Episode 034: Lords and Ladies (Text)

When we last left our heroes…THE HOB GOB KILLIN’ MOB set out for the Hammerhand Holds to recruit the Dwarves in the fight against the Red Hand! Along the way, GEL had a mysterious near-death experience, and NUTMEG discovered he may in fact be able to claim a regal title. Now our heroes are returning to BARRENDELL, through the war-torn HESTOR VALE…

Table of Contents

• Chapter 1 – In Which Gel Shoots One Bolt
• Chapter 2 – In Which We Don’t Get an Answer to That Question
• Chapter 3 – In Which Gel Finds Some Religion
• Chapter 4 – In Which Nutmeg Tries Very Hard to be Responsible
• Chapter 5 – In Which an Old Friend Arrives

Chapter 1 – In Which Gel Shoots One Bolt

Gel was musing to himself. He hummed softly beneath his breath, peering down the loaded bolt. It was only, what ten days ago, maybe two weeks, that he’d been the one doing a spot of light looting. Practice looting, granted, just to keep his b&e skills in tip-top shape, but looting nonetheless. And now here he was, a single trigger-pull from putting a bolt right through the skull of an opportunistic looter in the streets of Tallyard. 

A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead to his hand. It was uncharacteristic of him to sweat, but the days were hot here and the unrelenting sun brooked no cloud. Four days on the road since the Holds, cutting north-east across the open country to avoid the possible eyes of the horde. They’d reached the next town on the main road: Tallyard, a little town of no real importance, a hundred houses & buildings clustered up against a little burst of woodland, a lumber town. Fires already burned in Tallyard’s streets, and they’d slowed the horses and crept quietly forward to see if the horde had already taken the town. But no – no goblins, or flying beasts. Just looters. Looters with crude swords, cleavers, machetes and axes, chipping into the shuttered general store.

Gel watched his target carefully. The man was shirtless, his long hair bound up in a cloth atop his head. With his two-handed woodsman’s axe, he pointed and called out orders. A dozen or so looters obeyed his commands. They were organized, at least. That was interesting. The Daggers, perhaps? Gel had been hoping to run into an official member of that esteemed organization. Not for the first time, he wondered if they had already met members of the Daggers. There was that odd woman back in Tanner’s Crossing, the one who had cast a spell on Nutmeg to cheat at the barfight. She fit the bill. But others, maybe? Was Harmel the lamp-oil salesman a secret member of the Daggers? He’d certainly been loaded with cash. More than a lamp-oil salesman might normally take in. Or hell – maybe George had known of them. 

“Now,” said Nutmeg. The dwarf was crouched beside Gel, his voice low. “Go for it.”

Gel pulled the tickler up. The tickler – the trigger, to the uninitiated – was a long, thin metal rod beneath the back end of the stock. When depressed, the tickler released the nut, which in turn released the string, and sent the bolt down the cold iron strip atop the shaft of the weapon. The enchanted iron lent speed to the bolt, and it flew fast and true. 

Gel had a love for the crossbow. As a weapon, and this one in particular. Shortbows and longbows had never quite been his speed. Too much arm strength needed, and he’d found that his hands often shook from the exertion of drawing the string taut. The crossbow was slower, indeed, but for most of his career he had only ever needed one bolt. Maybe two. It was just so simple. Rack the string back with the goatsfoot. Load a bolt. Squint down. A slight pressure on the tickler and whiz the bolt would fly, and Gel’s bolts flew true. 

He’d marveled, the first time he took a shot. Twenty years old, working for Gangly Pete, back in the capital city. Gangly Pete had a makeshift lair – little better than a repurposed barn, Gel realized, with the benefit of hindsight, but the Magnificent Hall of Gangly Pete had been his second home. Seasoned cutthroats rested their dusty boots on splintering tables in the low firelight; fiddle and drum filled the air with old, nameless songs; the smell of ale and roast chicken was always just not quite covering the mustier smell of old rot and mildew; and above it all sat Gangly Pete, up in the rafters in his hammock-seat, chuckling and watching the Magnificent Hall enjoy his largesse. 

In those days there had been an elf-woman working for Gangly Pete, an unlovely lady called Jetty K’ro. Pretty Jetty, as they called her, with her one milky eye and her bald pate, mottled with burn scars from whatever horrible thing had happened to her. Pretty Jetty had a crossbow, a great windlass-wound thing that stood four feet from end to end, and she leaned on it as she drank and listened to the music. One night when the hearthfire burned low and the company was sparse, Pretty Jetty had waved Gel over. 

“Elf lad. What do they call you?”

He had told her. It was a different name then. 

“Seen you eye my Bessa all night.”

“I – I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to uh, who’s Bessa?”

Pretty Jetty smiled a gaptoothed smile. “She is.” Tapped the crossbow stock. “You ever seen the like?”

“The guards carry ones like that, but not so big.”

“Don’t let em tell you size don’t matter.” She winked. “You ever shot one, lad?”

“No.”

“Want to?”

“Yes?”

She took him out behind the Magnificent Hall, in the moonlight, and pointed to a tree a hundred yards away. A sycamore, bark ghostly in the cold light. 

“First you wind her up,” Pretty Jetty had explained. Showed him where to put his foot, showed him how to attach the windlass and jack the string into place on the nut. His arms were sore when he was done, but they were just getting started. “Heft it up before you load it,” she said. He did, and nearly buckled under the weight. “Easy does it. Gotta get used to a thing that big.” He steadied himself, squinting at the sycamore. “There y’are, lad. Now, I’ll toss a bolt on there. See?” He watched her fit the bolt into place, just so, settling atop the shaft easily. “Aim it, lad. Careful. Lower. Lower. Ah, there. Yeah, that should do it. When you’re ready, pull the tickler.” She guided his hand to the metal rod. “A gentle touch. All she needs. Bessa’s a sensitive lady.” 

