Episode 031: Ink and Gold (Text)

When we last left our heroes…THE HOB GOB KILLIN’ MOB faced down against the HORDE of the RED HAND in a ferocious battle at TANNER’S CROSSING. While our heroes acquitted themselves well – striking down wyverns and manticores, burning the very Hestor River itself, and even detonating a magic fireball in the very mouth of AGHARAGOTH the red dragon, they eventually fled, retreating into the Vale to lick their wounds…

Table of Contents

• Chapter 1 – In Which Filchbatter Twill is Discovered at Last
• Chapter 2 – In Which They Plan Their Next Move
• Chapter 3 – In Which Zuri Stabs Somebody
• Chapter 4 – In Which They Come Into Some Funds

Chapter 1 – In Which Filchbatter Twill is Discovered at Last

The question of whether or not there was a tattoo artist in Tarleytown had been a matter of heated debate during the flight from Tanner’s Crossing. Nutmeg was positive there had to be a tattoo artist, despite Anna Thornspur’s assurances that Tarleytown was in fact just a tiny little hamlet and no one really liked going there very much. “That,” Nutmeg had argued, “is exactly why I think we’re likely to find a tattoo artist there.” 

So while the rest of the survivors from Tanner’s Crossing set up a makeshift camp outside the Tarley Taphouse, Nutmeg went looking for a tattoo artist. 

The road had been bad. After Aberthol’s magic storm had faded, wyverns and manticores had flown out from the horde to harry the survivors on their retreat. No great damage had been done, but it meant no easy rest on the road, and few fires by night. A few days traveling like that was enough to drive a dwarf crazy. And Nutmeg had a head start on crazy. 

Anna Thornspur had been right: Tarleytown was a pretty shitty little place. The major industry appeared to be “dirt.” But it was home for tonight. Home while they figured out their next move. And while Nutmeg got a tattoo. 

“You know we’re meeting in an hour,” Sister D had told him when he set off into town. 

“Yeah yeah, I’m just trying to find the artist who can capture my vision. I’ll be back.”

He stopped at the general mercantile, a shabby little store with a sign hanging from the front. Faded squiggles were written on the sign. Nutmeg entered. A gnome sat behind the counter, perched on a very tall stool, reading from a thick book. The shelves were poorly-stocked, and the layer of dust on some of the provisions made Nutmeg suspect that business was not in fact booming. 

“Oh – oh, hello. Are you one of the uh, the uh,”

“Yeah, I’m a heroic adventurer of the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

“…no?”

“No? Oh, yeah, I guess not yet. Fair enough. I’m Nutmeg. Late of Tanner’s Crossing.”

“Filchbatter Twill, proprietor of Filcher’s Goods. Are you erm, erm, erm, looking for…?”

“A tattoo artist. Anyone in town.”

Filchbatter Twill set down his book. From his high stool he was taller than Nutmeg, probably taller than most humans. Filchbatter’s demeanor became very grave. 

“Who are you, really?”

“Uh. Nutmeg. Hob Gob Killin’ Mob. Like I said.”

“And you just happen to be asking for a tattoo artist? Here? Here, of all places? In this podunk little village?” Filchbatter’s disdain for Tarleytown was writ plain on his features. “Who sent you after me? Was it Relial? Or Squirrenought? Who was it?”

“Do I understand from this that you are in fact a tattoo artist?”

“A tattoo artist. Phaw. I was a tattoo artisan!”

“Seems like barely even a semantic distinction. Do you still do tattoos?”

“Not since…the accident.” Filchbatter’s features darkened. The little gnome was older than he looked, and suddenly the years wore heavy on his face. “Back in Folkor. I was a marvelous tattoo artist. I created great works. I did the tiger for High Unislipper Morganthiss of Quiln.”

“Oh, sure.”

“But then – Relial. Captain Relial Yunderchuck. From the Department of Gnome Land Security. He wanted all his regiment to get their bars and diamonds – matching tattoos on each of their arms. To celebrate their victory at Fort Higglesnout. But the ink – I didn’t check – the ink was – someone poisoned it.” Filchbatter buried his head in his hands. “All of them. Dead. A whole regiment. At my hands. At my hands! These hands!” He lifted his head and stared at his hands. “The hands of a coward. A murderer.”

“Well, manslaughterer. Gnomeslaughterer?”

