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Flurries of snow filled the air, so much so that Thurk could barely see the other side of the street. With the storm came a strong wind that whistled between the buildings of New Stad. The orc pulled his coat tightly about himself as a shield from the cold, but still it cut through.
Galai had no issue navigating in the falling snow and led the way quickly. The boy reminded him of a dog on a lead, pulling Thurk along by the rope as they traveled through the city.
Most other people took shelter inside as the blizzard raged. Eventually, Thurk and Galai moved along completely alone, the snow now well past their ankles.
They had walked for nearly half an hour when Galai suddenly gasped and dove for cover under the eaves of a doorway. The short rope yanked harshly on Thurk’s arm, and he grunted as he moved to join the boy in his hiding spot.
“What is it?” Thurk asked.
Galai pointed in the direction they had been heading. Large shadows began to loom out of the storm, and Thurk could faintly hear the sound of hoofbeats on the street. He sniffed the air but could smell nothing through the blizzard.
After a few moments, the lead rider appeared from within the wall of snow. Five others followed him, all sitting high in their saddles. They were dressed all in brown, with bows on their backs and long thin swords at their hips. Thurk squinted and could just make out pointed prosthetics upon their ears.
“Uptown Elves,” Galai whispered.
“What’re they doing here, isn’t this the Little Ones’ territory?” Thurk asked.
“Allies,” Galai clasped his fingers together as a demonstration, “against Tuskers.”
The lead rider stopped his horse just after he passed by the boy and the orc. He froze there, swiveling his head suddenly to stare at Thurk. The orc did his best to appear like nothing other than some poor homeless man taking shelter from the snow. The other riders stopped too, but they just stared on forward.
The false elf stared at Thurk for what appeared to be an eternity before finally snapping his reins and urging his horse onwards. The rest of his group followed closely behind, never having even turned to look at the orc ranger and the urchin.
Once the Uptown Elves had disappeared, Galai hopped up and pulled on the rope tethering he and Thurk together. The orc ranger followed him, glancing back every few moments to ensure they were not being followed.
It was only a few minutes before Galai turned off into a small alley. There, he gestured to a narrow iron ladder affixed to the side of a building.
“You want me to go up?” Thurk asked. The thought of climbing up a small ladder in a freezing blizzard while tethered to a person whom he barely trusted was not high on his list of favorite activities.
The boy known as Squirrel nodded. “Best view.”
“Okay,” Thurk said. “You first.”
Galai nodded, heading over to the ladder and climbing up. The length of their tether was as such that Thurk was forced to climb with one hand, keeping the other held above his head. In this manner, they climbed up several stories.
The iron rungs of the ladder were cold enough that Thurk’s hands turned numb after less than a minute. Galai had no such issue and seemed somewhat inconvenienced by being required to climb at Thurk’s pace rather than his own.
When they reached the top, Galai held the rope as Thurk heaved himself up and over the parapet to land unceremoniously on the rooftop. He rose, blowing heat into his cupped, green hands and looking all about them.
This building was rather tall, but the one across the street from them dwarfed it by far. Shining lights at street level denoted the place as a casino.
“That’s the Little Ones’ headquarters?” Thurk asked, amazed. The gangs of New Stad truly held more power than he could have imagined. To operate a casino under the nose of every law enforcement entity in the city. It was brazen, to say the least.
Galai nodded, dragging Thurk to the edge of the roof and crouching for cover. Thurk kneeled beside him, and together they watched the front of the casino.
Despite the storm, the place seemed to be bustling. Many people walked in and out of the front doors. They rode in fine chariots drawn by teams of expensive horses and dressed in flashy clothes like none Thurk had ever seen.
“What is this place?” Thurk muttered.
“A den. Of thieves,” Galai said.
Thurk decided not to mention that Galai himself was a thief.
As if on queue, a carriage far larger than the rest pulled up outside of the casino. As it did, several stocky figures came out of the building and formed a protective aisle across the sidewalk.
“The Rat King,” Galai whispered, as though in fear that they would be heard, even at this distance.
