trying to blink away the fireflies that filled his vision and get back on his feet. As his vision started to clear, he saw Torval scampering away from the orc’s great, snatching hands, scurrying toward the broken butcher’s block near where Rem lay. As the orc pivoted to give chase, Torval snatched something out of the wreckage of the butcher’s block: the meat cleaver that Rem had noted earlier, probably used by Sheba to take heads off chickens for spell offerings and the like. Before the orc was even turned full around, Torval had laid into the beast with the cleaver, hacking and slashing with the square little blade as he might with a hand ax.
And if Rem wasn’t mistaken, Torval seemed to be reveling in every minute of it. The dwarf, though clearly gripped by bloodlust and fit for war, was laughing and taunting the orc with every strike and every swipe. His blue eyes were alight with an unholy fire and his gritted teeth seemed one moment a grimace, one moment a grin.
“Come on, you bumbling blackguard, you!” he growled. “You milky monkey! You mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging piece of sun-bleached cack! Come on!”
He had drawn blood. Rem could clearly see a number of deep lacerations now on the orc’s right flank, shoulder, and arm, all made by Torval with Sheba’s meat cleaver. The orc, for its part, roared and spat in answer, and reached out with its long arms and grasping claws to try to block each new strike of the blade, but it was clearly starting to shrink from Torval’s onslaught, starting to feel the sting of those cleaver strikes and know fear for its own life.
“Rem!”
Rem turned. Sheba stood at the door to the front room. She had a broom in her hand and she threw it toward Rem. Instinctively, he caught the broom, but only stared at it.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.
“Use it!” Sheba snapped. “It’s all I’ve got!”
Well, it was long and hard, wasn’t it? In the absence of a spear or a stave, it would have to do. So, Rem leapt to his feet, vision clear at last, and charged the orc from behind. He shoved the broom’s straw-tipped end toward the orc’s legs and tried to sweep them out from under the beast, to get it on its back. It was no good—the broom gave him no leverage and the orc was well planted. It only turned toward him and roared, spewing spittle and foul breath into Rem’s face. He tried a new tack and swept the business end of the broom up into the orc’s bone-white face. It shrank a little from the dried tips of the reeds bundled there. That gave Torval a moment to charge again and hack into the orc’s left flank with his meat cleaver.
Double-teamed and crowded, the orc bellowed and snarled, then summarily swept them both aside. It slammed its left fist into Torval’s face and sent him sprawling, then reached for Rem. Rem shoved the broom handle forward, trying to block the orc’s grip. The beast plucked the broom right out of his fingers and tossed it aside. For a moment, it seemed to be reaching for Rem as well—then a dim sort of realization flashed in its little ruby eyes, and the orc seemed to decide otherwise. Without another attempt at grappling, the beast shoved Rem back into the wall and went running for the door to the front of the shop. As it disappeared through the doorway, Rem heard Sheba scream.
Rem hurried to Torval. The dwarf was rolling right back up onto his feet again, completely unfazed by the orc’s having swept him aside. His broad little face was ruddy and flushed, and he had murder in his eyes. Orc blood covered his face and arms and the edge of his makeshift blade, and Rem thought for that moment that he had never seen Torval look so fearsome and intent.
“You okay, partner?” Rem asked.
Torval shoved him aside with a strength almost equal to the orc’s. “Out of my way!” Torval shouted, then regained his feet and went tearing out of the room on the orc’s trail.
Rem, drawing a deep, exasperated breath, followed.
Just as Rem reached the doorway, he heard an enormous crash. The orc had skipped Sheba’s front door and thrown itself right through her shop window into the street. Torval followed without hesitation, scratching himself on the jagged, toothlike shards of glass that remained around the frame of the window and not caring. As the orc rolled to a stop in the mud outside, Torval charged toward it and raised the cleaver with both hands, ready to bring it down on the orc’s head for a killing blow.
But then the orc was up on its feet again. In one smooth movement it snatched up the charging Torval, spun around to gain some momentum, then hammer-threw the dwarf toward a shop window on the far side of the street. Torval cursed all the way, even when the window shattered and he went sprawling into a mess of broken glass and shop-window junk on display.