“I fled the capital. I swore I would never touch the ink again. But I kept my supplies, all these years. Just in case. In case Relial found me. And wanted me to finish the job.”

“So look, hey, I’d like to get a sick tat of the two dragons I’ve killed. Like across my chest. Plus a tattoo of the dragon tongue I killed. Whole story there. Do you do dragons?”

“I swore never to work again,” said Filchbatter, as if Nutmeg were hard of hearing. 

“Yeah, but come on. There’s a huge fucking horde of monsters and hobgoblins and dragons and shit coming out of the west. Tarleytown’s about to get absolutely ravaged by war. You’d best get out of town anyway, and you might as well get some extra coin in your pocket. And I have coin to pay. So what do you say? One more job?”

“A…horde?”

“Oh yeah. And they worship some weird apocalypse god killer thing. It’s about to get sloppy in the Vale, my dude. Is twenty gold fair? I have no idea what you charge for this sort of thing.”

A vein twitched in Filchbatter’s forehead. “This life I built here…I’ll have to flee? Again?”

“Again, yes, very much so.”

“Fine.” Filchbatter waved his hand. “Fine! Fine. Come back in an hour. I’ll do the work. Fifty gold pieces.”

“Forty.”

“Forty-five.”

“Sold. Also I have a meeting in an hour so can I just drop by when that’s done? I don’t know if you’ve got like a busy social calendar or something.”

“No.” The distant look returned to the gnome. “Filchbatter Twill has few close friends. Particularly – oh, he’s gone.”

Nutmeg was headed back down the road, trying to learn to whistle. 

Chapter 2 – In Which They Plan Their Next Move

The Tarley Taphouse had two ales on tap: one “golden” and one “brown.” Both were a sort of foamy ecru color, and both tasted identical. Gel had knocked back two “goldens” and one “brown.” 

Tarleytown had not been ready for refugees. Or for much of anything. The apparent leader of the town, Slim Tarley, had babbled and protested as Captains Anna and Zuri took over the taphouse and half a block. Wagonloads of wounded were now being treated out in the street, while the physically unscathed soldiers commandeered the interior of the taphouse. Benches and chairs were packed tight around the few tables in the place; more folk simply sat on the floor, or on the porch. Evening was fast approaching; the summer storms had finally broken, and a little rosy light glowed in the west. One could easily mistake it for the sun.

Slim Tarley was in his late fifties, almost totally bald save for a few wisps of hair around his crown. He popped back up from behind the bar, producing two fresh mugs of the golden ale. The waiting soldiers took them, nodding gratefully, and left a little coin on the counter. Slim snatched the coin up quick as a snake, pocketing it with the rest of his profits. The man had agreed to charge pennies on the drink, but still. Fleeing from a horde was thirsty work. 

“Is he back yet?” asked Sister D. 

“Not yet. He knows we’re meeting.”

She, like Gel, leaned against the bar, surveying the room. Her armor was stowed in the wagon; her undershirt was bloody, and her arms were stained a faint red to the elbow. She’d been ministering to the wounded all the way over from Tanner’s Crossing, and had only paused now to attend the convening of the captains. Zuri and Anna were already in the back room, beginning to make their plans. 

Sister D sipped from her mug and made a face. “There’s no way he’s going to find a tattoo artist.”

“In a place like this? He’s not going to find ink.”

Gel stretched his arm, shaking it out. His shoulder was still stiff and numb from the manticore venom, despite Sister D’s best efforts. That was potent stuff. It would’ve been nice to harvest some, turn the venom back on the horde down the line. Or just sell it. Heck, Yanna Goldtress back in Dwarroway might buy poisons as well as sell them. That is, if they ever made it back to Dwarroway. They were at least a few months away, here on the western edge of the Hestor Vale. Gel had traveled quite a lot, but never this far from the Hegemony. These lands were strange. And strange in ways he hadn’t expected. He had no love for the Hegemoniac Army, but it was unsettling, he had realized, to not see army watchtowers along the roads, or patrols at the edge of towns. The Lion Guard of Barrendell were as close as it came to the Hegemoniac Army, but even then: their numbers were thin, and the folk from Tanner’s Crossing were plainly suspicious of the Lions. Grateful, yes, but there were two groups within Tarley’s Taphouse: the Tanner’s Crossing militia on one end of the room, dressed in roughspun and wool, and the Lion Guard on the other end, in soldier’s livery, gambesons untied and armor stacked against the wall. 