The carriage door opened just as a blast of wind whipped up a flurry of snowflakes. Through the haze, Thurk saw a figure step out and onto the sidewalk. He could just make out a black suit and fine leather boots. And then the Rat King was gone. Seconds later, the carriage pulled away from the road’s edge and disappeared down the street.
Thurk was left thinking. Something about the Rat King had seemed familiar. Something about the way he moved. Yet, after all the events of the last few days, he could not manage to place the man in his memories.
“How do I get in that casino?” Thurk asked.
“Invite only,” Galai said. “But... I can take you to the warehouse.”
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ALEVEA CALVAL CROUCHED upon the roof of the Midtown Casino. She peered down through the blizzard at two figures huddled together behind the parapet of the building opposite her.
The Rat King had found Alevea when she had been nothing but a halfling orphan on the streets of New Stad. He had taken her in, had raised her in his own home. The girl had learned everything she knew from him.
The Little Ones were the only family Alevea had ever known, and now she was their protector and their hunter. Where the Rat King pointed, Alevea went. And where Alevea went, death followed.
Alevea glanced down as her king arrived, climbing out of his carriage and walking with his signature swagger into the casino. Not long after, the two spying figures across the way stood and made their way down the ladder.
Alevea had a decision to make. Keep watch on the casino, or follow these two strange figures back to whatever hole they called home. But when it came to it, there were hundreds of people inside to protect the Rat King.
Alevea rushed to the edge of the casino’s roof, wrapped her fingers around the ledge and flipped her legs over. She dropped a few feet to land on a windowsill, her short cape flapping in the wind. From there, she clambered downwards.
Long fingers, deft despite the cold, found holds on the side of the building where most would see nothing but a sheer wall. Feet, wrapped in thin slippers, gripped the surface just as well as hands.
For hundreds of years, halflings had survived on the edges of society. They had learned to steal, to sneak, and to hide. In this way, they had outlasted many other races.
Where the humans had gone, the halflings had followed. And they had prospered.
Within a few minutes, Alevea’s slippered feet landed softly on the cold sidewalk. No one had noticed her descent, and no one would notice her pursuit.
––––––––
LESS THAN A HALF-MILE from the casino, Thurk and Galai entered an area similar to the one that Commissioner Blanca had led him to the night before. Warehouses lined the streets, though less of these seemed abandoned than at the other site.
Lights shone in a few of the windows, and workers trudged to and fro through the snow, dragging heavy wooden boxes and bundles from the warehouses and onto carriages.
The workers were mostly dwarves, though a few of the warehouses were manned by orcs. The dwarves cast glances in their direction as they worked, though no words were exchanged.
Thurk was surprised to see orcs here, so near to the center of operations for the Little Ones. Especially considering the fact that the two gangs were notoriously in constant combat with each other.
No two groups had as colorful a history as the dwarves and the orcs. Dwarves tended to remember for a long time, and they were famously stubborn. Orcs, on the other hand, were prideful and hot-headed. It was not always the best combination.
“Galai, what are orcs and dwarves doing here in the same place?” Thurk gestured to the group of working orcs.
“This used to be no one's territory, a neutral place,” Galai answered. “But lately... The Rat King has been forcing everybody else out. Soon, it’ll only be the Little Ones.”
Galai pulled Thurk along through a back alleyway, moving tightly along the outer wall of one warehouse. At the corner, the druid boy ducked his head out of cover before quickly pulling it back. He gestured for Thurk to look. The orc pulled off his large hat and peeked around the corner.
The guard stood, totally unaware of his presence. In moments, he would be dead.
Thurk blinked through the haze of his memories. A few dozen yards away stood a large warehouse. Two heavily armored and armed dwarves stood by the double front doors. One of the little men held a heavy mace, and the other had a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Thurk cursed himself for bringing nothing besides his six-gun and knife. His rifle and shotgun lay nestled in his duffle bag back at the police station. If he had been able to take Bluebell on the train, then all of his weapons would have been easily accessible, strapped to her saddle.
Galai pointed to the roof of the warehouse. “Skylight.”
“Is there a ladder?” Thurk asked.