A breath in, a breath out. Steadied. Aiming at the sycamore. Gel pressed the tickler. The bolt whizzed clear from the bow and, after a long whistle, thudded into the distant tree. He let out a shuddering breath. 

“It’s something, innit lad?” 

“Big, though,” he’d replied. “That cranking is a lot of work.”

“Sure, they make ‘em smaller. City guards carry those. You want one?” She winked at him with her milky eye. “You take it.”

And so he had. Stalked a city guard for a week. The guard disappeared. Left his crossbow behind. Gel killed Pretty Jetty with that crossbow not two years later, when he got a lot of money for selling out Gangly Pete. He’d almost felt bad putting a bolt through her eye, her eye the color of a sycamore in misty moonlight. Almost. But business was business. 

And business had brought him this crossbow, this delightful creation of Yanna Goldtress’, back in Dwarroway. This lovely, wonderful thing. The leaves and vines carved into the dark wood, the nut of polished horn – Yanna had claimed it was dragonhorn, but he suspected it was more likely buffalo – the string, made of five hundred yards of wound cord and sinew bound to a tight, thick rope, the tickler of polished steel. It hardly needed oiling (although of course he took great pains to maintain it well), and the enchantment on the iron bolt groove suffused the whole instrument with an air of weight and power. And no clumsy windlass crank to wind this tool – no, just a goatsfoot lever he kept at his belt.

While the bolt was flying towards the looter, Gel had already produced the goatsfoot lever. Flicked back the nut, slung the lever on the string. Ratcheted back. Click. The string locked in, he returned the lever to his belt and flicked a bolt into the groove. The enchantment seemed to hug the bolt, drawing it to sight tight in the groove. He was loaded before the first bolt had even struck home. 

Nutmeg was charging forward, bellowing; Sister D followed close behind. But Gel remained atop his little hill, squinting down the length of his favorite, favorite friend. Yep, all was right with the world. 

Except for that one nagging thing:

How the fuck was he alive?

Chapter 2 – In Which We Don’t Get An Answer to That Question

With the looters of Tallyard behind them, they turned east down the red-gold dwarf road, and a few days travel brought them at last to the gates of Barrendell. 

Little had changed, as far as Nutmeg could tell. The great twenty-foot walls of the city still stood; the towers of the High Keep still loomed from the great palatial hill. The dome of the Palladian cathedral still gleamed in the summer sun. All the banners bearing red lions still fluttered in the breeze. And yet as they approached the west gate of the city, it was impossible to miss the several dozen guards posted at the gatehouse, armed to the teeth. They all lowered spears and swords, bristling as the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob made their approach. One called out:

“You there! State your business!”

“We’re the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob.”

“…and? I don’t know who that is.”

“Our business is killin hobgoblins, man. Come on. We gotta talk to Lord Marth.”

“Oh shit,” said another guard. “Wait. I heard of them. Lerroy was telling me. He was at Tanner’s Crossing. These are the uh, the uh adventurers.”

“Ohh.” The first guard lowered his spear. “Dang. Well. That’s great. Welcome. Sorry about that.”

“Not at all, fellas.” Nutmeg puffed out his chest. “Just doing your duties, I understand. Good work. I’ll be sure to mention your names to the Lord.” He paused. “Or rather, to Captain Zuri. Yeah?”

“Yeah that’ll be more impactful,” agreed the guard. “I’m Temkins. This is Hoburt, and Jinni, and”

“I’ll just say it’s the folks in Temkin’s regiment, okay? Great. Good. See ya, boys.”

They rode in, Nutmeg leading the way. He’d finally decided on a name for this pony: Reaver. Was it a fitting name? Not precisely. Reaver was a shaggy little garron and had a sort of stink to him that was impossible to wash off. But it felt like a good name. A good name for a Hammermaster’s noble steed. 

The streets of Barrendell were strange. It was a city half at war. Here there were refugees on the corner, gathered in tents and wagons, and squatting outside shuttered shops; but here the shop windows were lit with homey light, and the passersby in the street were dressed in their finest silks, and life went on as ever. They hadn’t begun to fear yet. Not all of them. They would soon. 

They rounded the many corners and wound their way up through the city to the High Keep. It was only at the last turn, the last switchback up to the keep itself, that they were finally stopped. A barricade blocked the road, a well-built wooden palisade bedecked with sharpened stakes. A handful of guards manned the barricade. Nutmeg admired the work: it was a well-placed wall, crossing the road at a point where two buildings sat close enough to form a solid barrier, and at a point where the slope of the road disadvantaged any attacker. 

“Nutmeg!” 

Captain Zuri waved from the opposite side of the barricade. She was dressed head-to-toe in her Lion Guard regalia, her magnificent helm and armor gleaming in the heat. Beside her stood a man in civilian clothes, although a red enameled lion was pinned at his breast. He leaned on a cane, and wore an eyepatch; his silver hair and silver mustache were shot through with dark gray, like tarnish on steel. He squinted at Zuri. 

“You want me to let ‘em in, Zur?”

“Go on, Lars.”

The man tapped his cane twice on the wooden parapet, and a hidden gate swung open. 

“Oh, nice,” said Gel. “That’s a good trick.”

“Engineering is more than just tricks.” Lars sniffed.

“Yeah, Lars, we appreciate you.” Zuri rolled her eyes. “Nutmeg. Gelmahta. Dondalla. Great to see you three. Glad you outran the horde. Good news?”

“Good news,” confirmed Nutmeg. “Is the Lord in? Probably best if we catch everyone up all at once.” 

“Aye, we have a few things to share as well. Your timing is excellent.”

“Not the first time I’ve been told that.”