Yes, it would be good to return home. Once this was done. Whatever “this” was. “Do whatever you can to stop the Red Hand,” Mister E had told them. “I don’t care what you do, as long as you keep the Hegemony safe.” 

“Yo!” Nutmeg burst through the door. He was incapable of entering a room without bursting. “Sorry I’m late!” He picked his way through the crowd. “Hey Slim can I get uhhh a brown.”

“Shore thang. Three pennies.”

“How about you give it to me and I’ll pay you later.”

Slim squinted. Gel rolled his eyes and started to reach for his coinpurse – he could cover Nutmeg if it meant getting down to business faster. But Slim nodded. “Shore, ok. Anything for the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob.”

“I like the sound of that.” Nutmeg retrieved his ale and headed for the back room. “Come on, slowpokes, the captains are waiting!” 

Gel was the last one into the room. It was clearly Slim’s bedroom; Zuri and Anna had pulled chairs next to the bed and spread the goblin-map from Caer Karnak atop the sheets. Zuri still wore her plate armor; she seemed to never take the stuff off. The two captains gestured with drawn daggers at the map, clearly in the midst of an argument. 

“You see it!” Anna said. “They plan to burn every town and city in the Vale! We should flee. Keep running. Bring as many with us as we can.”

“We can hold them at Barrendell,” argued Zuri. “Our walls are strong. The Lion Guard bloodied them at Tanner’s Crossing; we’ll bleed them dry on our home field.” 

“Against manticores? Wyverns? Dragons?” Anna was incredulous. 

“Okay, hey, let’s talk about this.” Gel joined the others sitting around the bed. “If you ran, Anna, where would you go?”

“East,” she said, quickly. “To Humber, at the very least. Maybe even keep running. I’ve got a cousin in Humber who does some trade in the Hegemony. Might could point us down the right road.” 

“The Hegemony, huh? Never heard of it.” Nutmeg gave Gel a very broad wink. “Come on, that’s crazy talk. You can’t run that far. Or at least – no one’s going to believe they need to run that far until it’s too late to run.” 

“North, then,” said Anna, desperately. “It’s a long road there, too, but we could get to Thull, or Boar’s Gate. There’s kingdoms up there. Whole realms. No way the horde makes it that far.”

“North would be better, for fleeing,” admitted Zuri. “But it’s moot. We can’t just run. Thousands are going to die if we don’t stand and fight.”

Maybe more than you know, thought Gel. The directive from Mister E was clear enough. They needed to break the horde here, in the Hestor Vale, before it could make a full assault on the Hegemony. Better these people dead than Hegemony people dead, he figured. “Barrendell seems like a tough nut to crack. Walled city, well-fortified, lots of soldiers. I’m with Zuri.”

“Agreed,” said Nutmeg. “They’re already planning on attacking Barrendell. See? The squiggles there by the city?” He pointed to the map. “I have it on good authority that means ‘heavy resistance possible.’ They’re raring for a fight. Let’s give it to ‘em.”

Anna bowed her head. For a moment, the room was silent. Then she raised her eyes once more. “Fine. Fine. Very well. We’d have to flee along the dwarf-road to Barrendell anyway; we might as well shelter behind its walls.” 

“If we tell soldiers to muster at Barrendell from other towns, will they do it?” asked Gel. 

“Tell them? Maybe. Ask them? …again, maybe.” Zuri shook her head. “Lord Marth and I have talked about this. Ad nauseum. He’s wary of taking on too much authority in Barrendell. Doesn’t want to invite any talk of kings and realms. But with all these towns acting independently…no one stands a chance on their own. We can send word out. Warning. And an offer of refuge in Barrendell. Whether anyone listens is up to the gods.” 

“Anyone else we can muster?” Gel didn’t know exactly how many soldiers Barrendell could field, but he guessed the answer was “not enough.” 

“We could ask Enebor,” offered Sister D. “The Yoi Kal might be willing to help.”

“The uh what’s-er-name, the Starvoiced One, said they wouldn’t budge unless their problems with the daghdakka were dealt with.”

