Good rogues get away.
Bad rogues get killed.
But even the best rogues find themselves tied up every now and again.
The first time it happens, it’s terrifying. The second time, it’s embarrassing. But eventually, you learn how to deal with it.
It’s just part of the job, really. And depending on who’s holding the rope, it’s not always that bad.
Not that having my hands jerked behind me, drawn around a stake, and tied together with some crude hemp was a high mark of my evening, but this wasn’t the worst way it could have gone.
The worst way it could have gone was currently standing in front of me, grabbing my throat with one hand while the other pressed a jagged piece of metal masquerading as a knife against my cheek.
“Two-Toe and the Colonel.” Kjoda’s breath, hot and rank, washed over me as he snarled through a mouthful of yellow teeth.
“What?” I asked, and instantly regretted it.
“Their names.” The centaur’s hand tightened around my throat, slammed my head against the stake. “I raised those beasts from cubs. Fed them meat, taught them to hunt, taught them to kill.” His knife’s jagged teeth pressed divots in my skin. “And you killed them like you didn’t even care.”
“Well,” I replied softly, “you trained them well. They killed quite a few of your own people, didn’t they?”
He snarled, pounded a fist into the wood above my head. The shock of the impact ran through my entire body. Had he gone for my actual body, I’d be dead from that one blow.
I imagined most people would be screaming right now—after all, the idea of a sentimental centaur is shocking enough even without a blade ready to carve off one’s face.
But if you could have seen me, at that moment, you would have seen nothing. You would have seen an expressionless face, a closed mouth, and a pair of unblinking eyes locked right on his.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget what I do, the murderers and assassins and dealers I run with. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how quickly blood gets spilled, how a little twitch with a little knife can end everything. But I never once forgot how to handle brutes like Kjoda.
Show no emotion. Say nothing. Don’t let them look away from you.
Show them too much, they think of a reason to kill you. Turn away from them, they can’t think of a reason to keep you alive. And if they’re going to kill you, you make them look you dead in the eye when they do it.
Sem taught me that.
That lesson was about men rather than monsters, of course, but it’s a gods-damned fine line between the two. And Kjoda had just enough of a glint in his eye to tell me the same rules applied to him.
And he turned that eye over my shoulder to the centaur standing behind me.
“Tighter,” he growled. “I want to see her hands turning blue for what she did to me.”
The centaur, one of the clean ones, snorted as she secured my wrists together. “The more damaged she is, the less we get for her return.” She jerked the rope harshly. I winced as a shock of pain ran up my arms. “But if she causes trouble, Halamox says we only need her mostly alive.”
“Gold.” Kjoda spat on the ground. “You stabled would make me laugh if you weren’t so damn sad. Ask them for gold, you only play by their rules.” He looked back to me, brought his blade up under my chin. “Send them a corpse, you tell them they play by yours. And then they’re the ones doing the asking.”
I tilted my head up as the blade rose, felt a lump in my throat pass over its tip as I swallowed hard. Kjoda’s eyes trembled, his jaw clenched and hand shaking. He looked over my face, searching for a reason.
He really loved those bird-bears.
This would almost be adorable if it weren’t for the fact that my head was as high as it could go and his blade kept going.
A hand reached out, took him by the forearm, and forcibly lowered the blade. I held my sigh of relief as the centaur—the stabled one I saw before—walked up beside me and fixed Kjoda with a stern look.
“Gold brings food. Supplies. Corpses are something we have enough of and will have so many more of in the days to come.”
There was something solemn in her voice, almost sad. She was right, of course; Halamox might want to carve out part of Taldor for his centaur nation, but carving was always messy, no matter how dead the goose was. A lot of people would die in the process, and she was doubtless certain that some of them would be her friends. I almost felt bad for her.
Of course, I’d feel worse if she weren’t wearing my dagger around her waist like a trophy.
Kjoda sneered at her, then at me, then snorted and stalked off to rejoin a band of his fellows holding an impromptu funeral for the smoldering monster carcass at the center of the camp.