The boy shook his head.
Thurk stared back toward the building. There was a small door on the side closest to them, no doubt locked from the inside.
Thurk looked to the door and back to Galai. Could he trust the druid boy?
“That door,” Thurk said. “Could you unlock it from inside the building?”
The druid barely glanced at the thing before nodding enthusiastically. He held out his tied arm with a pleading look.
“You’re going to bolt on me, aren't you?”
Galai just stared back blankly. Thurk sighed and slid his blade from its sheath.
He was in another time, another place.
The boy’s blood soaked Thurk’s hands.
The orc shook his head, clearing the thought as though it were an errant fly. Steadying his suddenly shaking hand, he sawed through the rope at his wrist. As he did, he tried to tell himself that it was the cold causing him to shake.
As the binding rope fell away, Galai skipped backward with a smile on his face. He glanced about, and Thurk was sure that he was going to run.
Rather than flee the scene, though, Galai dashed across the street toward the warehouse, avoiding the gaze of the guards as he turned into the side alley. He flung himself into the air, planting his feet on the wooden wall and springing upwards.
Thurk had seen cats climb in such a way, straight up a wall, hand over foot. He had not known that a human could do such a thing. But then, Galai only looked human.
To Thurk’s amazement, Galai’s fingers locked around the lip of the gutter, and he pulled himself up and over onto the slightly slanted roof. Within moments the boy had found the skylight and slipped inside.
Thurk steadied himself, holding his hand in front of his face until the shaking stopped. He was going to need his wits about him and could not afford to waste his thoughts on events far in the past.
He crossed the street quickly, doing his best to seem inconspicuous. It was a harder to hide his large frame than it was for Galai, but it did not seem as though the guards noticed his movement through the snow.
Waiting by the side door, many agonizing seconds passed before he heard the sound of a bar being slid away, followed by the clicking of a lock. The door swung outwards slowly, revealing Galai standing in the open frame.
Pushing aside the slit walls of the tent, Thurk revealed the space within.
The warehouse beyond the boy was dimly lit, and it appeared as though no one was inside. Galai moved out of the way, and Thurk stepped past him.
It was like a different world compared to the storm outside. The warehouse was rather warm and as quiet as the grave. There were so many faint and different smells inside that Thurk had trouble differentiating them. All he could tell was that this was not a warehouse holding only one product, but rather there were several thousand unique items within.
They stood in an alcove among tall shelves stacked with hundreds of boxes. What lay inside, Thurk could not determine.
Galai waved a hand. “Come look.”
Thurk followed as the druid moved toward the center of the storage facility. They passed between the shelves into a more open area. Here, there were dozens of wooden tables, similar to the scorched one in the warehouse from the previous night.
Each table was covered in artifacts, ranging in size from small amulets to life-size statues. Hundreds of wood and bone wands lay lined up, side by side. One table held exclusively small lamps, another was decorated with crudely made dolls. Yet another housed nothing except an empty birdcage. Empty for now, that was.
Thurk stared in silent amazement. This was a priceless collection of magical artifacts, all held here in a shabby warehouse in the Midtown district of New Stad. All owned by one gang, and all guarded by two dwarves.
The power of these items, if activated, would be immeasurable. Their power unleashed could reduce the city of New Stad to rubble within minutes, rendering it uninhabitable for thousands of years.
The sound of the front door creaking open broke Thurk from his reverie. He grabbed Galai by the shoulder and dove back into the relative cover of the shelving units.
Holding a hand over the boy’s mouth, Thurk listened intently. Heavy footsteps sounded on the warehouse’s wooden floor, accompanied by the clanking of metal.
“Yer sure ye ’eard somethin’” a dwarf’s voice spoke gruffly.
“Aye, I’m sure, ye dolt!” the other dwarf answered. “It were like somebody opened up the skylight, then footsteps.”
The footsteps continued, and the dwarves walked right past Thurk and Galai. Luckily, they did not turn in their direction, but instead headed for the middle of the room, directly beneath the skylight. There, they stopped.