“Here now, whattya lookin at?” Lars barked at Gel, who had been inspecting the hidden gate mechanism. The elf jumped in the saddle. 

“Oh. Gosh. Hey. Just checking it out, man. Chill. Professional admiration.”

“Come on,” said Nutmeg. “You can moon over doors later.” 

Zuri led them the rest of the way, stopping off to let their horses rest at the stables. The keep was bustling with activity – guards and civilians alike, running hither and thither with messages and weapons and scrolls and potions and all manner of preparations. Here, at least, someone was taking the war seriously. 

“Hey Zuri,” said Nutmeg, “do you know a Lady LaRue?”

“Do I?” Zuri snorted. “That snooty tart. She’s in with Carlan now, and the others.”

“Oh shit,” said Nutmeg. “Uh let’s hurry.” 

“Why? Something the matter?”

“Maybe? Maybe not. I dunno.” 

The doors to the main hall were wide open, but the hall itself was nearly empty. Last time, there had been people hanging out and chatting at the tables around the hall, courtiers and merchants and the other effete riffraff of Barrendell. But now those tables were pushed to the sides, and a long table was set down the center of the hall, and a few apparent luminaries paced the length of it. Among them were a few familiar faces – the leaders of Tanner’s Crossing and Tarleytown, including both Norbert Wiseman and Slim Tarley. A map was laid out on the table, a map of the city. Lord Carlan Marth stood over it, shirtsleeves rolled up, fists resting on the table, listening with obvious unease to a severe-looking woman. The woman wore clothes that Nutmeg considered almost comically snooty: billowing slashed sleeves, a high-collared bodice inlaid with jewels, and, goofiest of all, a pillowy hat that rather looked like a seat cushion, with a divot in the middle and two rounded horns protruding on either side. The hat was decorated with a fine cloth-of-gold brocade, and probably cost a lot of money, but looked absolutely doofy. 

“Carlan,” the woman was saying, “it would be my honor to serve in this way, truly. The wealth of House LaRue stands behind you.”

“Fine. Good.” Carlan Marth nodded slowly. “I’m loath to burden Zuri with deputies, but every blade helps.”

“You’ll find my blades are sharp, I assure you,” said the woman. 

Carlan looked up. His dour expression melted to a smile. “Zuri. And – can it be? The Hob Gob Killin’ Mob graces my hall once more?”

Anna Thornspur, who had been sitting at the far end of the table, stood suddenly. “Oh! Oh gods, it’s you guys!” 

“Yo, Anna, what’s up?” Nutmeg gave her his coolest nod. “Yeah man. We’re back in town.”

Wiseman, Tarley, and the other familiar dignitaries all nodded, their expressions ranging from great, good to see you to oh gods, it’s these motherfuckers again. 

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” The woman in the stupid hat gave a polite curtsy, the absolute smallest curtsy Nutmeg had ever seen. “Lady Ventresca LaRue, of the House LaRue, at your service. Or rather – at Lord Marth’s service.”

“Nice,” said Nutmeg. “I’m Nutmeg, Lord of Caer Karnak, Hammermaster of Durnehvaaz, slayer of Saeverix the Black and Mazzirandus the Green, Captain of the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob.”

“That’s putting it a little strong,” said Gel. “I’m Gelmahta, also Lord of Caer Karnak. Also slayer of Saeverix and Mazzirandus. Co-captain.”

“And I’m Sister Dondalla, Sunlit Crusader of Palladius.” She looked to the others. “Lieutenant of the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob?”

“Come on. We’re all co-captains.”

“Well, technically, I said I was captain first, so I think that makes me First Captain. You can be Second Captain, D.”

“What the fuck, man, I’m obviously Second Captain by your stupid logic.”

“Just for that, you’re demoted to Sergeant-at-Arms. Watch it, buddy.”

Lord Marth cleared his throat. “Be all…that…as it may – I’m sure you have news for us. Zuri told us of your mission to the Holds.”

Nutmeg eyed Lady LaRue. If she was suspicious of their work in the Holds, she didn’t show it. He was tempted to just dump all her shit on the table and have it over with…but he hesitated. What would a Hammermaster do? A king of hammers? A really responsible dwarf? Clearly LaRue had just promised Marth some soldiers or something. Was it good to just blow up her spot right away?

“It was good,” he said. “Uh real good. Yeah. Hammermaster Guthrik – my fellow Hammermaster – has agreed to send seven hundred dwarves to Barrendell. Should be here soon.”

“Thank the gods.” Marth pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “Oh, Palladius. That’s wonderful. We could use more real soldiers. We’ve sent word to Humber, to all the towns in the Vale, but response has been slow so far. We’re opening ranks of volunteers, of course – it sounds like that worked for you at Tanner’s Crossing – but we’ve had to dip into city reserve funds to pay the smiths to equip the volunteers. And then there’s the matter of the evacuation – again, we can see that worked for you in the west. We’re thinking of sending civilians to Humber, whether they like it or not. Ventresca here was just offering her private guards as escorts for the refugees, if we take that route.” 

“How close is the horde?” asked Gel. “We didn’t see them in Tallyard.” 

“There’s a fort at Nearlough’s Gap, a few days west of Tallyard. Our last report from the Gap said Tarleytown has fallen to the horde, but they’re moving slowly. Another three weeks before they’re at our gates, if the pace holds. And the soldiers at the Gap are hoping to harry the horde a little.”

“Better get them outta there,” advised Nutmeg. “They don’t stand a chance.”

From the door came a new voice: “My lord? A moment?”