“I suppose we’ll have to deal with those problems, then,” said Sister D. Gel rather liked the tone of her voice. Sister D’s coolness peaked when she had her mind set on violence. 

“Hey hey uh also what about the dwarves?” Nutmeg pointed at the bottom part of the map. “The Hammerhand Holds. They have mercenaries and stuff.”

“You just want to go hang out with other dwarves.”

“Is that so wrong?”

“No, you’re right,” said Zuri. “I’m glad you said it. It’s true. The Holds are renowned for their mercenary companies. And, truth be told, we’ve always suspected Hammermaster Guthrik has more real soldiers than he lets on.”

“I think we could make some compelling arguments,” said Nutmeg. 

“But we know the Yoi Kal already.” Gel preferred to return to Kal Rammath, if they could. Something about the elven city in the trees had not yet left his heart. “We could waste time in the Holds while the Vale burns.”

“Logistically, though, it makes sense to send you to the dwarves,” said Zuri. “The road to the Holds branches off not far from Tarleytown. If you wait too long, that road might be closed…by the horde.”

“How long do we have?” asked Sister D. “The map – I’m sure it gives some information, but I have no sense of scale here.” 

“A month until they reach Barrendell,” said Zuri. “Give or take, but I’d put it at a month. They might move fast, and they’ll definitely send raiders ahead of the army, but no big army like that moves very quickly, and the Vale is leagues and leagues across. A month.”

“What are they after, anyway?” asked Gel, thinking out loud. “Just plunder? The whole ‘Daghda’ thing seems a little more…intentional.”

“They’re very purpose-driven,” agreed Nutmeg. “Mazzirandus had some stuff to say about ‘a new era’ and ‘a new day’ and whatnot. And Daghda, yeah. There’s something else going on here.”

“It’s all so much.” Anna Thornspur sounded very small and very sad. “And…why? Life was fine. Why did they have to just take it all away?”

“Yeah, sucks.” Nutmeg scratched his beard. “Alright, well, we roll out tomorrow? Sweet. I’m going to go get a tattoo.”

“You actually found a tattoo artist?”

“Yeah, he’s some kinda wanted political prisoner criminal guy? I dunno. Whatever. Said he’d do it for forty-five gold. You guys have fun.”

Chapter 3 – In Which Zuri Stabs Somebody

There was no better salve for the trauma of war than an enormous amount of shitty ale. The soldiers and militiafolk fell to it as evening drew around Tarleytown. Casks and barrels and hogsheads and kegs and tuns and everything in between was dragged up from cellars and down from attics and tapped and uncorked and opened and the ale flowed free and wild and brownish. 

Gel, Sister D, Anna, and Zuri had spread the word of their plans through the crowds at the tavern, and those crowds had sent it on to the folk of Tarleytown, and so on and so forth, until most everybody seemed to understand: this was their last night in Tarleytown. Come morning, they’d be heading for Tallyard, the next town along the dwarf-road towards Barrendell. The refugees, the wounded, the soldiers, all of them. And the folk of Tarleytown were advised to come along. As Gel put it to one of the townsfolk: “Yeah, you can stay here if you want, but if you’re having those kind of suicidal ideations you should probably choose a better way to do it than ‘murdered by a horde of hobgoblins.’” 

With the news appropriately spread, there was nothing to but drink for the dawn. 

Gel was warming to Zuri even more. She had such an easy confidence to her, a swagger that was just the appealing side of braggadocious. She’d finally gotten out of her armor, and wore now a doublet with the red lion embroidered on the breast. She sat with Gel, D, and Anna; the four of them watched a group of townies trying to teach some Lion Guard soldiers how to dance a particularly complicated jig-type thing. 

“What’s up with the lion thing?” Gel asked. “The Lion Guard. Et cetera.” 

“Lions of Barrendell! Bold as brass! Give us lip and we’ll bust your ass!” Zuri proclaimed it like an anthem. “Ah, yeah. I dunno. It’s old as the Vale. Lions and whatnot. Goes back…a long time. A long time. They say when the dwarves still ruled the world, there was a rebel group called the Cult of the Great Lion working against the dwarves, freeing the slaves and stuff. Well, the dwarven empire fell apart, and the Lions declared themselves Kings of the Vale from the city of Ra-Hest.”

“Is that what Barrendell used to be called?”

