I

A VISIT TO THE WAREHOUSE

Ob and Dolan skulked about the Town of Evermere, seeing what there was to see. It was an odd place. The people behaved strangely, but Ob had traveled about Midgaard more than enough to know that customs varied widely from here to there, such that one man’s weird was another’s normal. Despite that perspective, he had a bad feeling about Evermere, though he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. He felt that there was something sinister about the place. Just a feeling, but his instincts were rarely wrong.

He and Dolan intended to continue skulking around town until shortly before midnight, when they planned to rejoin Theta and the others at The Dancing Turtle inn for the start of the Running of the Bulls. It was all the townsfolk talked about, but it sounded stupid to Ob. Running down the streets in the middle of the night, chasing a bunch of huge bulls, and then killing them. Odd custom, indeed. And downright dangerous. Stupid dangerous. But it was something to see, and would make for a good story, so Ob didn’t want to miss it.

Not long past eleven, while they were snooping in an alley, they spotted Duchess Morgovia, the ruler of Evermere Island. They decided to shadow her and her entourage: several golden armored bodyguards, her scraggly henchman, Slint, and a young woman that Slint pulled along by the arm (a bit too roughly, in Ob’s opinion). The Duchess was a beautiful woman, refined, and charming too, but there was something that wasn’t quite right about her. Earlier that day, when they dined with her in her villa, she was all smiles and courtesy, but Ob smelled a rat. She didn’t ask them the right questions —— the ones any island leader would ask of a vessel that just put to port. Things just didn’t add up with her and Ob was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Ob stalked her in near perfect silence and stuck to the shadows, unseen. Dolan was a ghost, making no sound at all, and leaving no track, trace, or trail for even the most skilled bloodhound to follow.

The Duchess’s group halted in front of a large building that looked like a warehouse. Slint pounded on the door, and after a while, a man opened it and stepped out. The man was rather nondescript: average in height, slight of build, middle-aged, and balding. They called him Rasker. Dolan and Ob skulked closer so that they could overhear.

“…she was a gift from Lord Rendan,” said the Duchess.

“Is she broken?” said Rasker as he looked the woman up and down.

“No, she came off the schooner,” said the Duchess. “He found her scavenging for food near his estate. A little thief, she is. How she slipped past us, I’ve no idea. I need you to hold her for me, but don’t put her in with the others. She's a pretty thing; they’re bound to soil her. I want her unsullied and pristine for tomorrow night’s run.”

“Aye, Duchess, I will watch over her myself. You can count on old Rasker. If you don't mind my asking, when are they bringing by the other newcomers? I've cleared space for them.”

“No need,” said the Duchess. “I’ve decided to surprise them when the Run starts. It will be so much more fun that way, don't you think?”

They all laughed.

“Fine by me,” said Rasker. “Saves me the trouble.”

The Duchess and her group headed in the direction of The Dancing Turtle. Once the Duchess was out of sight, Rasker grabbed the girl, whose hands were bound behind her back, and dragged her with little effort into an alley on the side of the warehouse. Ob motioned to Dolan who was hiding some yards away, and slunk to the mouth of the alley in time to see Rasker toss the girl into a wooden storage shed propped against the alley wall.

“Just a bit of soiling won’t spoil you too much, little one,” said Rasker, leering. He growled and dived into the shed.

“Let's go,” said Ob as he jumped to his feet. There was no way that he was going to sit back and do nothing while a woman was violated. Ob turned his head to confirm that Dolan was following, but Dolan was already past him, his bow in hand. He moved like lightning. Ob was only halfway to the shed when Dolan reached it, raised his bow, and fired into it at point blank range. Rasker cried out in pain, for the arrow had hit home.

“Shit,” said Ob. “We could’ve just gave him a thrashing,” he muttered.

A second later, Dolan fired again, and then again, almost as fast as Ob's eyes could follow. In all his years, he’d never seen anyone as quick with a bow as that.

Just as Ob reached the shed, Dolan stumbled back and reached for his sword, surprise on his face. From out of the shed, leaped Rasker. He had one arrow sticking out of his back, and two shafts in his chest, but seemed unfazed. He bounded across the alley into Dolan, before Dolan could bring his sword to bear. He smashed Dolan to the ground. He straddled him and pounded him with his fists as he spat a string of curses. Dolan blocked the blows as best he could with his hands and forearms. From the sound of it, the punches were powerful, very powerful. Rasker had a strength that belied his modest size.

