Author: Jericho_Foehammer
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From the Chronicles of Jericho Foehammer, Vol. IX
This is, very possibly, the stupidest thing I have ever done.
On balance, squeezing through a vent better suited to someone about, oh, half his size was beginning to make Gareth's original idea--a frontal assault--seem positively brilliant. He was convinced that N'Dayeth had suggested this route purely for the comedic value.
"Come on, you tree-sloth," her voice carried down the vent, "I'm two miles ahead of you!"
"This..." grunted Gareth, "is supposed to encourage me?" Inch by inch, he made his laborious way through the vent, fighting claustrophobia the whole way. Inch by inch by...uh oh.
No. I can't believe it.
Another whisper back. "What's the holdup?"
His voice had a panicky edge to it. "I'm stuck."
"What?"
Don't you dare laugh. "I'm. Stuck."
There was a short pause. "Pull the other one."
"No, by Rallos. I can't move!" His voice was a sibilant hiss.
"Well, look at it this way," she started. Here it comes. "A month or so, and you'll lose enough weight to get out. So, sit tight."
"N'Dayeth."
"I'm sure the rats don't use these vents. At least, I think I'm sure."
Rats? Gareth started shimmying up the vent fast, the cobblestones whirring by as he went. Suddenly, the floor fell out from under him and he hung halfway over the vent opening staring into black.
"Ugh. N'Dayeth, humor me. We can't all see in the dark." He tried to unwedge himself from the opening, but it was slow going.
"Just checking. I think we're clear. Looks like a storeroom." She lit one of her portable torches and handed it over to Gareth after he'd extricated himself. "See for yourself, she whispered.
It was indeed. The Deathfists seemed to use this as a combination armory, larder and broom closet. What a mess. "I hate orcs. And I can't believe you made me come here without my armor."
"Stealth is our friend, big guy." N'Dayeth was busy checking the door for traps.
"Then why am I here?"
"Because, one, you're bigger than they are, and I'm not; two, stealth is only going to get me there, not out again; and three, you insisted. Remember?"
"Me and my--hey. Look at this." Over against the wall, a mace, as utterly black as he'd ever seen, lay against a wall. It was big, too big for your garden-variety orc. It seemed to absorb light that got too close. He picked it up. Nothing nasty happened.
"I thought we weren't here to loot."
"We're not," he replied, with a tinge of guilt, "but, you know, it might come in handy."
"So would a ballista, but you don't see me stuffing one in my backpack." She turned and got a good look at him with the mace, considering something. "On second thought, keep that."
"I'll bite. Why?"
"Just a feeling. Okay, door's clean." She opened it, very, very slightly, a foul air seeping through the interstices. "The prison should be down the corridor to the left."
Gareth regarded his new mace minutely. The strange, black metal was cool to the touch, far cooler than the rest of the room. He suddenly wished that Jericho could see it. He'd probably split his helm in envy.
They took off to the left, the faint sounds of orcish marching rattling up and down the halls of Gul'zorakh, the Deathfist fortress. Sure enough, around a corner, and off about ten yards down the corridor, was a telltale prison door, one guard out front, collecting ear wax.
N'Dayeth strung her crossbow. "What's our friend?"
"Stealth."
"Right." She aimed and fired at the guard, the bolt hitting it just as it turned right to cross to the other side of the door and lodging in its arm.
"AURGH! G'tak!!" shouted the wounded orc as it tried to open the prison door. Shouts and movement came from behind it, the rattle of weapons not far behind.
Gareth closed the distance to the guard quickly, silencing it with a swift blow to the cranium that crumpled him like a sack of potatoes in front of the heavy iron door. The orcs on the other side tried to get the door open, but their dead comrade had partially jammed it closed. N'Dayeth's second bolt impaled a guard through the gap, but others pushed it out of the way to claw at the door. As they emerged, one at a time, through the narrow opening Gareth bludgeoned them with a strange precision, easily sidestepping clumsy slashes and amateurish stabs, until the ground was a blood-soaked mass of broken orcs, shattered weapons and spent crossbow bolts.
"Stealth."
"Hey, he moved."
The one N'Dayeth had bullseyed with the second bolt appeared to have been the jailer, a ring of keys dangling from its belt.
N'Dayeth grabbed them, saying, "All right, unless we want a lot more of them in here, I suggest you clean up that lot as best you can, while I start trying doors."
"You know what the only thing is that smells worse than a dead orc?"
"What?"
"Several dead orcs." He left to start hauling them out of sight.
He was right of course--it was uncanny. You could tie one up and stick it under a waterfall for a full hour and he'd still smell like a lump of moldy cheese when you were done. Must be their diet. He had three still to go, when he heard N'Dayeth say, "Gareth, help me."
Something in the tone of her voice made him run down the cell bay to the open door.
It was Anethe, all right, what was left of her. They'd hung her up by her wrists, bloody and extremely infected. They'd clearly beaten her mercilessly, red streaks staining her robes virtually everywhere. She was completely limp, a pale ghost tinged in scarlet.
"Hold her," N'Dayeth said, as she fiddled with the manacles on Anethe's wrists. Gareth looped his arms around her tightly. He'd never realized how light she was, before. A gust of wind might have blown her over, had the Deathfists not propped her up in so macabre a fashion.
First one manacle, then the other, emitted a loud chink and Anethe collapsed into Gareth's arms. His mouth hung open, much like hers as her head lolled back.
"Oh, no," whispered Gareth. N'Dayeth took in a sharp breath and hissed, for she saw it, too. Her gaping mouth was missing a few teeth, and her tongue.
Gareth darkened as he stood up. "Stay here. Do not leave until I return."
"Gar--" She stopped, transfixed by a look, cold, dark, unfamiliar, that tore the words from her. A long moment passed, and then Gareth left the cell, the very avatar of Death.
----
The cries of battle and screams of defeated orcs made their way back to the cell for a full hour before Gareth returned, without a sound, picked up Anethe and walked out of the cell. For a long time, N'Dayeth couldn't bring herself to think about what she'd seen as she walked out of the Deathfist citadel, now guarded by an army of corpses, all with that horrified look of surprise. But it was the look he'd given her that day which, for a very long time, made her wake up, thick with perspiration, and bury her head in the pillow to stop trembling.
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