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Glenn asked, “How do you know they have a wheelbarrow?”
“I saw the dude roll it in while I trailed him,” Kirby said, pointing down at Nickson’s corpse. “There’s probably even a wheel track, if you wanna check.”
Kirby refrained from throwing his hands up in the air. “Not only is this dead dude too big for either of us to carry far, it’d draw too much attention, even in this neighborhood.”
“And a dead guy in a wheelbarrow wouldn’t?”
“Stop stalling. Longer we’re here, more chance for things to go bad—er—worse bad.”
The nervous gnome peered around. Already doors and shutters were cracking open for the locals to see onto the street. Although they were already talking in hushed voices, Glenn leaned close to Kirby. “He whispered, “How do I act like a dwarf?”
The thief had already told Glenn that they’d be more likely to open up the door to a dwarf than a half-goblin, especially the one who killed a guy in front of their shac—umm, home. And that being a dwarf was better than a gnome, since there were supposed to be a lot of dwarves in the city. Although Glenn hadn’t seen one.
“You ever see Lord of the Rings, dude?”
“Dwarves talk like that.”
“I don’t know. Dwarves don’t talk to folks like me.” Kirby pointed at his face. “They either cuss, spit or just wanna fight.”
Glenn bit his lip and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“You do that, and I’ll get traitor dude ready for a ride—oh, and get a tarp or blanket or something. If you can.”
Glenn relaxed his shoulders, practiced a few phrases under his breath, and walked up to the nearby shack and knocked on the door.
No one answered, or said anything, but he’d seen the door slide closed just as he approached. So he knocked again then said, in as deep-throated Scottish accent as he could muster, “I and my fine friend are in the market for a wheelbarrow, lad, and I know you’ve got one handy.”
No response, so he knocked again. “Next time I’ll be knocking with my...thumping club, and your door doesn’t look fine enough to endure that.”
Speaking in the deep, eccentric accent pinched at Glenn’s gnomish throat.
He tried to think what Gimli from the movies would say. “Being late meeting my ale-drinking mates always puts me in a sour mood, lad, and you don’t wanta be dealing with an angry dwarf, do ya?”
From the other side of the door came a voice. “Ya can’t have my wheelbarrow. Got to have it for my job.” It would’ve sounded forceful, except that it cracked the last few words.
“No fretting, lad.” Glenn took a breath and cleared his pinched throat. “I’ll pay you good coin for its use.”
“You’ll bring it back?”
The voice was definitely a man’s. And there was movement inside, indicating more than one person beyond the door.
Glenn glanced over his shoulder to see Kirby gesturing for Glenn to speed things up.
“What’ll you pay?”
“Depends on the quality of your wheelbarrow. And I expect you to throw in a tarp, or blanket, too.”
“You’re going to use it to take the warrior you killed to...Vaneada?” The last word, the name, came out as little more than a whisper.
“You have the gist of it.” Glenn put his hands on his hips, figuring someone might be peering at him through he cracks. It was dark, but certainly his outline could be seen. “Now roll your wares out so I can have a look, or I’ll have to come in. And that might get bruising and bloody.”
The door opened and a tall fellow with big hands and sunken eyes looked out and down at Glenn. From behind, someone lit a lantern.
The tall fellow’s eyes widened. “A dwarf with no beard? What happened to it?”
Glenn had sideburns and muttonchops, but no beard. He said the first thing that came to mind, only half maintaining his accent. “Lost it in a wager, and I’ll bust the jaw of anyone that reminds me of its loss again.”
The tall fellow jumped back, leaving the door to swing open. He dropped a rusted hand axe on the floor.
Inside, with the man, stood a rail-thin woman holding the lantern. The interior had a few hooks with garments on them, and a table constructed from planks and scraps of wood. Their bed was little more than a jumble of rags and blankets. The place smelled of horse and goat manure, and Glenn guessed it came from the wheelbarrow tipped up against the back wall, and the flat shovel leaning against it.
Even if the pair looked harmless and intimidated, no way was he going into the shack. “Roll it on out and let’s have a look.”