“Oh, no. Ra-Hest is up north. Or was. Whatever. The lion kings ruled Ra-Hest for a long time, and put lion banners everywhere, and the whole vale was the Kingdom of Ra-Hest. But then…well, there’s a whole story to it. The Ballad of the Marrowmonger.”

“Marrowmonger.” Gel had heard that word before. 

“Yeah…” Zuri swigged her ale. “Ra-Hest was built in a swamp, but a bunch of druids helped keep the city from flooding for years and years. Cult of the Great Lion and all that. Well, this one druid, a few hundred years ago, went kinda nuts. Or something. The ballads say he fell in love with the Lion Queen, and then tried to sacrifice the whole city to impress her? It’s kind of an obtuse song. Either way: this crazy druid flooded the city, killed all these people, all to impress a broad. Something about stirring the waters with the bones of the dead. That’s a line from the song. Obviously the queen was super not into it. So the druid fucked off, but Ra-Hest was destroyed, and the other cities and towns fell apart for a while since they depended on the kingdom. There was war, blah blah blah, then Humber and Barrendell signed a pact – with the dwarves, too – that there woul be no more kingdoms in the Vale.”

“So the Marrowmonger is this druid sacrifice guy?”

“Yeah, that’s the story.”

“How do you know all this? You read books?”

“Only if I have to.” Zuri grinned. “No, no – me and Carl. Sorry, Lord Carlan Marth. We used to travel together. The Company of the Dancing Drake. Had a team of adventurers. We tried going up to Ra-Hest, see if we could find treasure and shit.”

“Did you find treasure?”

“Probably.”

“How can you ‘probably’ have found treasure? It’s a binary thing.” 

“Well, we found lizardfolk. Gatorfolk in particular. Living around the edge of the big lake where the ruins are. And we found a dragon. A black one. Fought it, too.” She traced her finger along the scar that ran from temple to lip to jaw. “Lost a good companion that day. Augus, this one’s yours.” She tipped her mug and spilled ale to the floor. 

“You think that dragon’s still there?”

“Might be. Don’t know why not.”

“Is it close to Kal Rammath? Ra-Hest, I mean. Is it close to the elves?”

Zuri frowned. “I dunno. Never been to Kal Rammath. But yeah, it’s up the north road from Barrendell by a good few days. In the swamps up there.”

“Near Kal Rammath, then,” confirmed Sister D. “Interesting.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Gel. 

“…I usually hope I’m not, but maybe?”

“Daghdakka.” Gel patted the hilt of his shortsword. “Like the one that broke my good rapier. Those weird fuckers. Hmm.”

“Hmm indeed,” agreed D. 

“Alright.” Zuri slammed her mug on the bar. “That’s enough yapping. Come on, let’s get a game going.”

“A game?” Gel fingered the dagger he kept strapped to his leg. “Are you familiar with stabby handy?”

“I’m not. But,” said Zuri, holding up a hand, “I can guess. Is it similar to four-finger tango?”

“I’ve heard it called the five finger fillet.”

“The poke-n-play.” 

“That’s a different thing. I’m talking about the game where you try to stab a dagger between your fingers real fast without stabbing your own hand.”

“Yes, okay.”

Sister D gave Gel a look. “Gel, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He did his best impression of a grin. “Come on, are you really worried about me? You can always patch me up, right?”

“I’m not worried about you hurting yourself. I’m worried about you tricking other people into hurting themselves.” 

“Oh, don’t you worry about me, Sister,” said Zuri. “I’ve been known to play the phalangeal fine-chop a fair few times in my day. This young buck has nothing on me.”

“It’s really cool that you think I’m young,” said Gel, “but I’m an elf. I’m like two or three hundred years old or something.”

“Is that true?” asked D, quietly.

“No.”

He pulled out his dagger, spun it in his fingers, and offered it to Zuri. She took it and began the game. Stab once outside your thumb, then between thumb and index, then back outside, then between index and middle, then back outside, and so on, and back and forth across the hand. She set them on an easy pace, and Gel saw no reason to push her early. 

Three rounds passed without bloodshed. A few soldiers gathered around – Gel heard the conversation around the bar (“The Captain’s playing the pinky-splitter! She’s doing the steel handjob!” Gel was unfamiliar with most of these euphemisms, but filed them away all the same). Gel took the dagger back after Zuri’s fourth successful spin. She’d started to ramp the pace up. He balanced the dagger on the tip of his finger. “Want to make it interesting?”