They all turned to look. In the doorway stood the most beautiful woman Nutmeg had ever seen. There was no one thing about her that made her the most beautiful. Oh, sure, her long golden hair, tied up in a ponytail and draped over her shoulder, was the color of the sun at the end of a long summer day. And yeah, whatever, her eyes gleamed with a honey-colored sweetness, so rich and brown he could imagine floating forever in their depths. And yes, obviously the drape of her red-and-gold robes was both flattering and modest, cinched at the waist with a chain of gold and silver. To say nothing of the curve of her cheekbones, the grace in the way she stepped, the piety radiating from her every word. But it was all of those things together, the whole of her, that made the breath come short in every throat. 

“Sister Alliana.” Lord Marth stood very suddenly, almost kicking his chair over. “Of course. My lady. Whatever you need.”

“Just a moment, I promise.” She laughed, and it was frankly offensive how charming her laugh was. She turned to the rest of them. “I will return your Lord to you in no time.” She noticed Sister D, and gave her a perfectly beatific smile. “Sister. I see you carry the raiment of our true lord, Palladius, blessed be his light.”

“Blessed be his light,” echoed Sister D. “Sister Dondalla. Sunlit Crusader.”

“A Sunlit Crusader?” The beautiful brown eyes went wide. “A ray of his light in these dark times. We are well met indeed. I am Sister Alliana Adour, High Priest of Palladius in Barrendell – and in the Vale. Please, do come visit at the temple when your duties allow it. I would take council with you, and offer you whatever I can.” She took Carlan Marth by the arm; he seemed half in a daze. “Well met, all of you.” 

When she was gone, Zuri shook her head. “No one like our Sister Alli.”

“What’s her deal?” Gel was watching the door still. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. 

“Lord Marth’s beautiful companion,” explained Lady LaRue, “is half-angel.”

“Half-angel?” Nutmeg was baffled. “That’s a thing that can happen?”

“Can and has,” agreed Zuri. “Hey. I thought it was crazy too. But she traveled with Carl and I on our adventures. She’s a handy broad to have around in a pinch. Bit of a stick up the ass, but can’t avoid that with religious types. Uhhhh sorry Sister, Dondalla, sorry.” 

“No problem.” Sister D looked, in fact, as if she had a problem. 

“I doubt they’ll be back soon,” sniffed Lady LaRue. “Captain Zuri, do send for me if our good lord needs me. I’ll be arranging matters with my private guard.” 

When she was gone, Nutmeg sat down at the table. “Alright. Zuri. Point me out a place on the map where I can spend some totally-legitimately-acquired gold.”

Chapter 3 – In Which Gel Finds Some Religion

Gel had not been in many Palladian temples, and had only entered a very small handful through the front door. This one beat them all. The green lawn in front of the cathedral was surprisingly quiet and contemplative for being so close to the heart of the city, and the magnificent columns of the temple were, he found, enameled in gold and silver, wrought in lovely spiraling designs. Within, the temple was breathtaking. The dome soared overhead, lit by enchanted orbs drifting slowly in upper air of the temple. The inside of the dome was just as golden as the outside, and glowed like the setting sun in the soft light of the orbs. Passages led off into the wings of the cathedral, where the priests and workers no doubt lived and prayed, but there was no one place that felt workmanlike or pedestrian. In fact, cunning little mirrors and reflective polished brass discs dotted the walls in abstract shapes, no doubt of elven design, reflecting and magnifying all the light within the temple. The whole cathedral was a work of light and air. The walls, though thick and solid stone, seemed as ethereal as a moment’s sunlight on a blade of grass. 

Carlan Marth and Sister Alliana stood beneath the dome, their voices lowered. They stood nearly cheek-to-cheek, and when Gel entered, Carlan took an unconscious step back, as if caught in some bawdy act. 

“Ah – yes? Gelmahta, correct?” 

“Yeah hey wassup.” 

“Can we – can I help you?”

“I need to talk to the angel lady.” 

Alliana’s laugh was just as bright and glittering as her cathedral. “A true believer, Carlan. Palladius be praised – his light is sorely needed. Go on. We’ll speak on this later.” 

“If you say so, my lady.” Carlan bowed, taking Alliana’s hand in his. He then turned and hurried out with that same nigh-scandalized affect. 

“You guys uhh fuckin?” asked Gel. 

Alliana’s face hardly changed. “You’re uncomfortable. What troubles you?”

“Have we ever met before?” He watched her very, very carefully. She seemed like the sort of person who could lie well, if she ever deigned to do so. 

“I don’t believe we have,” she said. “But why would you ask?”

“You saved me.” His voice echoed in the dome, and he found that he could hear himself as if he were out of his own body. “I fell out of a tower, and you saved me.” 

“I did?” 

“Well, someone who looked like you.”

“An angel.” 

“I don’t know about that. I just know – I fell out of a tower. I broke my legs. Maybe my neck, my back. I fell asleep. I should’ve been dead. I know what it takes to kill a man, I know it very very well, and I should’ve been dead. But I had a dream. I dreamed – I dreamed I saw an angel. She looked just like you. Light all around her. Wings from her back. She reached out to me, and it was like I woke up for the first time. Like I could see everything all around me. Clearly. With good eyes. And then I actually woke up, and I was just on the ground, and in a lot of pain, but I could move around ok. And then – hey, I mean, I did what I did, I’m a cool guy who does a lot of cool shit, but I still don’t have any idea how I got back up. Kept it close to the vest, partly cause it’s embarrassing to tell my friends I fell out a window, but partly because I feel like I’m going crazy here. What god would save me?” 

Sister Alliana studied Gel for a moment. Just looked at him. He tried to meet her gaze, but found it very difficult to hold those honeybright eyes for longer than a few moments. 

“If I may,” she said, softly, “I would like to pray with you. To ask Palladius what he can share with me. Would you be comfortable with that?” 

“Comfortable? No. But I mean yeah I’ll do that, sure.”