Rem needed a weapon. Seeing the wealth of broken glass, he knew that was his only option. Hastily, he tore a long swath of fabric from the edge of his tunic, snatched up a long, jagged shard of glass, then wound the fabric around one end of the shard to give him some protection from its edges. He leapt through Sheba’s window into the street and charged the orc, shoving the glass shard deep into its lower back. The orc shrieked as the glass bit through its white flesh and penetrated its body. Before Rem could retreat or get clear, the orc swept around and backhanded him with an outstretched fist. Rem fell into the mud.
The orc towered over him, a milk-white beast draped in old rags, slashed and torn from head to foot but still murderous and malign. It had Rem, dead to rights. All it needed to do now was reach down and crush his head between its two great, shovel-like hands or simply stomp his skull flat beneath one square, heavy foot. Rem braced himself for what came next, assuming there would be no time to scurry to safety or concoct another plan of attack.
Then the orc howled and fell to one knee. Unsure of what was happening or why, Rem scampered backward in the mud, eager to be out of the brute’s grasp. From his new position, he saw that Torval had beset their attacker, hacking right through the orc’s heel tendon with Sheba’s meat cleaver. That crippling blow had brought the beast literally to its knees.
The orc, unable to stand again, tried to pivot on its single good leg while still balancing on its knee. It failed miserably, toppled sideward into the mud, then flopped and rolled in a vain attempt to reach its little adversary and end him. Torval kept his distance, circling just out of reach of the now-crippled orc. As Rem struggled to his feet and wiped what mud he could from himself, he thought he heard something strange in the orc’s huffs and grunts—evidence of worry, panic, fear. Circling opposite his partner, struggling to get a good look at the hobbled orc in the dim lamplight of Mage’s Alley at midnight, Rem thought he even saw true worry and mounting fright on the orc’s flat, pale face.
It still fought, still wished ill upon its adversaries … but it was also scared.
Torval seemed to relish the beast’s mounting panic. He made a sound in his throat—halfway between a laugh and a barbaric grunt—and kept circling, brandishing the meat cleaver whenever the orc’s haphazard attempts to grab him threatened success.
Sheba was at Rem’s elbow now. He looked to her, asked after her safety with a silent look that she clearly understood. She held up her arms and stood, as if for inspection—All safe, Watchwarden. Many thanks.
Then Rem realized they were no longer alone.
The locals had been rousted out of their beds. They drifted into the muddy street carrying little lamps or stubs of candle. They were all mages, Rem assumed, though to look at them, one would not mark them so without seeing them here, in their natural habitat. Most seemed pitifully ordinary—middle-aged men and women, some thin, some fat, some just comfortably expanded by time and success. There were a few that were very old and a half dozen or so that seemed very young. Among them were pale-skinned people of the west, as well as foreigners from Shimzaris or Magrabar, to the south—easily distinguished by their olive or copper skin, their almond eyes, their finely oiled or thickly braided hair, and their elegant silk night robes in a rainbow of vivid colors. All of these sleeping mages had heard the commotion, drifted out into the street to see what sort of chaos unfolded below their windows, on their very doorsteps.
They did not seem happy to have found Rem and Torval and their orcish sparring partner among them.
Torval saw them, too. As the dwarf studied the slow-gathering crowd, the orc saw a fleeting chance to put him on his back. It lunged for him.
To Rem’s surprise, Torval knew what was coming. As the orc reached for him, the dwarf brought Sheba’s meat cleaver down in a swift, hard arc and lopped off half the brute’s grasping hand. The cut went through right below its knuckles. In an instant, all four of its pale, thick fingers were limp on the mud and the orc drew its newly shortened hand—just a palm and a thumb now—close to its big, muscled body. It made a sound like a terrified infant, and Rem felt something like pity for the beast.
“I think we’re done here,” Sheba said, having retreated toward the shattered window of her shop.
“Like hell,” Torval snapped in answer. “I want another reading! We can pay for it. We’re on the right track now!”
“No, no, and no,” Sheba said. “We’re done, and that’s all there is to it. I don’t think you need to come back here for a long, long time, Torval.”
“What are you talking about, you blithering hedge witch?” Torval asked, moving nearer to her. “We just saved your life.”
The orc moaned, as if in agreement.