The man complied and stepped back, remaining in the doorway. It would work. Glenn had no clue how much a wheelbarrow went for. Nevertheless, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief that he wrapped his coins in.
While Glenn did that, the wheelbarrow owner said, “Nibber usually does the killing that needs done around here.”
Reasserting his accent, Glenn replied, “Nibber is off to let Vaneada know about the dead man.”
The wheelbarrow owner ducked his head at the mention of Veneada, whoever she was.
“Three silver for your wheelbarrow.”
The man’s eyes widened. From inside the house, the woman’s scratchy voice said, “We were hoping for four silvers.”
From the man’s expression Glenn knew he’d offered too much, and that the woman was the barterer of the two. “The generous coin is to buy your silence about me and Pippin—mind you, lad, not from Nibber.” Glenn put a scowl on his face. “But from nosy neighbors.”
The man nodded, as did the lady.
“I believe I purchased the wheelbarrow, your silence, and a blanket?”
The man turned his head to the woman and gave her a sharp look. She hurried and brought out a tattered wool blanket.
Glenn placed the three coins in the man’s shaky hand.
The man asked, “Do you want help loading the body?”
“No, thank you lad,” Glenn said, moving around to take the wheelbarrow to Kirby. He looked back and failed to hold back a half smile. “Pippin and I got it.”
As he pushed the wheelbarrow away, and before the man shut the door, Glenn heard the woman say in a hushed voice, “Mighty friendly, for a murderin’ dwarf.”
The man whispered back, probably due to adrenaline pumping in his veins, “Pippin’s the mean one that done the killing.”
The woman let out an exasperated gasp. Behind the door, Glenn caught the woman’s muffled reply. “Ask a mother how a babe named Pippin grew up to be a nasty knifer.”
“That was perfect, dude.”
Kirby and Glenn were already back on the street, pushing their empty wheelbarrow. Empty except for the guard captain’s armor, wrapped in the blanket. Kirby had the dead man’s scabbarded sword strapped across his back.
Glenn had helped lower Guard Captain Nickson’s corpse into the sludgy excrement puddle he’d run across between the dilapidated shacks.
Like before disposing of the body, their stroll garnered nary an ounce of interest. The few individuals that were out and about held no interest in anybody else’s business.
“Why’d we lay him down face up?” Glenn asked as Kirby tossed the dead man’s boots between a burned out shack and the neighboring one that had just barely survived the heated encounter.
Kirby quirked an eyebrow. “You really want to know?”
Glenn figured he probably didn’t, but replied, “How am I supposed to learn how things work in this world?”
Kirby nodded. “Well, it probably works the same way in our world.” He’d used the flat of Nickson’s sword to push his legs, arms and torso down as far as they would go—about ten inches—so the disgusting excrement sludge covered most of his body. But Kirby had been careful to keep the face clean.
Glenn had a hard time forgetting the pallid face, slashed cheek exposing teeth. Luckily his low-light vision didn’t offer vivid color.
The half-goblin thief kept pace with the gnome pushing their wheelbarrow. He said to his shorter friend, “I’m hoping the big rats we scared off’ll come back and eat his face.”
Glenn grimaced. Thinking on that, he turned away.
“Pretty gross, I know.” The half-goblin licked his semi-pointed teeth. “Even if the body’s found right away, nobody should recognize him.”
“Remember,” Kirby said, making eye contact with his friend. “The dude was an NPC. A traitor worse than Benedict Arnold.”
Benedict Arnold, Glenn thought. Kirby was a junior high kid, and probably just learned about the Revolutionary War traitor in an American History class.
Glenn was pretty sure he’d lost another piece of himself, his real self. But he’d gained something—something he wasn’t sure he wanted. A small knowledge of how to survive in the game world.
He glanced over at his friend, Kirby, whose eyes darted from place to place, seeking potential danger. Kirby’d proven once again his advanced knowledge of survival measures through playing Monsters, Maces and Magic.
And had probably lost a lot more pieces of himself than Glenn.