Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

“You move quietly for a guide,” said Singe. He examined the goblin. The little creature carried a long knife on either side of his belt. “You’re well-armed for one, too.”

The goblin shrugged. “Not always a guide.”

Singe raised an eyebrow. “Well whatever you are, I don’t think we need one right now.”

“Wait.” Natrac touched Singe’s arm and whispered, “We could use directions. It will get us out of here quicker.”

“You trust him?” asked Geth from Singe’s other side.

“I wouldn’t follow him across the street, but there are six of us and we’re expecting an ambush. We’ll be fine.” Natrac raised his voice. “Five copper crowns if you direct us to the nearest exit-no tricks. We can find our own way.”

“Ban.” The goblin shrugged again and pointed along a walkway that intersected the one they stood on. “Turn left, then right. Look for the straight ladder.”

“Thank you.” Natrac’s hand reached into a pouch and he stepped forward to give the goblin his reward.

Singe looked down the way that the goblin had pointed. He couldn’t see much in the gloom, but the walkway looked open and clear, with no possible hiding places. Maybe the goblin had given them honest directions.

Maybe not. Singe dipped his fingers into his money pouch and brought out a copper coin. He clenched the coin tight and murmured a word of magic into his fist-then stepped forward and flung the coin as far as he could along the walkway.

Released from the concealment of his fingers, the coin flashed with magical light. It was no brighter than a torch, but in the dimness of the webs, it was dazzling. Singe shaded his eyes and followed the coin’s arc as the others gasped in surprise.

Screeches of dismay erupted from the shadows and startled goblins dropped like spiders out of their hiding places among the great beams overhead, tumbling down to the walkway and scurrying away from the unexpected magic.

Natrac bellowed like an angry bull. His hand opened, scattering copper crowns across the walkway, and clamped around the goblin’s scrawny neck, wrenching him off his feet. The goblin kicked and struggled, but Natrac simply held him away. He raised the knife on his right wrist. “Now,” he said, “which way do we really go?”

His eyes bulging, the goblin pointed in another direction. Natrac growled and started to set him down.

“Maybe not yet,” said Singe. Down the other walkway, goblins were edging back into the light of the glowing coin, their fear fading fast as they realized that the magic was nothing that would hurt them. A few were turning bright eyes back to the group of bigfolk that had intruded on their territory. Natrac glanced at the goblin in his grip.

“If you think they care enough to see you stay safe, you’d better tell them to stay back.” He lowered the goblin to the ground and eased his grasp on his throat. The goblin drew a rasping breath and shouted something frightened in its harsh language. The other goblins paused and pulled back.

“Good,” said Natrac. “Now let’s find that exit.” Keeping a firm grip on the goblin’s shoulder, he steered the little creature along the walkway. Singe and Geth took the rear of the group, keeping their eyes on the goblins behind them.

The way back to the upper streets of Zarash’ak, a flight of steep stairs that rose up to the edge of a narrow courtyard, was actually remarkably close but not particularly easy to spot. The goblin gang, Singe thought, probably did good business ambushing those looking for it. Natrac dragged the goblin along with them up the stairs, then released him once they were all in the courtyard above. The goblin disappeared back into the webs with a series of barking curses that Singe could only imagine were promises of vengeance if they were ever caught in the webs again.

Natrac ignored him and looked around. “This way,” he said.

They had emerged from the webs in a part of the city unlike the others Singe had seen. The buildings were older and the orc influence on them-and the people-more obvious. The street rang with loud music, rough laughter, and the guttural Orc language. The odors of food and drink drifted on the evening breeze: gaeth’ad , ale, and the spicy grilled meats of the Shadow Marches. At an open window above their heads, an old woman with the heavy build and pronounced jaw of a half-orc sat, slowly chewing something and staring at them as they passed. Many of the people on the night-dark street gave them at least a curious glance. Singe had the feeling that travellers seldom came to this part of Zarash’ak.

Natrac stopped them before a large, ramshackle house, most of its many windows wide open to the evening. A good deal of shouting and banging was coming from inside, as if a horde of children had been turned loose within. Singe glanced at Natrac curiously. “What is this place? An orphanage?”

“Not exactly.” The half-orc strode forward. The door of the house was decorated with an iron door knocker in the shape of an egg. Natrac lifted the hammer and rapped it against the striking plate vigorously.

The sounds of a scuffle broke out on the other side of the door, broken up by an angry voice and a wail of protest. A moment later, the door opened. The half-orc boy who stood on the other side was as tall and heavy as a human adult, but his face still had the greasy complexion of an adolescent. Behind him, two young girls-orc tusks thrusting up from their lower jaws, identical except that one of them had a hand pressed over her ear-stood and stared at the visitors.

“Kuk?” asked the boy.

“Bava osh?” Natrac asked in return. The boy looked him over, then nodded.

“Dag.” He turned away from the door and bellowed out, “Nena!”

From somewhere inside the house, a woman’s voice shouted back in harried frustration. Singe couldn’t quite catch what she was saying, but he could imagine the meaning well enough-I’m busy! Who is it? The two half-orc girls exchanged silent, sly looks as the boy and the unseen woman shouted back and forth. Finally footsteps came rapping toward the door in a brisk march and the woman’s exasperated words grew clearer. “Diad, choshk sum bra-”

The woman who stepped around a corner and into sight of the door was human. Generously built and well-endowed, she had thick, dark hair held back from her face with a colorful scarf and wore a fine, matching dress. She was older, middle-aged, perhaps of an age with Natrac. She held an infant, but she took one look at Natrac and thrust the baby on the older boy, then leaped forward to wrap her arms around him. “Natrac! When I got your message yesterday … Lords of the Host, I thought you were dead!”

“Bava! Careful!” Natrac twisted to hold the knife on his right arm away from her. She glanced down and let out an outraged gasp.

“I’d heard you’d been kidnapped-”

“Dagga,” said Natrac grimly, but he squeezed the woman tight with his left arm, burying his face in her hair. Singe caught a faint murmur as he whispered something to her. Behind them, the young girls and the older boy looked on in surprise. After a moment, Natrac and the woman separated.

Quick as a spear thrust, the woman caught him across the face with a resounding slap. “Shekot! You’re late for dinner! The food’s almost ruined!”

Natrac rocked back a step with the force of the angry blow, then twisted around to the woman’s side and put his arm across her shoulders to avoid another. A spot of blood showed at the corner of his lip, but he smiled at Singe and the others.

“This is Bava Bibahronaz,” he said proudly. “An old friend. Bava, these are some new friends.”

He introduced them all and if Bava was surprised at having an Aundairian, a savage of the Shadow Marches, a kalashtar, a shifter, and an orc all turn up unexpectedly on her doorstep, she didn’t show it. “Welcome,” she told them, then looked to Natrac and added fiercely, “I don’t know whether to slap you again or hug you. What’s going on?”