“I suppose you could see it that way,” Sheba countered. “I prefer to see it this way, though: that orc never would have come here and torn my shop to pieces if you hadn’t led it here. It clearly wasn’t after me. It was after you.”
Torval quaked with rage. “Why, you ungrateful little—”
Sheba held out her hands. “My cleaver?” she asked.
Torval looked to the cleaver in his hands and seemed almost surprised to find it there. He handed it back to her with a frown and a harrumph.
Sheba kept one hand outstretched. “Coin?” she asked.
“Coin?” Torval grumbled. “What for?”
Sheba suggested the shattered front window. “A new window, for starters. Then to replace everything I lost in the shop.”
Torval shook his head. “You’ve got to be—”
“Joking?” Sheba asked. “I don’t think so. And if you try to walk away and stiff me, I have a street full of witnesses. Not only can we raise holy hell with the magistrate, we can also see to our own justice. This is a street of mages, after all. You don’t want to be on the ill side of a mage and her neighbors, do you, Torval?”
Torval made an animal sound in his throat, a purring snarl that Rem took as both a curse and a capitulation. Rem struggled to his feet and reached into his pocket. He drew out his little sack of coin and threw it to Sheba.
“There,” Rem said. “We’re square.”
Sheba nodded. “Now,” she said, “get out of here. Before one of us turns the pair of you into toads.”
Rem started to retort, then noted all the unhappy, unfriendly faces around them and thought better of it. He took Torval by the shoulder and urged him on.
“I think we should go,” Rem said.
Torval’s shoulders slumped. “Bloody mages,” he grumbled.
They lingered just long enough to pay a pair of the gawking mages for some good, stout hemp rope and a sledge. Once the pale, now-crippled orc was tied and secured, they rolled him up onto the sledge and each curled a lead line over their shoulder. Thus, when Rem and Torval left Mage’s Alley, they left hauling sixteen stone of still-sniveling orc flesh behind them, cutting a track with their laden sledge through the muddy streets of the Fifth Ward toward the city’s North Gate and Orctown beyond.
Rem had no idea what hour of the night it was when they finally reached the palace of Gorn Bonebreaker, the orcish ethnarch. Their visit began much like their last, with Torval using his badge of office to gain entry, a brief wait in the low, dark vestibule, and finally, an audience at the behest of that familiar, hunch-backed little orc with the shifty look about him. Rem was amazed that the orcish ethnarch always seemed so willing to entertain guests at such late and random hours, but Torval assured him it was not so unusual. Orcs didn’t sleep the night through like humans, nor even during the day, like true nocturnal creatures (or watchwardens on the night shift, for that matter). Instead, they were in the habit of a morning-to-midnight sleep/wake cycle that usually consisted of several hours of wakefulness followed by a shorter period of sleep, on and off through the day and night.
Clearly, Torval knew his old enemies well. Unfortunately, it seemed to Rem that such familiarity had only added to Torval’s already considerable contempt for the creatures.
Throughout their journey and their waiting in Gorn’s vestibule, Rem stole glances at their orcish charge, curious that it now seemed cowed and strangely docile. A few times, it seemed to have actually fallen asleep, since it snored raggedly and seemed completely at ease. At other times, the brute just lay there, looking all around it, its red eyes betraying a strange, primitive fear and lack of understanding that struck Rem as odd compared with the malign intelligence and crafty ill intent that he’d seen in the eyes of that orc he’d tried to arrest in the Pickled Albatross. On two or three occasions in their journey, Rem even suspected that their prisoner was crying, for its body shook with the ragged tremors of an inconsolable toddler, accompanied by a miserable, high-pitched whimpering that keened out of it for several minutes at a time. By the time they were ushered into Gorn’s presence, still dragging the heavy sledge with the tied-up orc upon it, Rem was starting to suspect that maybe, just maybe, their prisoner wasn’t really evil or malevolent at all, but simple and childlike, susceptible to easy manipulation.
He broached none of this to Torval, however. Rem knew, instinctively, that his partner’s deep-set hatred for the whole orcish race was thoroughly rooted in the attack on his family, and that the same bitter enmity would prevent Torval from finding understanding or mercy within his heart for their prisoner. The dwarf’s hatred ran too deep for that.