Ob charged and dived head first into Rasker's side, knocking him off Dolan. Ob scrambled to his feet, axe in hand. Rasker was already up. His pallor was a sickly white, and huge fangs extended from his upper jaw where none had been moments before.

Ob’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he froze in shock. He didn’t expect this. At a glance, Ob knew what Rasker was. He’d seen his kind before. And he knew enough of them to know that he and Dolan were in the deep stuff.

Rasker focused a withering gaze on Ob. Then he laughed. “What the heck are you? Some kind of deformed dwarf?”

Ob stepped in and swung his axe, but Rasker dodged back. “I'm no stinking dwarf, you scum.” Ob swung again and again, but Rasker dodged this way and that — he was too fast, too agile. Despite being quicker with an axe than most any man, Ob could not hit him.

Rasker came in again. Ob swung the axe, but missed. Rasker reached down and grabbed Ob by the belt. He lifted him up, and threw him across the alley. He smashed so hard into the far wall, that the wall’s wood planks cracked. Ob slumped down on his rump, back against the wall, dazed — his weapon dropped, his vision blurred, all the breath knocked out of him.

After a moment, Ob’s eyes focused. Rasker squatted over him. His fangs were just inches from Ob’s face.

“Not enough of you for a good meal,” said Rasker, “and probably sour as vinegar, but I’ll have a wee taste just the same.” He turned Ob’s head to the side with one hand — a hand far too powerful to resist. He bared his fangs. He leaned forward to sink his teeth into Ob’s neck.

Ob felt and heard a terrific impact against his helmet — a loud clanging sound, and his head was knocked back into the wall. He blinked to clear his vision. An arrow protruded from Rasker's right eye; its tip had gone clear through from the back, and it had impacted Ob’s helmet. Ob recognized it as one of the magicked up arrows that old Pipkorn had given to Dolan. Ob tried to push Rasker off, but he growled and stood up on his own, still alive. As Rasker turned, another arrow struck him in the middle of his chest and it pushed him back. Then another caught him in the throat. He lowered his head and charged across the alley. Dolan dived to the side at the last moment and Rasker struck the far wall, caving it in and falling halfway through. Dolan backpedaled, stumbling, obviously hurt. Ob struggled to regain his feet, dazed and battered.

“We’ve got to run, laddie,” shouted Ob.

“No,” said Dolan, nocking two arrows at once.

“We can't beat this bastard,” said Ob.

Rasker emerged, and flung a dagger underhanded at Dolan, but Dolan dodged it and let his arrows fly. Both struck the man in the upper chest, but he charged again. Dolan’s sword was out and Ob dashed toward them both. Rasker ran directly into Dolan’s outstretched blade, impaling himself, the sword puncturing clear through him. He grabbed Dolan’s throat. He’d planned it. He took the sword thrust on purpose, to get close enough to get his hands on Dolan, so that he could wring the life out of him. He lifted Dolan aloft by the neck and squeezed.

But Ob was there. Rasker seemed to have forgotten him or just didn’t consider him a threat. That was a mistake. Ob swung his mithril axe at Rasker's leg with all his strength. The axe sliced through the leg like butter, severing it with that single blow. Rasker howled and fell over, his stump gushing blood, though the color was off, more green than red. Rasker scrambled around and attempted to rise on his remaining foot, but Ob swung his axe in a great arc that ended at the back of Rasker's neck. Greenish-red blood spouted from the wound, Rasker's head half severed. For a moment, Ob figured that was the end of him. He’d fall back dead. But Rasker roared, and growled, and cursed as he tried again to rise. His head nearly cleaved off, yet he had fight in him still.

Ob hit him in the neck again. This axe blow even harder than the last. It decapitated him. Ob couldn’t believe it when he saw Rasker’s body still thrashing about, his head three feet away. Ob stepped up to the head and crushed it to pulp with a third blow. Rasker's body went limp, but quivered and shook for some moments before all life left it.

“By Odin,” said Ob. “That bastard was tough.”

“Thanks for the help,” said Dolan before he spit a mouthful of blood to the ground. His face was battered and swelling. He bled from cuts around his left eye, from his nose, and from his mouth. “The girl.”

Ob dashed to the shed's door and looked in. “She’s not moving.” Ob pulled her by the feet into the alley, so that he had some light to see by. ““There's a lot of blood. The bastard bit her. Those stinking fangs.” He knelt down and examined her. “Dead,” he said turning back toward Dolan. “He bit her neck. She bled out. She's gone.”