Again, her bright laugh. “Well-said, Gelmahta. We are not required to be comfortable with what we must do. We are only required to do it. Come. Kneel.” 

He knelt, expecting she would kneel beside him. Instead, she placed a hand on his forehead, and raised the other hand straight up in the air, fingers splayed like the rays of the sun. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, and murmured words:

O Palladius

Light of gentle strength

Shining beyond the years

Through the dark futures yet unseen

And the dim shadows of the past

Grant me, I beseech thee,

O greatest of the gods,

O brightest flame,

What sight you can offer

Warmth tingled from her fingers into Gel’s forehead. He glanced up. She stood with her head tilted back, light spilling from her mouth, from her eyes. The light danced and scintillated all around the dome in coruscating colors. She lowered her gaze and met his eyes, and Gel had to look down now because he simply could not stare directly into the sun. 

After a moment, she removed her hand. She stepped back, and her face was that of an ordinary – extremely beautiful half-angel, but ordinary – woman. 

“There will come a time when you see the light for yourself. There will come a day when you do a great service to our Lord. Naked you lie, and the knife flashes high, and plunges down to taste your blood.” 

A chill ran through Gel. He’d never felt this way before. Old Aydry the fortune teller, the witch of Truman’s Dell, had said those same words to him. Only then she had promised they were the guarantees of Death itself. Now this lovely half-angel spoke the same words, and said they were from the mouth of the Lord of Light. 

“You are correct in your belief,” she continued, not noticing his chill, “that an angel of the Lord did save you. Palladius wishes you to live a while yet.”

He gulped. Couldn’t let her know how much this affected him. “Sweet. So I’m immortal now? Your god’s gonna save me no matter what?”

“I didn’t say that.” Alliana frowned, and Gel had to admit that he’d never seen a sadder, more achingly beautiful frown. “I cannot speak to his ways. Perhaps the actions you have taken have already created the light Palladius sought. Perhaps this very conversation was the reason you were saved. None of us can claim to know. All I can tell you is what I have told you: there will come a time when you see the light of Palladius first-hand. You will do a great service to our lord. And the vision – the vision of great peril. The knife, and the stone, and you.” 

He left the temple in a daze. The very heat of the sun seemed like a watchful gaze now, Palladius keeping tabs on his little pets. Gel squinted up. What the fuck was going on here? He hated this feeling. Being controlled, watched. Moved like a piece on a board. He’d only agreed to this whole government contract business as a favor to Lucy, and because she promised him plenty of autonomy. He’d begun to doubt that once they discovered that Mr. E had fucked with Enebor’s memories – but there was still a lot of wiggle room to do this job. A long leash.

But to have a god fucking around with you? He blinked furiously, the sun’s afterimage red behind his eyelids. What could he do about that? Hide from the gods? And Palladius had saved his life – why? 

He looked around him. Shit. He’d taken a wrong turn from the temple. He was still in the upper part of the city, but on a street he’d never seen. There was shop on the corner nearest him – a coffin shop, the Genteel Repose. A big gaudy coffin was displayed in the front window, lined with multicolored velvet cushions and stained a deep and somber teak. It felt like a bad omen.

“Lost, are ya?” 

Gel whirled. It was the man from the barricades – the silver-haired fellow with the missing leg and missing eye. Lars. 

“Uh. Yeah, a little, maybe.”

“Where is it you’re trying to be?” The man’s accent was hard to place, seeming to change from word to word. 

“Well actually I don’t know. I guess I’m looking to catch up with Nutmeg, wherever he went. The dwarf I came with.” Gel paused. Talking to Lars was bringing him back to solid ground. “Hey actually, I did have some questions about how you did that gate mechanism.” 

Lars grinned. “Arr. Aye, it was a fine bit of tinkering, that. We haven’t been introduced, though, elf. Lars Macavity, former Captain of the Lion Guard.”

“Gel. Hob Gob Killin’ Mob. Former captain?”

“Aye.” Lars gestured with his cane. “Come on. I’ll walk ya out. Your compatriot went off to spend some coin at Red’s Magic and Sundries.” Gel followed the former captain away from the coffin shop. 

“You an engineer yore self?” asked Lars. “Know a thing or two about tinkering?”

“A thing, maybe two. I can keep my crossbow in working order, and…I understand locks.”

“Engineering,” agreed Lars. “A sword’s a fine thing, but a wall’ll keep the ogres at bay, and a trap’ll tackle twenty times what a soldier can get, if’n you make it right. Used to be a sapper in the north, back when we had some ogre trouble up that way. Ogres’re tough’n’mean, but you get em on their backs with a good fallen log or nettle their legs with scat-darts, and they’ll topple like all the rest.”

“Hey, I can appreciate that. You got any tips on a portable trap? Something I could carry with me, set up quick?”

Lars made a hmmm noise deep in his throat. “Bear trap, ball bearings…creativity is the only limit. That and what you can build, and whether or not it works, and how much it costs, and how heavy it is. I’ll dig out me ol’ textbook, loan it to ye.”

“Lars, I gotta ask, I can’t really fix your accent. Where are you from?”

Lars waved his hand. “Oh, all over.”

“Fine. Don’t know what I expected. Look, you building traps and shit for the siege? Preppin for that?”

“Makin’ some plans, aye.” Lars sighed. “The real fight I’m pickin’ now is ranged weaponry. Lord Marth, bless him, thinks the old trebuchets are the way to go. But with the tale of winged foes, I wanter set the engineers to build ballistae. Really puncture a wing or two.”

“Oh I’m with you one hundred percent. A giant crossbow is exactly what you need.”

“Put in a word with Lord Marth for me then, would ya? Mean a great deal.”

“You don’t have military authority to tell him this?”