Once more, they found Gorn squeezed into his too-small throne, this time in the midst of a midnight meal. In one large hand was gripped a great aurochs horn, spilling something frothy—mead or ale, Rem could not tell—without regard for the mess it made around the throne. In the other hand, the Bonebreaker held a joint of meat—Rem guessed it was a goat haunch, or maybe mutton—which he tore at with relish as Rem and Torval dragged their prisoner into his presence. Only when they had proceeded to the place where they would address him from did Gorn finally deign to toss his victuals and drink onto a nearby sideboard, wipe his hands on his rough-spun tunic, and address them.
“Twice in one week,” the Bonebreaker said. “Tongues will wag, my diminutive comrade.”
“I’m no comrade of yours,” Torval answered.
“No,” Gorn said, his thick lips curling at their corners. “Of course not. But you are a mess. Why all the mud and blood, master dwarf? Mating again?”
Torval looked like he could have cleared the space between where he stood and Gorn’s throne in a single bound if he’d so desired. The hate in his eyes practically lit up the dim, torchlit room, and the whole of his muscular little body shook with rage. Rem thought he might have to subdue him, but then realized that, even if he thought it necessary, he could not. Torval would tear right through him. Instead, he decided to interrupt.
“Gorn Bonebreaker,” Rem said, perhaps too loudly and officiously, “we come before you with one who’s broken the law, and wants punishment.”
Gorn seemed puzzled by Rem’s addressing him. For a moment, he stared at Rem, studying him, head to toe.
“Obsequies,” Gorn said.
Rem struggled to remember the words Torval had offered the last time they’d visited the ethnarch’s shabby little court. “Hail, Gorn, called Bonebreaker, Bane of the Minefolk, Scourge of Men, and chosen Harbinger of his People’s Destiny. I present to thee this prisoner, for his use, his mercy, or his wrath, however the majestic Bonebreaker sees fit to use him.”
Gorn, seemingly satisfied, rose off his throne—having to strain a little to extract his narrow hips from its narrower breadth—then took two steps down from the dais on which he sat. He was trying to get a better look at the tied-up prisoner. When Rem realized that Gorn was studying their perp, he stepped aside and silently urged Torval to do the same. Thankfully, the dwarf obliged.
The albino orc on the sledge—slashed head to toe and stained with purple-red streamers of dried, crusted blood, which stood out savagely on his milk-white flesh—craned his neck around uncomfortably to get a look at Gorn. The Bonebreaker circled the sledge and the bound bundle of flesh and bone borne upon it. Finally, he gave a sharp command in his own tongue. The two nearest bodyguards hulked forward. Rem watched as they lifted the bound prisoner upright, then slashed at his bonds with their belt knives to set the albino orc free. Opposite Rem, Torval tensed, ready for the bound orc to go beastly when freed, but thankfully, that didn’t happen. Instead, the orc simply sagged there on the sledge, on its knees, shamed and ruined before its fellows, loath to meet their contemptuous gazes.
Gorn barked a few more orcish words at the trembling prisoner. The pale orc heard the words, but did not seem to understand them. As Gorn barked the same phrases and a few new ones in rapid succession, the albino orc only opened its mouth dumbly to speak, found no words, then settled for shaking its head and lowering its eyes. Finally, Gorn Bonebreaker strode forward, gripped the unbound orc’s wide, square chin in one great hand, and forced it to look at him, face-to-face, eye to eye. After a long, pregnant silence passed between them, Gorn finally stepped away.
“This is an imbecile,” Gorn said. If Rem were not mistaken, he detected a note of sadness in the orc’s deep, rumbling voice.
“How’s that?” Torval asked.
“Look at him,” Gorn said. “Look in his eyes. No fire of lust or desire or understanding burns there.”
Torval stood behind their prisoner, and could not look into its face, but Rem could. And he felt vindicated when Gorn Bonebreaker confirmed the very suspicion that Rem had started to harbor. Their prisoner was a simpleton—probably no more cunning or malign than a child. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could convince him to aid them in their investigation?
“My people did not raise this,” Gorn said.
“What does that mean?” Rem asked.