“A wager?” Zuri threw back another cup of ale. “Of course.”

“You know my friend Nutmeg? The dwarf?”

“Yes?”

“First one to bleed has to kiss Nutmeg.”

Sister D snorted into her mug of ale, and Gel was happy to see a little blush creeping up her cheeks. Zuri shrugged, apparently unfazed. “Fine. Hope you guys already like kissing each other.”

Back and forth. Back and forth the dagger flashed. Gel slow-rolled her. He always matched her pace, just matching but never chasing it too hard. It was sweaty work, and the tavern was hot from the general crush of people on a warm summer’s night. Mugs of ale were brought out for both of them, and Zuri downed what must have been her fifth mug in almost a single swig. Slow roll her. 

By the time they hit the tenth round, the dagger was flashing too fast to see. Zuri really could hold her own. She was fast, and she had no fear of the blade. It was fear of the blade that always got you, in the end. Folk lost at the game when they lost their faith in their own movements, when the fear outweighed their faith. Gel had faith in few things – he liked Lucy, he appreciated Sister D, he trusted Nutmeg, and he prayed sometimes to Rahaxus, the deity of slow death – but he had total faith in himself. 

“Alright,” said Sister D, softly to him. “Let it end, Gel.”

He rolled his eyes, but did as she asked. He ramped the speed up again. In what almost looked like a single movement, he played one last round, thumb-index-thumb-middle-thumb-ring-thumb and so on, all in a blur. Thud thud thud thud thud thud went the dagger, stabbing in and out of the wood of the countertop. Zuri’s eyes went wide. 

“You can yield,” said Gel. “Give it on up and purse those lips. Nutmeg’s a sloppy kisser.”

“Never knew a dwarf who wasn’t.” Zuri snatched the dagger back. Her eyes were a little unfocused, but she breathed in and out to steady herself. “Alright, you little fuck. Here goes.”

To her credit, she finished the first pass without incident. But while working her way back between her fingers, she very confidently and suddenly stabbed the dagger straight through the back of her hand into the wood, pinning herself to the counter. A collective wince escaped from every onlooker. Zuri’s eyes went wide. “FUCK,” she declared, and yanked the dagger back out in a spray of blood, absolutely ruining the fresh mugs of ale Slim Tarley had just filled. 

“I’m impressed,” admitted Gel. He meant it. “You made it pretty far. I’m a hard guy to beat. Hey, D, can you do her a favor?”

“I think it demeans the light and glory of Palladius to be used primarily for repairing the results of bar games, but yes, I can do that.” Sister D took Zuri’s hand in hers and murmured a prayer. The captain sighed with relief. 

“Ah. Ah wow. Yeah. Nice to have a Sister like you around.”

“Come on,” said Gel, throwing an arm around Zuri’s shoulder. “Let’s drink it off.”

Chapter 4 – In Which They Come Into Some Funds

Nutmeg admired himself in the mirror on the back of Filchbatter Twill’s door. He was shirtless, barechested. The skin was still raw and painful where Twill’s needle had done the long work of tattooing, but the end result was worth a measure of blood and gold. 

Two dragons bellowed on Nutmeg’s pectorals. On the left, a black dragon. Saeverix. The curved jaw was perfectly-realized, snarling around Nutmeg’s nipple. On the right, a green dragon. Mazzirandus. Clawing at Nutmeg’s chest hair. And in between them, a long, sinuous tongue, wreathed in flames. The tongue of Agharagoth, the Red Ruin, bane of Tanner’s Crossing. It had taken a while to convey that potent image to the gnome tattoo artist – just the tongue, because that was all Nutmeg had taken from Agharagoth so far. “I’ll come back to get the rest filled in once we kill the rest of the dragon,” he’d explained. Twill, working with the fevered energy of a gnome in his last moments, had simply acquiesced. He’d made a masterwork of Nutmeg’s vision. 

“Hey, it looks great, man.”

The gnome was off to one side, packing a bag. He slipped a dagger into his boot. “As well it should. I was trained for thirteen years in the Shoramangus Institute for Artisanal Pursuits.”

“Can I offer you some advice?”

“I have been unable to prevent you from speaking thus far.”