“Hey, yer right,” the dwarf with the rifle said, kneeling down. “There’s water ’ere.”
“I told ye I ’eard somethin’!”
“Well, we oughta find ’em.”
Thurk was already hurrying for the exit, dragging Galai by the collar as he went. As he pushed the door open, a gust of wind caught it and sent it slamming into the outside wall.
“Hey!” one of the dwarves yelled. “Stop right there!”
But Thurk did not stop. He ran full tilt, Galai stumbling along awkwardly in his grip.
“Dammit!” Thurk growled. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
A shot rang out, and a bullet whizzed by between the two men’s heads. Thurk looked back toward the warehouse and spotted the rifle-wielding dwarf standing there, gun to his shoulder with smoke still curling from the barrel.
Thurk threw himself around the corner of the nearest warehouse, and another shot ripped a fist-sized chunk of wood from the building. They ran back in the direction from which they had arrived.
Suddenly, the mace wielding dwarf rounded the next corner.
“Ah! I’ve got ye now!” he exclaimed, brandishing his weapon proudly.
Thurk turned sharply, yanking Galai along with him, and the dwarf followed. Somewhere, the rifle went off again, and the bullet pinged off the ground at Thurk’s feet.
Cursing, Thurk let go of Galai’s collar and pushed the boy away. With a roar, he turned in his tracks and rushed at the dwarf behind them.
The little man swung his mace with tremendous force for his head, but Thurk ducked under the blow and tackled him about the waist. Together they crashed to the ground with the dwarf kicking and biting the whole way. Thurk’s bruises from his fight with the Tuskers screamed as he fell, but he focused through the pain.
Somewhere deeper, beyond those new bruises, something tore open. Thurk’s chest sizzled with pain and for a moment he was back in Gaynesville, the Beast slashing at his torso.
Thurk fought to pin the dwarf’s weapon arm down to the snowy ground, receiving a firm headbutt to the face for his effort. Tangling his hand in his enemy’s beard, he forced his head back and delivered a solid blow to his exposed throat.
The dwarf coughed and sputtered, kicking at Thurk’s midsection. He was finished though, allowing his mace to drop away as both hands went to his throat. He would live, or so Thurk hoped.
Rolling off his foe, the orc pulled his revolver from its holster and scanned the area. He saw Galai, running in the opposite direction. The boy disappeared into the snow quickly, and Thurk cursed his luck.
He could not find the dwarf rifleman, but he knew that he must have been somewhere nearby. Realizing too late, his eyes went to the rooftops.
The muzzle flash blared from a nearby warehouse.
A burning sensation shot immediately across the side of Thurk’s neck, and he clapped a hand to the wound. Blood welled from a shallow cut, luckily non-fatal.
Thurk raised his revolver and unloaded all six shots at the dwarf. He could not be sure how many rounds hit their target at this distance, but the little man dropped his gun and tumbled off the roof to land in a snow-drift below.
Somewhere, voices were shouting through the storm. Thurk looked to where Galai had disappeared, but he knew that the boy was as good as gone now. With one hand clasped against his neck, the orc stood and stumbled off in the direction of station seven.
––––––––
FROM A NEARBY ALLEY, a halfling woman had watched it all.
With a smile, she slipped out behind Thurk and followed his every move.
––––––––
THURK STEPPED THROUGH the front door dripping blood and melted snow for the second time in just as many days. The officers in uniform stared as he barreled through the room toward the Commissioner’s office.
The orc hit the door without slowing. “Janette, Squirrel is—”
Blanca sat behind her desk, staring up at Thurk in shock. Across from her sat a young man, slightly ruffled, but still whole.
“Oh, thank the gods,” Janette said. “I was just about to go out after you.”
Thurk slumped into a chair by the door, looking at the druid boy. “You came back.”
Galai nodded.
Janette stood, moving quickly to Thurk’s side. “You’re bleeding!”
“It’s fine,” Thurk winced. He did not reveal to the woman that there was something wrong, far more serious than the graze upon his neck.
The purple scars upon his midsection and chest burned with fever, and a strange pressure had begun to build up in his chest cavity. When he breathed, pangs of pain originated somewhere around his lungs. Thurk’s head swam.