I glanced sidelong at the centaur, decided to try my luck. “Thank you,” I said.
She returned a cold look. “I’d not see you gutted like a swine.” She leaned down low, her nose inches from mine. “I’d prefer to see you trampled under a hundred hooves until we pulverized your corpse to fertilizer.” She sneered as she stalked to a nearby barrel of whiskey and drew herself a hefty tankard. “You can thank Halamox that we’ve decided to do neither, though.”
“I’d be happy to, if he’d come out.”
There was a bit more venom in those words than I would have preferred. I counted it as a small blessing that the centaur only gave me a black laugh as she tossed back her whiskey and drew another cup.
“Halamox has greater things on his mind,” she said. “Things I might not always agree with, but he takes the longer view. He dreams of a nation for us, of our own laws, our own rules, so that we don’t have to bow and scrape for your coin.” She raised her tankard high above her head. “I trust him. I salute him.”
She tossed her head back, drained the tankard in one long drink. She let loose a belch and hurled it at my head. I narrowly ducked, letting it bounce off the stake and land at my feet.
“But I still would have killed you.”
She snorted and stomped off to attend some other business.
I leaned back against the stake, tested my bonds, and found them appropriately tight. Quietly, I surveyed the camp.
The chaos the two beasts had caused was still being repaired. The civilized centaurs seemed concerned with the material loss as much as the death of their own. Tents had been ruined, food stores raided, and whiskey casks overturned, drenching various tents and cabins.
The barbarians’ thoughts, however, were for their dead. Small clusters of them gathered around the blazing pyres that had been erected for the dead bird-bears.
Centaurs being a step above more monstrous humanoids, their ways were slightly more known to humans than your average orc or goblin, though still hopelessly alien. Respect was afforded those who proved an asset to the tribe. Hence why hulking, murderous beasts were given funerals and those who had died before they could do anything were given to the pile.
I found that interesting.
But not half as interesting as the mood pervading the camp.
The two centaur clans might have come physically closer in the wake of the chaos, venturing out of their respective areas of the camp to repair the damage, but this only seemed to increase their hostilities. The more civil ones contented themselves with casting accusing stares at each other. The rowdier ones made boisterous threats. The unstable ones continued to sharpen weapons while looking intently at their “allies.”
Occasionally, one would venture close enough to hurl a curse at me. I said nothing. Looked straight ahead. Stood perfectly still.
It’s a layman who believes stealth is all about sneaking in shadows and creeping up behind people. That’s a big part of it, true. But so many rogues have met their ends by ignoring the first rule.
Sometimes, stealth is just about not drawing attention to yourself.
I reminded myself of this as I stood, stock-still, as a civil centaur came approaching from my left and a savage centaur from my right.
The former, a burly armored fellow carrying a lance over his shoulder, came wandering past toward the whiskey barrel nearby. The latter was dragging one of his dead comrades toward a nearby fire. They shot each other glowers as they passed one another, but said nothing.
And, more importantly, didn’t spare so much as a glance for me.
I eyed the ground. The tankard the centaur had hurled at me lay by my feet. With as much movement as I dared, I reached out with one foot and hooked the toe of my boot into the tankard’s handle.
I glanced at the barbarian’s back as he walked away from me. I drew my breath and, with a prayer and a kick, sent the tankard flying.
Norgorber isn’t the sort of god to do things out of the kindness of his heart. He’s a selfish god for selfish people, a trickster and a thug with a mean streak long as most gods’ patiences. Pray to him, you’re bound to be disappointed.
But do something he finds funny enough, you just might be surprised what he gives you.
The tankard sailed through the air, caroming off the back of the savage’s head. He whirled, a roar in his throat and a sword in his hand. Red-rimmed eyes swept from the tankard rolling on the ground to the centaur at the whiskey barrel drawing another cup, chuckling.
It was an awful lot to take in.