“For a guy on the run, you gotta stop expositing about very specific details from your past.”

“Advice well-taken. Get out of my house.” 

Nutmeg departed, carrying his breastplate beside him. The morning breeze ruffled his chest hair, and cooled the harsh pain from the needle and ink. He nodded at every passer-by, winking at most of them. Tarleytown was in a state of disarray; most of the folks, it seemed, were taking the advice of the Tanner’s Crossing survivors and preparing to flee for Barrendell. A little glimpse of the hero dwarf should do them good. 

Outside the Tarley Taphouse, soldiers were gearing up for travel. Gel and Sister D were among them, tacking up a trio of horses: two tall workhorses for Gel and D, and a squat pony for Nutmeg. As it should be. Nutmeg gave them a cheery wave. 

“Yo! Behold!” 

“Wow.” Gel stepped back. “That’s – that’s not half bad, actually.”

“Is that a tongue?” asked D. 

“Yeah, I mean, I didn’t get the whole dragon, so I figured a placeholder would do.” 

“You didn’t kill either of the other dragons by yourself,” said Gel. 

“Well yeah, team effort, sure. If you want matching tattoos you’d better hurry. The artist is pretty squirrelly.” 

“Dwarf!” Nutmeg turned and saw Captain Zuri approaching, her jaw grimly set. 

“Hey Zuri, what’s up?”

She stopped a few paces away. Gel had a look of childish delight in his eyes. “I am a woman of honor,” said Zuri. “A woman who keeps her word. I hope we see you in Barrendell, ere the horde makes siege.” So saying, she bent slightly down and kissed Nutmeg hard on the mouth. 

Never one to lose an opportunity, Nutmeg acquitted himself pretty well before the captain finally broke away. “Zuri, baby, listen,” he began. 

“Save it.” She wheeled on Gel. “Are you happy, elf?”

“Extremely.”

By the time they got out of town, Nutmeg had a full explanation. The road south wound through light woods and rolling hills; beyond, the crooked peaks of the Wyvernspine range loomed high and jagged. There was a certain glee building in Nutmeg, a feeling he had not felt often while sober. The Hammerhand Holds! The remnants of the Dwarven Empire, out here in distant west. The dwarves he’d met in Humber had felt so familiar, so friendly. Long-lost kin. Exactly what he’d hoped to find. 

They’d ridden most of the day, and the sun was beginning to sink, when they heard the noises in the distance. Deep and guttural chuckling, with a chorus of chattering voices, all carried on the north wind. 

Nutmeg dismounted, and signaled for the others to do the same. They hobbled the horses near the treeline, and crept forward, quiet as could be, down the dusty track. Gel slipped forward, vanishing into the trees; after a few minutes, he returned. 

“Goblins,” he confirmed, voice low. “Six of em. And – a giant? Maybe two giants? I couldn’t tell.”

“Red Hand.”

“Oh for sure. I think they hit a wagon or something.”

“Whaddya say? Hob Gob Killin’ Mob?”

“Give me seventy seconds. If you hear them start screaming, come running.” 

“No fair getting first dibs.” 

“Hey, this is literally what I’m good at. Let me do my thang.”

“Don’t say thang.”

“Okay.”

Gel vanished once more. Nutmeg and Sister D waited. And waited. The deep chortling laughter and the chattering of goblin voices continued unabated. 

“So, are you excited to see the dwarves?” asked Sister D. 

“You know, I am. A little nervous, though. What if I don’t live up to their expectations?”

“Come on. You’re a great dwarf. The best one I know.” D smiled, then paused. “Besides, you’ve actually been to another ancient dwarven stronghold. You’ve seen Khaddakar. I bet you could impress them with that.”

“Oh hell yeah. I’ve still got the crystal ball. And the uh, the little novelty hammer thing that the Púkall gave me.” 

“Good memory!” 

The goblin-chatter was shattered by a scream. Then another. 

“Aw, he’s going to get all of them.” Nutmeg took off at a dead run. 

Gel’s guess looked right: a Red Hand band had attacked a wagon, it appeared. The goblins were carving up the horses and the people alike, although two goblins were now sprawled over the sacks in the back of the wagon. And beside the wagon – 

“Oh, shit,” said Nutmeg. 