Bodies lay where they had fallen, fresh white powder dusting their military uniforms.
“You don’t look fine, Thurk,” Janette said. “We should get you to a doctor.”
“Just need some rest, that’s all,” Thurk said, gritting his teeth against the dizziness. “Got to go back to that warehouse tomorrow... Got to check out the casino.”
“Listen, I know a doctor, he treats all my officers. Let me see if he’s available.”
Janette moved toward the door, and Thurk stood up behind her. As he did, his vision swayed, and he stumbled a few feet to the right. His shoulder slammed into the wall with an almighty thud.
Flurries of snow flittered in front of Thurk’s eyes. It was cold, so cold, and there was blood on his hands.
Janette turned with a gasp, grabbing under the orc ranger’s arm and doing her best to hold him up as he began to slide toward the floor. Galai, too, rushed over and grabbed Thurk by the collar of his duster. Together, the two guided him over to the chair by the door and lowered him into it.
Tomin stumbled back, blood appearing on his uniform. Seconds later, Wason followed him to the floor.
Thurk’s head lolled as he sat, and he reached out a hand to grab the druid by the front of his dirty shirt. “Tomin... Tomin I’m so sorry.
Galai froze in fear, his blue-brown eyes widening.
“Who is Tomin?” Janette asked, snapping her fingers in front of Thurk’s face. “Thurk, listen to me. Where are you hurt? Is it just your neck?”
Thurk stared straight through the woman, seeming to focus on something very far away, “Oh, Tomin... All my fault.”
All his damn fault.
To Thurk, the edges of the world began to bleed. Darkness crept in, long shadows striking toward the center of his vision. Blanca and Galai were there, but they seemed distant, as though viewed through a window into another world. Their faces began to morph and multiply until Thurk could not be sure who was real and who was not.
Thurk boarded a train. Moving to his seat, he passed a halfling man in business clothes. The smell of sandalwood drifted from the man, and he tapped his foot rhythmically on the ground, the leather creaked ever so slightly as he did so. He was a military man, rich now through means unknown. Darkness emanated from his briefcase, as deep as the night.
Just before he slipped into unconsciousness, Thurk managed one final coherent thought. Those leather shoes. He knew who the Rat King was.
Winter, 1862
Thurk passed through the opening he had cut in the tent wall, breathing in the scent of crackers and dried beef. Other than his fellow soldiers, there was no one else inside.
It was a rather large space with no floor besides bare dirt. Wooden boxes sat stacked on top one another, filled with enough provisions to feed a camp of this size for many months. Barrels lined another wall, filled with water and booze.
“Alright, boys, let’s fill our bags and get out of here,” Thurk whispered, unfolding a burlap sack he had tucked into his waistband.
The other men obliged, prying open boxes with the blades of their knives and filling their bags until they were bulging. They worked as quietly as they could manage, speaking rarely and only in whispers.
Within minutes, all had filled their bags and moved back to stand by the exit. At the rear of the line, one of the men pulled a small bottle from his jacket pocket, along with a lighter. The rest of the group turned at the small sound the metal thing made as he flicked it open.
“Wason, what the hell are you doing?” Thurk whispered harshly.
“Look at this—they could hole up here all winter and move on us when the snow thaws. We’ve got the chance now to stop this whole unit,” the man answered, unscrewing the lid on his bottle.
“Put that down, soldier,” Thurk warned.
“That’s not going to happen, orc.”
“Thurk’s commanding this mission, Wason. Put the lighter away,” Tomin said, pushing past the man behind him and standing tall.
“And what are you gonna do to stop me,” the other soldier said, jabbing the mouth of the bottle at Tomin’s breast. “Druid piece of—”
Tomin slapped the bottle from Wason’s hand, sending it to the ground and splattering the mysterious liquid over the surrounding area.
In the blink of an eye, Wason slammed both hands into Tomin’s chest and dropped his lighter. Before any of the other soldiers could make a move, he grabbed a small revolver from his belt and pulled the trigger. Blood spattered from Tomin’s back, and he collapsed to the cold dirt floor.