Dolan sat on the ground and looked unsteady. “I was trying to do the right thing,” said Dolan. “And all I did, was get her killed.””

“They was going to kill her anyway, boy. We did all we could to save her.”

“I put maybe ten arrows in him and he kept coming,” said Dolan. “What kind of man can do that?””

“Gabe and me ran across a couple of fellows like this one once. Gabe called them blood lords or some such. Tough buggers just like this one. Hopefully, he was the only one of them types hereabouts. If the town is loaded up with them, we’re in the deep stuff. Best we get gone before any more unfriendlies show up. We’ve got to warn the others. I think that that stinking Duchess means to kill us all dead.”

“Didn’t you hear them before?” said Dolan as he pointed to the warehouse. “They’ve got other folks locked up in there. We’ve got to free them now, while we’ve got the chance, or else they’’ll end up dead too.”

“There could be a whole squadron of them killers in there guarding them, boy. We barely survived the one. We've done our best, and that's all we can do. Come on now, we’ve got to get out of here while the getting’’s good.”

“You go if you must, Mister Ob. I’m going to try to spring them.”

“That will get you killed.”

“If it does, it does.”

“Dagnabbit. What am I supposed to do? Leave you to your lonesome to get killed?”

Dolan recovered his bow and pulled several arrows from Rasker’s corpse. “I’m going in. If I don’’t make it back, please tell Lord Angle that I did what I thought he would have done, if he was here.” He didn’t wait for any further words from Ob. Instead, he gripped the brick wall and heaved himself up, easily scaling the wall up to a second story window. He slowly raised the sash and peered inside; Ob stared after him. Dolan glanced down at Ob, and then slipped inside, silent as stone.

“I ain’t no stinking spider,” muttered Ob. “Can’t get up there if I wanted to, and I don't. Damn fool boy is gonna get himself killed dead.” Ob dragged the girl's body back into the shed, and then did the same with Rasker's. At least that way if any unfriendlies came along before Dolan was off, they wouldn’’t immediately see anything amiss.

Ob scurried to the end of the alley and looked up and down the street to see if anyone was about. It was dark, foggy, and quiet. Off in the distance, toward the docks, he could just make out music and voices, no doubt coming from The Turtle or some other tavern or inn, as there were several of them down there. Then he noticed that the warehouse’s front door was slightly ajar. Rasker hadn’t closed it up tight before he pulled the girl into the alley.

Ob just couldn’t leave Dolan — not with an open door practically inviting him in. He crept to the door, and was taken aback by the stench. An overwhelming stink of unwashed people seeped from inside. Ob peered in, but couldn’’t see much. He waited for his eyes to better adjust to the darkness and then carefully stepped inside.

From out of the darkness, a figure shuffled toward him. Ob feared it was another blood lord. He had to assume it was. He couldn’t take any chances. Those things moved too fast and they were too powerful. He raised his axe, but before he struck his blow, he saw the man's face. Blood streamed from his mouth, dripped from his jaw, and soiled his shirt. Two prominent fangs protruded from his mouth, just as on old Rasker. Dead gods, Ob thought, his mind racing, his heart thumping, he must have gotten Dolan, must have bitten him good and killed him dead. Rage welled up in Ob's gut. He'd kill the bastard, even by his lonesome; somehow, he'd make him pay.

The blood lord moaned or growled and Ob stepped forward to attack when he realized that a sword's tip protruded from the center of the man's upper chest and he was staggering forward in awkward fashion, his eyes glazed over. The blood lord dropped to the floor face first as Dolan pulled his sword from his back.

Ob's axe crashed down on the back of his head, and the blood lord moved no more.

“I feared he got you,” said Ob.

“There are people in cages in there,” said Dolan as he pointed toward a set of double doors. “Lots of them, locked up tight.””

“Any more guards?”

“Not that I saw, but there might be.”

They quietly pushed open the doors. Beyond was a large, open warehouse space, filled with iron cages. Typically, six feet tall, the cages varied in length and width. Many stood empty, but some were packed with living men.

Those in some of the cages paid them no heed when they entered. They merely stared down at the floor, their faces expressionless, their spirits broken. Not one of them even looked up to see who had entered. These men wore simple clothes and looked unkempt and badly treated. They numbered thirty, maybe forty.

Other cages held seamen — forty at the least. It was hard to tell how many there were since they were packed in so tight. The seamen didn’t look down; they looked defiant and angry. Some of them gripped the bars and stared at Ob and Dolan, hatred in their eyes. A few others lay on the floors of the cages, injured and weak.