What Gel had taken for two giants was, in fact, one creature with two heads. As tall as Wally had been, just as hairy, just as not-quite-human, but with two heads sprouting from its shoulders. The beast carried a greatclub smeared with blood, and bellowed a challenge as Nutmeg approached. 

It all happened very quickly. 

Two more goblins fell – one to an bolt from Gel, the other to a slingstone from Sister D. Nutmeg charged the giant. He feinted left, ducked right to swing. Had to jump away again when the other head followed his progress with unerring speed. The greatclub narrowly missed. A goblin leapt from the wagon towards Nutmeg, a jagged shortsword in its hands. Nutmeg batted it aside with the flat of the axe. The goblin flew a good thirty feet, screeching until it was pierced by a crossbow bolt, and fell in a heap. The two-headed giant bellowed again, something that sounded like “stupid little meat man!” and “eat horse meat make strong!” at the same time. The two heads had slightly different voices. 

Nutmeg tossed the axe aside and faced the giant head-on, unarmed aside from his magical gauntlets. The giant took the bait. The greatclub crashed down. Nutmeg caught it. Wrenched it free. It was a good eight feet long, twice Nutmeg’s height, but even then the gauntlets sent newfound strength through his arms and he hefted it as effortlessly as the giant had. He started with the legs, bringing old double-ugly down a few notches. Then a sound like coconuts clacking together as he struck the left head into the right head. Then just clean-up work, and the road was silent once more. 

“An ettin,” said Gel. “Never thought I’d see one alive.”

“Seen one dead?”

“Yeah there’s a taxidermied one in a mansion in the capital.”

“Eugh.” 

Sister D knelt by the bodies of the slain humans. “Poor folks never stood a chance,” she said. “But that’s odd – this looks like the Barrendell crest on their armor.” 

Sure enough, she was right: the humans were dressed in chain armor overlaid with a tabard displaying the sigil of Barrendell, the red lion rampant.

“Hey these guys were loaded.” Gel was tossing goblin bodies out of the wagon, and reached into one of the open sacks. He pulled out a fistful of gold and small gems – fresh and shiny, new currency. He flipped one down to Nutmeg. Nutmeg bit it.

“Real,” he said. “And they’ve got the lion of Barrendell on em.” 

“This might explain it.” Sister D had begun to lay out the belongings of the dead men, and pulled from a sticky pouch a folded letter. She read aloud: 

“‘To the esteemed Yordath Axebreaker,

‘As discussed, please find the payment of seven thousand gold pieces value for the services of your Gleaming Blades Company. Such services rendered are exclusive to Lady Ventresca LeRue of Barrendell, during and after the Time of Crisis which is expected to fall upon that aforementioned City in the Near Future. Leal service will be further rewarded upon the Ascension of Lady LeRue to her Rightful Station.’

“There’s a sigil of some sort at the bottom.” Sister D passed it around. Sure enough, a logo: a dagger with a lion’s head on the pommel.

“What’s up with that Rightful Station shit?” asked Nutmeg. “And also do you think it’s cool if we take this money. Finders keepers et cetera.”

“I’ll tell you what’s up with it,” said Gel. “What’s – what’s it up with. Whatever. I would bet I know what’s going on here, is what I’m saying. Someone in Barrendell smells trouble cooking, and wants their own personal dwarf army to help them outlast the trouble and maybe even climb up the pile a little.”

“Oh, like they’re going to do a coup to that cool Lord Marth guy while everyone’s distracted with the horde?”

“Hey, I dunno. I’m just saying that makes sense.” He paused. “Or…”

“Or?” 

“There was this kid back in Tanner’s Crossing who told me about something called The Daggers. Organized crime in the Vale. That’s the logo on the paper, a dagger. I dunno. Could be that instead.”

“Why not both?”

“We don’t know enough,” said Sister D. 

“That’s never stopped us before,” said Nutmeg. “Listen, why don’t we haul this gold down to the Holds? It’s a win-win. We can just say we’re here to hire folks for the defense of the city – fuck this ‘private army’ shit from La-La LaRue. And we can probably pocket some of the gold anyway, because if we get rid of the note, no one has to know about the backroom deals.”

“That isn’t a terrible idea,” agreed Sister D.

“Works for me,” said Gel. 

“Hell yeah,” said Nutmeg. “What could go wrong?”