“It means,” Torval broke in, “that if an orc maid living in the wild gave birth to a pale, simple beast such as this, she probably would have taken it to a high, cold place and left it for the wolves.”
“Look at his body,” Gorn said, sneering. “He’s large by your standards, manling, but he’s scrawny by ours. And look at his frame—one shoulder almost a hump, one arm shorter than the other …”
Rem stared. He had never truly noticed those qualities before now, but he saw them clearly under Gorn’s guidance. It was true: the albino orc was big and frightening by human standards, but next to Gorn and his bodyguards, he looked like a twisty, stunted runt—a leafless tree bent by a lifetime on a wind-racked hill.
And then there were those eyes—so empty, so frightened now that they were not filled with murderous rage.
Gorn approached the prisoner again. “Have you a name?”
The prisoner said nothing.
Gorn pressed, snarling. “Your name, milksop! You are commanded by Gorn, the Bonebreaker! Make yourself known or I shall crush your skull where you kneel!”
The orc was shy. Rem saw it clearly. The poor creature understood Gorn’s words, more or less—but he was too frightened to answer. All at once, Rem felt a deep, sharp pang of pity for the creature.
Gorn lunged, roaring in the prisoner’s face. “Your name!”
“Lock. Dumb.”
Rem threw a puzzled glance at Torval. Torval was just as amazed.
“What was that?” Gorn pressed.
“Lock dumb,” the prisoner whimpered.
“Lugdum,” Gorn said.
Lugdum, Rem mouthed silently. All this while, our tracker and nemesis had a name …
“And who is your master, Lugdum Milksop?” Gorn asked.
Lugdum shook his head.
Gorn roared and drove one enormous fist into Lugdum’s skull. The prisoner hit the floor with stunning force and cried out, a pitiful sound that actually brought all of Rem’s gathering pity to the surface.
“What is your master’s name, you fool?” Gorn shouted, towering over the fallen prisoner. “Tell me now, or so help me, I’ll have you skinned and deboned, one morsel at a time, from the feet up!”
Lugdum shook his head again, vehemently this time. He even tried to speak, but only a hoarse, voiceless groan came forth from his throat, as if he wanted to tell his captors—his torturers—something of importance but that he had neither the voice nor the words to truly communicate. Rem saw the pale orc’s eyes began to water. Within moments, tears cut tracks down his blood-encrusted white cheeks, and Rem felt a sickening stir in his gut—the gathering realization that this creature, however dangerous he had been when he was set upon them, was now both helpless and deeply frightened.
“Dumb,” Gorn Bonebreaker pronounced, looking to Rem, then Torval. “Dumb, imbecilic, stunted, weak, and childish. This is no orc, but an abomination.”
“I don’t understand,” Rem said. “How has he survived this long? Why is he so intent upon us?”
“Isn’t it clear?” Torval offered. “Someone who wasn’t an orc came upon him when he was a foundling. They kept him and raised him and made a servant of him—a loyal one, too—but all the while, he was the perfect cat’s-paw, because, even if caught, he couldn’t squeal on them.”
“This is most distasteful,” Gorn grumbled, moving away from the increasingly troubled Lugdum and urging Rem and Torval to follow. They did as the orcish ethnarch bade, and all gathered some distance from where Lugdum knelt on the sledge. “I cannot bear this pitiful creature’s grief any longer.”
“Is there nothing we can learn from him?” Rem asked.
Torval shook his head. “Nothing. You see. He’s dumb. No doubt, he and his master have some means of communicating—hand signs or something—but clearly it’s something only they know, and only they can make sense of.”
“But with time,” Rem began.
“You should go,” Gorn said with finality.
“Go,” Rem repeated.
“This beast is mine to deal with. Let me deal with him.”
“Deal with him, how?” Rem asked. “The two of you have already said—”
“There’s no place for him here,” Torval said. It wasn’t a question.
“Here, nor anywhere,” Gorn Bonebreaker sighed. “Rest assured, his end will come quickly and without suffering.”
Rem stared at the orcish ethnarch, then swung his gaze to Torval. Was he really hearing what he thought he was hearing? “So that’s it?” he asked. “Once we’re gone, you’ll just murder him? In cold blood?”