“Former captain. Now I’m just a hobbyist. Zuri brought me outta retirement to help with the siege, but strictly on a consultancy basis.” 

They’d come down out of the high streets and toward the river on the north edge of town. Here was the real market district of Barrendell. Crowded streets and bric-a-brac buildings clustered together near the riverfront, with market wagons and roadside stalls every which way. Lars indicated a building with a tall, pointed tower jutting up from the roof. 

“Red’s place. Cain’t miss it. Faith and begorrah, it’s been good talkin’ to ya. Gel, it were?”

“Holy shit. What an accent. Yeah, Gel. Let’s talk traps next time. Coordinate some stuff for the siege. I have some ideas I want to try out.”

They parted ways, and Gel hurried off to find Nutmeg. The conversation with Lars had done the trick: he was hardly thinking about Palladius now. Hardly thinking about fate, and death, and how an angel had apparently saved his life a few days ago. Hardly thinking about it at all. 

Chapter 4 – In Which Nutmeg Tries Very Hard to Be Responsible

The wizard was testing Nutmeg’s patience. 

Lyberthal the Red, owner and proprietor of Red’s Magic and Sundries, did not much resemble the last wizard they’d met. Sendivogius of Tanner’s Crossing had been a nebbish little loser, in Nutmeg’s estimation. Lyberthal was broad-necked for a scroll jockey, and his arms looked like he probably weighted his wands for a little extra workout. He was bald, and wore a little metal skull cap. His nose looked like it had been broken once or twice, and not just from getting stuck too deep in a book. He wore red robes, and his sleeves were rolled up, and right now he was really getting on Nutmeg’s nerves. 

“Look, it’s a simple rule: you look, you don’t touch. You touch it, you buy it.” 

“Hey man. I hear you. But how the fuck am I supposed to know what the potions do if I can’t sniff em?”

Lyberthal folded his meaty arms across his chest. “Ask me. Or Veneria over here.” He nodded with his chin, indicating the beautiful woman working over a set of alchemical tools behind the counter. “But don’t. Touch. The potions.”

For what felt like the ten zillionth time that day, Nutmeg asked himself what would a responsible Hammermaster do? He was no longer just a common dwarf. He was basically a king or something. He had to comport himself well. 

He stood before the wall of potions, little bottles nestled carefully in wooden racks. There were other objects displayed around the shop – a cloak here, a beautiful longbow there – but Nutmeg was looking for potions. That potion of flying back in Tanner’s Crossing had been a lifesaver. There had to be more here in this shop. But how could he possibly figure out which potion was which? 

He sighed. “Alright man. Sorry for being an asshole. I’m looking to fly.”

“Was that so hard?”

Nutmeg bit his lip. Hammermasters don’t beat up random wizards. Hammermasters don’t pee on wizards. “No. Come on, whaddya got?”

As it turned out, Lyberthal was more than happy to go through the whole catalog of potions. Nutmeg made a mental tally of the prices. There was definitely going to be some sort of hero discount. Adventurer discount. Hammermaster discount? Maybe. 

“What’s your need, anyway?” asked Lyberthal. “It’s rare to get someone in here who needs more than one potion. Let alone some of these more…expensive offerings.” 

“Hob Gob Killin’ Mob. We’re spearheading the defense of the city against the horde. Going on top secret missions. That sort of thing.”

Lyberthal raised his bushy eyebrows. “So it’s true, then? We’re looking at a real horde?” 

“Oh yeah.” 

The wizard exchanged a look with his lovely assistant. The woman – tawny-haired, skin a deep sun-kissed brown – gave the wizard a slight smile. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” said Lyberthal. “Me and Veneria, we dabble in scrying. Thought we caught some weird shit out west. Dragons. Giants. But it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s history, or what’s distant future.”

A thought occurred to Nutmeg. “Hey – can you identify magic auras on shit? Like a little hammer?”

“A hammer? What?”

“This one.” Nutmeg produced the cog-hammer. “You gotta be careful with it, though. It’s the uh symbol of my high office.”

Lyberthal took it gingerly, and passed it to his assistant. Veneria lifted the hammer to the light. She nodded at Lyberthal, and the same faint smile played across her lips. 

“Yeah, we can take a look. Costs gold though. Hundred to identify.”

“Listen – I’m going to buy a shit load of potions. Can you throw this in as a freebie?”

To Nutmeg’s surprise, Lyberthal shrugged. “Yeah, no sweat. If we’re going to be under siege soon, I’d rather turn inventory. Not risk it getting smashed up in the chaos. Go ahead, Veneria.”

Veneria’s eyes rolled back in her head. To Nutmeg’s surprise, they didn’t go white, as they should’ve; instead, they were now a solid golden color, a sheen like sunset on flat water. She held the hammer in one hand; the other drew patterns in the air. Lyberthal nodded as she did this, making a few notes on a piece of paper. His eyebrows rose and he pursed his lips. At last, Veneria’s eyes returned to their normal state – rich and brown, but not solid – and she handed the hammer back to the wizard, who handed it back to Nutmeg. 

“So? What’s the diagnosis?”

“A real curio you’ve got there.” Lyberthal sounded distracted now, lost in thought. “Echoes of the Cog Dimension. Real old, strange magic in that. Latent magic. Sort of like – are you familiar with a thunderstone?” He reached into a box behind the counter and pulled out a familiar little rock. 

“Am I? I’ve got like a dozen in my pack right now.”

“So you understand – there’s magic in a thunderstone. Small magic, granted, but magic. Latent. It requires activation. For a thunderstone, all it takes is a good hard smack. For that hammer?” He paused. “Well. No, that’s not quite right. The metaphor’s tricky. It’s like a key of some sort. Magic in it, but latent until it is in the right place. Or near the right thing.” Lyberthal shook his head. “I wouldn’t have charged you for this ident anyway. This thing’s too hard to read. You’d have to find someone who knows a lot about the Cog Dimension. And I don’t know of anyone who studies that specifically. Maybe some scholar out in the Hegemony. Or someone up north in Nilhast.”