One could hardly blame him for not noticing the girl tied to a stake, standing perfectly still.
I certainly wasn’t about to.
“YOU!” he snarled, stalking over his comrade’s dead body. “You lookin’ for a fight, stabled?”
The centaur peered lazily over the rim of his tankard as he slugged his whiskey. “I’m looking for quiet and a place that doesn’t stink like shit. Since you can’t give me one of those, maybe you can give me the other?”
“You’re a clever grunt, aren’t you?” The savage growled and raised his blade. “So clever you gotta hit me when my back’s turned.” He smiled. “Or is that cowardice? I always get them two mixed up.”
The clean centaur snorted, tossing aside his tankard and stepping up to the savage. “When I want to hit you, you turd with legs, I’ll do it to your face. Assuming I don’t get it mixed up with your ass.”
“Clever it is, then,” the savage replied, thumping his chest. “Show me you aren’t a coward!”
Completely still, I watched.
I watched as heads turned toward the commotion. I watched as the nomads drew their blades and came sauntering up behind their posturing comrade. I watched as the armored centaurs from the city filed in to back up their own boisterous friend. I watched insults turn to threats, threats turn to weapons, weapons turn to fury.
I watched this all, completely silent.
Really, at this point, they seemed to have everything well in hand.
“You human-loving, perfumed bastards better think hard about what you’re doing,” the barbarian growled as he stalked closer. “You’ve been making us do the heavy lifting, waiting for us to die. But it made us strong while you got soft.”
“Lifting is all your breed is good for,” the city centaur spat back, hooves pawing at the earth as he scowled at his rival. “You might want to recant while you still have your teeth.”
A hush fell over the crowd, each side of the crowd trembling with restrained anger as it sized up the other. The civil ones saw a force that outnumbered them. The savages saw a small army that was, pound for pound, tougher than they were. Any fight here would end with a lot of bloodshed, they both knew, no matter how badly they wanted it.
For a brief moment, it looked like cooler heads would prevail.
Of course, then someone went and shot that to hell.
“HIT HIM, YOU COWARD!”
Had just another moment passed, they might have realized that the voice that cried out was no centaur. Had just another moment passed, they might have both looked to me and wondered why I was grinning so damn wide.
Maybe I just happened to say the right thing at the right time.
Because someone went and took my advice.
The savage threw the first punch, his sword hand lashing out to bring the crosspiece against the armored centaur’s jaw. The clean one staggered with the blow, letting out a bellow as he reared up and brought hooves crashing down upon the barbarian’s skull.
The savage collapsed.
A roar erupted.
And then, as intended, everything went right to hell.
The armored ones assembled themselves into a tight knot as they charged. The nomads howled, bringing their spears down as they rushed to meet their foes.
Fists flew.
Steel flashed.
Blood spattered.
And within the span of six seconds, the idea of rampaging bird-bears was nothing more than a pleasant memory of calmer times.
I didn’t bother with stillness as I began to wriggle out of my ropes; it seemed everyone had bigger concerns than me at the moment. Tight they might have been, but the knots were about as clever as you’d think a centaur could muster.
That is, not at all.
“What’s going on?”
The female centaur that had tied me came galloping up, running past me and skidding to a halt at the edge of the brawl. She stared out over the roaring, squealing carnage with mouth agape, wide eyes fixed upon the savagery unfolding before her.
And not the girl sneaking up behind her.
“What the hell happened here?” she whispered.
Poor girl. I don’t think she ever learned.
Not as I reached for Whisper hanging from her belt. Not as I tore him free from his sheath. Not as I plunged his blade into her kidneys.
Five quick stabs—in and out, like a rusty machine—and she collapsed to all four of her knees. She let out a wail of pain that went unheard among the sounds of the brawl. Not that it mattered much—it only lasted another moment before I jammed Whisper into her neck.
Warm red life burst out, spattered on my leathers. She cast a shocked look at me through a face fast going white, still not quite certain what was happening even as her life leaked out onto the dirt. I almost felt bad for her.