Less than a second later, another shot rang out and Wason stumbled back. The man put a hand to his chest, and when he looked down, his shirt was already beginning to soak through. He took another two unsteady steps backward before falling to the ground, dead.
Thurk stood by the tent flap, the barrel of his rifle still smoking in his hands. The whole gun shook slightly. Thurk closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
Shouts began to ring out all around the camp. They were compromised.
This was the part of the story that Thurk never told anyone. The part that no living person besides himself knew. He had killed his own man. Had shot him straight through the heart. He had not been quick enough, and Tomin had died all the same.
“You did what you had to do, Thurk. Now we’ve got to get the hell out of here.” One of the remaining two men put a hand on Thurk’s shoulder.
As he spoke, a barrage of shots rang out, and the north side of the tent was suddenly filled with dozens of bullet holes. The soldier fell away with a cry of pain, stumbling away to crash into a stack of boxes.
The last man drew his rifle then and began to fire blindly through the tent’s wall. He worked the slide over and over, sending out a barrage as the gun grew hot in his hands. A pained shout from outside meant that at least one of his rounds had found a target.
“What do we do, Thurk!” he screamed between shots.
Thurk still did not move, he just stared at Tomin and Wason. They lay upon the ground, only a few feet from each other. Mist rose from the bullet holes in their bodies, mixing with the gun smoke in the air.
Wason had always been a hot-headed fool. But to kill his own comrade in cold blood? He had jeopardized their entire mission. He had killed Thurk’s men.
Thurk’s breath began to shorten as a red haze settled over his eyes. The shake in his hands dissipated until it was unnoticeable. He made no effort to stop the Rage. He was going to die in this tent, he knew.
From the front of the tent came a loud call, and a young soldier in a gray uniform came rushing in. He was barely out of his teens. Pale white hands clutched a standard issue rifle.
Thurk pivoted, on instinct alone, and fired.
The boy’s head ripped backward, and he fell to the ground in front of the tent’s main entrance. Several more soldiers followed behind him.
A few of the men lifted rifles to their shoulders and fired. The rounds ripped through the air, cracking into supply boxes and punching holes in the outer fabric. One struck Thurk’s last companion in the shoulder, and he dropped to his knees.
The man managed to fire his rifle twice more before three shots took him simultaneously, snuffing the life from his body.
Thurk did not flinch as bullets whizzed by his head. His fingers just worked the lever on his rifle over and over, falling into an endless rhythm. The only thing he could see was his enemies. They glowed as brightly as beacons in the dim light. The only thing he could smell was their blood.
A dull ache arose in Thurk’s thigh, and another in his upper arm. He paid neither any heed.
Bodies piled up in front of the tent’s door until Thurk ran out of ammunition. At that point, his long gun fell useless to the floor, and he drew the knife from his belt.
With no conscious thought to his actions, Thurk charged across the tent. He leaped the pile of bodies in a single bound, colliding with the next man to come running inside.
That man died, and so did the next. At some point, his knife disappeared, and so he fought with nothing but his fists and his tusks.
With every kill, the red haze grew deeper, and he lost more of himself.
It was hours later that Thurk finally came to his senses. He lay in a bank shrouded by a copse of trees above the camp. The surrounding snow was scattered with scarlet droplets.
A few feet away lay a body. It was a boy, even younger than the first he had killed in the tent.
Thurk’s heart seized in his chest, and he scrambled away from the body on all fours. Pain erupted instantly, deeper, more endless than he had ever felt.
The young orc collapsed again and looked down at himself. At least three bullets had hit him, and round stains bloomed on his uniform. A long-bladed knife stood, embedded halfway in the meat of his left shoulder.
Hand shaking violently, Thurk reached for the knife’s hilt and wrapped his stained fingers around it. Holding his breath and closing his eyes, he pulled on the weapon.
Waves of nausea rocked Thurk’s body as the blade pulled against his flesh. He set his teeth and pulled again.
The knife came free with a spurt of blood, and Thurk passed again into unconsciousness.