“’Twould be a mercy, Watchwarden,” Gorn Bonebreaker said. “He has no one. He belongs nowhere. He is weak, crippled, set apart—”
“He’s like a child!” Rem protested. “He barely understands what’s happening to him!”
“Need I remind you,” Torval said, “that it’s been following us? That it just tried to kill us both?”
“Under orders, Torval!” Rem snapped. “Hasn’t our little attempt at an interrogation proven that? He’s as feeble and trusting as a babe. No doubt, his master gave him commands and he followed them, because that master is the only family this creature’s ever known! We don’t just put people down like crippled horses because they’re different, or less than useful—”
“You do not,” Gorn said gravely. “But that is our way. An orc who cannot fend for himself or herself once their fledgling years are past is no orc at all—that is why the weak and enfeebled are abandoned when they are yet infants—to keep the whole of our tribe strong and—”
“To the sundry hells with strength!” Rem shouted. “Where is your compassion? Your mercy?”
Torval moved closer. “Those aren’t qualities these brutes know, lad.”
Gorn’s deep-set eyes narrowed. “Watch your tongue when insulting my people, you stunted little pickmonkey.”
Torval lunged at Gorn. Rem had to catch him. This was becoming untenable. Gorn was impatient—and now, insulted. Torval, with his naturally inclined hatred toward the whole of the orcish race, was not disposed to argue on their prisoner’s behalf, nor to be gracious to Gorn in an effort to find a softer fate for the very confused Lugdum.
Rem stole a glance at their prisoner, still kneeling on the sledge. He looked sad and lonely and miserable and hurt, a lost child scanning a battlefield for the corpses of its parents. The sight of him filled Rem with a terrible pity—a pity that he had never imagined he could even feel, especially for something that wasn’t even human.
But, those eyes. He saw humanity—deep feelings, true fear—in those small ruby-red eyes.
“Go,” Gorn commanded. “You have taken up enough of my time and done what you came to do.”
“We brought him here so that you could help us get answers,” Torval said. “And we leave with none.”
“That,” Gorn Bonebreaker said, with notable relish and smugness, “is not my problem.”
Rem studied the orcish bodyguards in the throne room. Their eyes were no longer on the pitiful, weeping Lugdum but on Rem and Torval themselves. Weapons were in hand, at the ready. They scowled and glared, all awaiting a final command from their master.
“We need to go,” Rem said to Torval.
Torval did not answer him, nor did he take his eyes off Gorn Bonebreaker. But he did hawk a ball of phlegm up from his throat and spat it on Gorn’s flagstone floor. Then, he broke out of Rem’s grasp and headed for the twin doors that would grant them egress. Rem followed, willing himself not to look back over his shoulder at the doomed Lugdum.
“It is my sincere hope that we won’t meet again anytime soon!” Gorn thundered as they made their exit. “Even a wardwatchman can wear out his welcome in my court!”
They cleared the doors, and those same doors were closed behind them. They were once more out into the night. For a long time, all through the streets of Orctown, in fact, until they had almost reached the North Gate to reenter the city, both Rem and Torval were silent.
It was Rem who finally spoke. “I know you hate them,” Rem said, “but the thought of that poor creature simply being … put down—it sickens me.”
“Me too,” Torval grumbled. “I hate to admit it, but once we realized it was just like a wee bairn headwise …”
He said no more then. Finally, he added, “Well, there’s nothing for it. Once more, we’re back where we started, knowing little more than that some winesink called the Moon Under Water might hold answers. I’ve never even heard of the place. Sheba’s probably sending us on a hare chase.”
Rem shook his head. “I don’t care. We’ll follow the lead and we’ll see what it has to offer. I want him dead, Torval.”
Torval looked up at him. They were inside the North Gate now, back on the winding streets of the Fifth Ward. “Want who dead?”
“Lugdum’s master,” Rem said. “Whoever’s behind all this. To use such a simple, helpless creature and abandon him after his service … the man that would do that is a monster, Torval. And I want to be the one to put him down and watch the life bleed out of him.”
Torval stared at him for a long time. Little by little, a predatory smile bloomed on the dwarf’s broad face.
“There’s the partner I’ve been searching for all along,” Torval said. “So glad you’ve finally arrived.”