Ob and Dolan looked carefully around the room and seeing no other guards, moved to within a few feet of the cages that held the seamen. “We're to spring you out of here,” whispered Ob. “How many guards are there?”

The seamen looked to each other, confused. “You're not bloodsuckers?” whispered one.

“You be normal men?” said another.

“Our ship came in today,” said Ob. “We didn't know what they were.”

A big, scraggly-looking one-eyed man with a gray and black beard stepped toward the bars in one of the cages. The others moved aside. “There's two guards most of the time,” said the graybeard, their captain. ““A bald one called Rasker, and a tall skinny devil what’s called Trern.”

“We killed them both,” said Ob. “Now let's get you out of them cages. Where do they keep the keys?””

“Are you sure?” said the graybeard. “Them bloodsuckers is mighty hard to keep down. We skewered a bunch of them but good, and up they came again, ready to kill.”

“They’re dead,” said Ob. “We crushed their heads to mush.”

The graybeard nodded. “Rasker has the keys in his pocket.” The other men crowded up against the bars, hanging on every word.

“I'll get them,” said Dolan as he dashed off.

“Who are you boys?” said the graybeard. “How many are with you?”

“We're Lomerian soldiers, from the northern territory.”

The graybeard looked at Ob skeptically. “Not many gnomes wear armor for Lomion. They don’t like your type, I hear. And your friend has elf ears and a strange look to him. He’s no Lomerian and certainly no northerner.”

When it became clear that Ob would offer no more, the graybeard said, “No matter, I suppose. You are who you are, and that’s your business. Me and mine are out of Tragoss Kell. They call me Captain Graybeard and I’’m darned happy to meet you. Is my schooner still in port, or did they sink her, the bastards?”

“We saw your ship when we came in,” said Ob. “Looked fine as far as we could tell.”

“Thank the gods,” said Graybeard. “That gives us a fighting chance.” He turned toward his men. “We'll make direct for the ship, boys, as soon as they spring us. Every man for hisself. We heave off at once. No waiting for nobody. So get there fast, or get dead quick in the trying. Whatever happens, don't let them bloodsucking bastards take you alive again.”

“How many of them are bloodsuckers?” said Ob.

“All of them,” said Graybeard. “The whole darned island as best we can tell, except for a few sorry folk they keep as slaves, like them over yonder,”” he said as he pointed to the downcast men in the nearby cages. “The bastards got us drunk and happy and then got the drop on us when we wasn't paying heed. Otherwise, we'd have given them what for. The streets would've run red with their blood, not ours — hard to kill or not. They killed twenty of my men. Ten outright, the rest for sport. Hung them upside down, right over there, so that we could see, and drained their blood. Then they drank it. They took the bodies away and I've a sense that they cooked them up. Some kind of stinking inbred cannibals is what they are. They're unnaturally strong — strong like I've never seen. They've kept us rotting in here for near two weeks now. They got plans for us, they say, big plans, some kind of festival. You done got here in good time.”

Dolan dashed back into the room. “There is a group of them standing in the alley — five or six. I couldn't get near the keys. They're waiting for someone. They said something about having orders to move the meat to the holding pen.””

“You've got to get us out of here!” said Graybeard.

“Please,” begged the seamen. “Get us out.”

They heard the sound of the warehouse door open and voices talking. “Rasker, you bastard, where are you?” shouted one of the Evermerians. “Why is this door unlocked?”

“A weapon?” whispered Graybeard. “Anything.”

Dolan tossed him a dagger; Ob did too.

The seamen secreted the weapons as Ob and Dolan slunk toward the back of the building.

They found a storage room with windows and ducked inside. They pressed their ears up against the door in attempt to hear what was going on.

There was an uproar when the Evermerians found Trern's body. They rushed into the cage area, but after finding all the cages still secure, they concluded that Rasker must have killed Trern, who he had it in for, for years. They never even bothered to ask the prisoners what happened.

“There's nothing we can do to help them,” whispered Ob. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” said Dolan. “But if they attack the seamen, I'm going in.”

Ob shook his head.

“Sounds like they're pulling one man out of the cages at a time,” said Ob.

“And chaining them together — hands and feet,” said Dolan.

“There's nothing more we can do here,” said Ob. “We've got to warn Theta and the others.”

They carefully lifted one of the windows open, wincing with its every creak. Once it was open far enough, they slipped through and dashed out into the night.