Until I remembered she wanted to pulverize me into fertilizer.
I stepped back, let her limp body crash to the ground. I didn’t take a lot of pride in that. It had been a messy job. But a job done messy was still a job done.
And I still had more of it to do.
I resisted the urge to run for the camp’s exit. I could see a few centaurs hanging back from the brawl, cheering on their comrades. All it would take was a few of them to notice me gone and pursue me. Out on the plains, I’d be run down for sure.
I had to find something to keep them busy.
I rushed to a nearby bonfire, grabbed a nearby piece of wood and thrust it in. It started burning immediately; I had only moments before it was engulfed completely. Fortunately, I didn’t need much more than that.
I darted to the barrel of whiskey, kicked its spigot off. With a grunt, I turned it on its side, the liquid sloshing around inside it. Another kick sent it rolling toward the brawl, leaving a trail of thick, reeking liquor as it did. It got lost in the melee almost immediately, smashed to pieces beneath a centaur’s hooves and spraying liquor that went unnoticed amid all the blood.
And I took a moment to savor that moment.
Because in another, things were about to ugly.
I tossed the torch onto the ground. The trail of whiskey caught in an instant, raced across the earth and into the brawl. It went up immediately, catching leather, cloth, liquor-coated skin, whatever it could.
In a chorus of screams, the battle turned into a panic as the savage and civil alike went mad with fear. A brawl that beautiful gave the fire a feast, and it leapt from combatant to combatant, sending the fighters screaming for help even as their friends tried to get away from them.
I wished I had time to watch.
But I was already running.
I had grabbed up the torch, and as I rushed through the nomads’ camp, I set it to every tent I could find. The dried hides went up like tinder, and in a few seconds the camp was bright as daylight with burning pyres.
As whatever fighters could be spared tried vainly to put out the flames, I was already back on the other side of camp. I tossed the torch into the nearest cabin, hoping its old, rotted wood would catch quickly. Centaurs went screaming, unsure which flaming ruin to help first: their friends or their supplies.
I hoped they had fun with that.
As for me, this seemed distraction enough. I tucked Whisper into my belt and went bolting for the exit. If any centaur noticed me fleeing, they didn’t bother chasing me as they rushed for whatever water they could find. I kept to the shadows, out of their paths as they went galloping around the camp.
The mouth of the valley loomed large before me. It would be just a few more minutes out of the forest, across the plain, to Harges’s carriage, and then we could get the hell out of here.
Admittedly, I thought as I came sprinting out of the valley mouth, I hadn’t thought things would go this smoothly. Norgorber usually didn’t like me this much.
At least, not as much as he liked a mean joke.
That’s why I should have seen it coming, in the instant I heard hoofbeats behind me: the punch line galloping up.
I ducked the axe just as its head came cleaving through the air where mine had just been. I threw myself to the ground as a great, four-legged shape came leaping over me, hooves narrowly missing me as I rolled to the side and back onto my feet. I held up Whisper, still fresh with centaur blood.
This, of course, failed to impress Kjoda.
“My beasts dead, my kin dead, my camp ablaze…” Kjoda’s teeth were yellow and stark through the red war paint on his face. “All from one two-legged whelp and Halamox’s impotence.”
“Sounds like you two have a lot to talk about,” I said. Not that this was a particularly wise thing to say, but it wasn’t like this could get worse.
“WARRIORS!” he howled, rearing up on his hind legs. “To me! The stabled have failed us! It’s time we showed the humans we are not to be trifled with!” He leveled his axe at me. “And we start by sending this one’s head back to its masters!”
He swung. I darted, scrambling into the underbrush.
I could feel the earth shudder beneath me as I slipped into the forest. More were coming.
You might have expected me to start panicking. And, truth be told, that would probably have been a sensible reaction. But just because there were now a bunch of centaurs hunting for me in the forest didn’t mean things had gotten worse.
It just meant things were about to get dirty.