“I’d say it has whatever value you choose to believe it has,” added Veneria, speaking for the first time. Her voice was smooth and deep.

“Huh. Neat.”

Then came business.

By the time Gel joined him, Nutmeg had arranged for the purchase of two potions of mighty strength, a potion of flying, several healing tinctures, and a dozen mixed vials of Tinkerer’s Fire, Gumfoot bags, and acid. 

“Oh hey Gel.”

“Yo.”

“Lyberthal, you got any sneaky potions for my friend here?”

“Certainly.” The wizard produced two vials from the top rack. He’d been using a little wand to magically lift the needed vials down without having to leave his place behind the counter; the two vials floated down, gentle as could be, and settled on the counter. One contained a liquid that looked clear as water – but then again, maybe clearer. It was almost hard to tell if the vial had anything in it at all. The other vial was the opposite – black as ink and then twice as black again. 

“Invisibility,” said Lyberthal, tapping the first vial. “And an oil of darkness. Coating yourself or something in this oil will make it very, very hard to see. A little black cloud and nothing more.” 

“Hey, I’ll take em both.” Gel reached for them. 

“One moment. We need to settle up. It’s two thousand gold pieces for the lot, then.”

“Is this guy serious?” Gel looked to Nutmeg incredulously. “You told him who we are, right?”

“Gel, this is actually super discounted.” 

“Nah, come on, what’s the real discount? A thou?” 

“No for real, Gel. We can afford it. Come on. This guy could be a good friend to us.”

Gel sighed. “Fine. But only because I’ve had a very strange day already.”

When they’d settled up, Lyberthal shook both their hands. His grip was just as firm as Nutmeg expected. 

“I appreciate your custom, I really do. And listen – if things are going the way it seems they’re going, keep me in mind. Veneria and I – we’ll do what we can to help. I like this city. I don’t want a bunch of assholes to ruin it.” 

He even provided a little satchel lined with padding to store the glass bottles and vials. Nutmeg threw it over his shoulder as they left the shop. 

“Where to now?” he asked Gel. 

“I think we gotta talk to Lord Marth.”

“What about?”

“The uh Lady LaRue thing. The plot to coup him.”

“Oh that.” 

Chapter 5 – In Which an Old Friend Arrives

A cool breeze carried evening to the high hill of Barrendell. Gel watched a distant eagle soaring high and small off to the north, carried on summer’s boisterous thermals. A few bright stars began to wink to life in the purpling sky. The golden dome of the temple was bright as ever, all light magnified and reflected in Palladius’ glory. 

He shook himself. Palladius’ glory. Fucking goodness gracious. Who was he – Sister D? One little brush with the transmundane and here he was, ruminating on divinity. Nah, fuck that. He was still who he was. He’d prayed sometimes, sure, and even said the occasional prayer to Palladius, but that was mostly out of habit and obligation. This was not his new Thing. 

The doors to the keep were barred now, and guards stood before them. Nutmeg and Sister D approached; Gel trailed just behind them, watching the shadows. If Barrendell was like any other city in the world – and so far, it was – there would be little spies and padfoots running from window to window, listening and watching and swiping bits of parchment and generally spying on whoever for whomever. But some of those spies would belong to Lady LeRue, and Gel intended to keep an eye on them. Who knew how long they were going to be in Barrendell – best make the most of their time. 

“Yes, it’s important,” Nutmeg was saying. “Super important. Come on, you know us by now. We’re the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob.” 

“No admittance,” declared the guard. “Captain’s orders.”

“Zuri? Come on. She and I are lovers. She’d let me enter in a heartbeat.” 

“Oh, would I?”

The doors opened a crack, and Zuri poked her head out. “Thought it was you lot. What’s the ruckus?” 

“Is Carl in? We gotta talk to him.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. He’s up. Come on.” 

She led them beyond the main hall of the keep, up a flight of stairs, to a wide balcony overlooking the city. The wind blew crisp and cool. Carlan Marth sat in a low-backed chair, a goblet in one hand, his chin resting on the other fist. He looked up, eyebrow cocked in surprise. 

“Zu – oh! The Hob Gob Killin’ Mob graces me with their presence once more.” He nodded to the empty chairs around him. “Come, sit. What’s the matter?” 

Nutmeg looked back at Gel as they sat. Gel shrugged, nodded, you do it, buddy. 

“There’s no easy way to say this,” began Nutmeg. “But uh look. I told you we visited with the dwarves, recruited them to our cause, blah blah blah.”

“Yes, yes. Admirably done, too. Guthrik’s a tough nut – believe me, I know.” 

“Well so here’s the thing, the thing about it. We found out that Lady Ventresca LaRue is planning to usurp your position with the help of Guthrik’s shithead brother Yordath. She might be straight-up planning a coup. Sounds like she’s got the backing of some criminal enterprise, the Daggers.” 

Carlan and Zuri exchanged a long look. 

“I told you, Carl, I fucking told you-”

“Yes, you did, you’re the wisest, everyone respects you, a thousand congratulations.” Carlan sighed. “Look. I had some idea – yes, thanks to you, Zuri, but also in general. The LaRues have been nobility in the Vale for generations untold, tracing back to the earliest days of the Lions, and then here I am, some upjumped adventurer, chosen as Lord after the Meliastene Crisis of eight sixty-three.”

“Rightly chosen,” said Zuri. “We saved this city.”

“Oh yeah?” Gel leaned forward on the rail, looking out to the north. Still that eagle circled high, although it had come a little closer now. “Cool man. I was wondering how you made the transition from adventurer to uh rich guy.” 

“Luck, and blood. Sharp swords and keen wits.” 

“Right on.”

“As for the Daggers – we’re well aware of them, I assure you.” Carlan gestured with the goblet. “Back when we were running around doing this and that, tales of derring-do, et cetera, we had our fair share of run-ins with the Daggers. Most of ‘em are no better than petty thieves, fencing their wares and passing the lion’s share of profits on up the line. But there’s some real bloodthirsty folks in that company. We’re counting on it. You heard Ventresca refer to her private guards earlier? Come on. We all know who she’s talking about. The Queen O’Daggers, and the Silver Shadow, and the Unnubb Brothers…all the rogues of the Vale answer to Ventresca LaRue.”

“Well come on man, do something about it.” Gel drew his icy shortsword and held it out; in the soft moonlight, it glowed a faint blue. “We took care of Yordath for you – Guthrik has total control now, and LaRue can’t rely on a dwarf without a head. I’m sure you guys could bust out the old hardware again, do a little slicing and dicing.” He eyed Marth. “Zuri I can tell, and Sister Adour is obvious. But what was your thing, man?”

Carlan Marth winked, and the years seemed to melt off him like frost from a tree in spring. “Oh, I was a hard man back then. Me and Zuri trained together, fought together. I preferred a two-handed sword myself. Warrant, I called it. It still hangs over my bed.” He sank back into the chair. “Learned a few other things, too. From our friend Augus. A real trickster, Augus, and handy with a spell or two. He taught me to pick a lock and creep along a battlement, and I’ll never forget that. But those days are behind me. I have to stretch when I get out of bed every morning, and my knees ache just climbing the stairs to this balcony.

“And I’ve learned too much about peace to go drawing Warrant in haste. Ventresca’s a right clever old beast, and I don’t doubt we’ll have it out one day. But the city needs me to hold it together, not tear it apart. We did some digging not long ago – you know over half the people in Barrendell, either directly or indirectly, owe Ventresca and the Daggers either money, favors, or both? If I let her keep her power, she’s less likely to cause open trouble for me. Crack down, and there’s no telling what happens to Barrendell. War in the streets.” 

“So you’re just going to do nothing?” Nutmeg’s voice was harsh. “Come on, man! Defend your shit!” 

“Nothing yet.” Carlan stood then, and leaned on the balcony. “What do you care, anyway? Mercenaries from a far-off land, as I understand it. You’ve passed the message, you’ve told me what you learned from the Holds. Why should you care about the politics of Barrendell.”

Gel looked off into the night sky. “It’s our job to care.” 

“What does that mean?”

“I think what my friend here means is – we want to beat this horde. This Red Hand shit. So it’s our job to make sure the city lasts, you know? To make sure you hold up.”

“Oh yeah, and – ballistae.”

“What?”

“You’re really going to want to build those big crossbows,” explained Gel. “Way better for manticores than trebuchets.”

“You’ve been talking to Lars, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” Gel squinted up. “Oh shit.” He pointed. “Something big.”

The eagle in the sky had grown, and grown, and grown, and showed no signs of stopping. It was swooping down towards them now, very fast, silent, its great wings wide as it circled above, and the figure on its back raised a hand in greeting, and then it was there before them: a giant owl of the Yoi Kal, perched on the balcony of Lord Marth’s keep, and Enebor himself swung down from the saddle and landed – perfectly – on the cold stones. 

“Oh fuck yeah dude,” said Nutmeg. 

“Halt!” Zuri had her blade drawn, but her wide eyes and trembling hand betrayed her terror at the great owl looming over her. “Stay back!” 

“He’s a friend,” said Gel. “I assume you’re still our friend, Enebor?”

“But of course I am, Gelmahta.” Enebor knelt. He was dressed in the fine raiment of his people: deerskin riding breeches, embroidered with red-and-blue beads and little discs of copper. Deerskin straps crisscrossed his chest, and he wore several knives and a short curved bow. Otherwise, he was the same: Enebor, he of the golden hair and solemn countenance. 

“Lord of Barrendell,” continued Enebor, “I have been sent to seek aid – from you, or from these warriors we both call friends. I ask your pardon for the nature of my arrival – speed is of the essence.” 

“I remember when I could just enjoy a stiff drink on the balcony in peace without being accosted by mercenaries and owl-riders.” But Marth’s eyes were twinkling. Gel could see the adventurer peeking out from under the guise of the lord. “Go on. Say your piece, good elf. The Yoi Kal are always welcome here.” 

“Nutmeg. Dondalla. Gelhmahta. When you last spoke to Alaë, our Starvoiced One, she told you she could not send owl-riders to aid the Vale. Not with the daghdakka breathing down our necks.”

“Yeah? And?”

Enebor’s golden eyes gleamed in the starlight. “We have found them. We know where they roost, and we know how to put an end to their foul breeding. Alaë has agreed – if they are eliminated, my riders are free to loose vengeance upon the servants of the Unmaker.” 

“Shit baby that’s all you gotta say.” Nutmeg grinned broadly. “Let’s do it! Yo, Carl, can we rent some horses?”

“No time,” said Enebor, before the baffled Carlan had a chance to speak. “We travel another way.” He produced one of the thin wooden whistles and gave a few sharp puffs, just barely within Gel’s range of hearing. 

A moment passed. Two moments. 

Then three more owls circled down from the high dark sky, alighting beside Enebor’s on the railing of the balcony. Three more great owls, eight feet at the shoulder, tacked and saddled to ride. 

“Oh shit,” said Nutmeg. “Hold on.” He grabbed the goblet from Carl’s hand and drained the liquid at a go. “I would like to be extremely drunk for this.”