Paul Kidd - Descent into the Depths of the Earth

Jus cocked an eye toward the dog. “You’re eating one?”

Scorched almond.

“It figures.”

A shabby assortment of heaped stones masquerading as a townsprawled across the forest path. A substantial settlement had apparently been razed to the ground and then rebuilt by people big on enthusiasm but small on engineering skills. There were hundreds of shabby tents and lean-tos in the shelter of the older ruins. The sign outside the village had been painted upon an old, scarred shield. It read: SOUR PATCH. GOOD FOOD AND LICKER.

The village had been cobbled together out of rotten canvas and old scrap. Bark huts half tumbled into open sewers, and hundreds of dispirited peasants shuffled down the dirty streets. More and more people were arriving, all of them ashen, dressed in rags, and carrying everything they owned upon their backs. Long lines formed at wagons that were dispensing bread and gruel. Children were crying, and the air stank of human misery.

The streets seemed overcrowded with the hungry and the poor. A gibbet hung empty at the center of the village, attended by two guards with rusted armor and faces redolent of brutal stupidity.

As the Justicar stood looking at the squalid, crowded camp, a figure bowed down with wood trudged close nearby. Dropping his load, the newcomer looked from Jus to the village and back again.

“Don’t go, friend!”

Jus looked at him and asked, “Where?”

“Sour Patch.” The woodcutter had a donkey, and the donkeycarried a hundredweight in fresh cut wood. “Bad luck. Don’t stop. Turn back.”

“And go into the woods?”

“No. Turn back to Keoland!” The woodcutter gave Jus a sharplook of panic. “You mean you came through the woods?”

“From the coast.”

“Friend, you’re mad.” The man worked solidly to make a pileof timbers. “I’m here because the baron paid me. He paid me because the kingpaid him. We’re running supplies here to the refugees. If they’re fool enough tosettle here, then they have to have a chance.”

Standing and carefully looking over the crowded shantytown, Jus fingered his sword. “Refugees from what?”

“Raids. Something’s been clearing out all the villages in theriver valley, sweeping them clean. No one left. No warning. No trail. It’s likethe gods just up and took ’em.” The woodcutter finished his work and wrenchedhis donkey around. “Everyone’s fled the valleys. Some merchants offered freeland to refugees, but no one thought to ask em where the land might be. But the Dreadwood…!” The man looked at the forest and shook his head. “Even thevalley’s better than that! Only a fool goes near the Dreadwood.”

He made to leave. Jus extended one big hand and held the donkey’s bridle. “What’s wrong with the Dreadwood?”

“Cursed. Bad luck. Was never meant for mortal man. It’s ahaunted wood. People see things in there. People disappear.” Agitated, thewoodcutter looked in fear at the trees. “Five, six years ago, giants wiped outall the villages, killed everything that moved! Now it’s happening again, youmark my words! Bad luck in the Dreadwood.” The man wrenched his donkey free fromthe ranger’s grasp. “Bad luck!”

The woodcutter left, fleeing down the road at the best speed his little donkey could manage. Emerging from her hiding place in Polk’s cart,Escalla rubbed thoughtfully at her little freckled nose as she watched the woodcutter depart.

“What was he drinking?”

“I don’t know.” Jus hitched his belt. “Someone’s running thiscamp as a scam, maybe trying to repopulate some junk land. Keep a lookout for trouble.”

Half-orcs and slovenly humans kept watch over the refugees. The guards ate meat and drank wine while refugees lined up for stale bread. Jus took one look at the village and seemed to swell with predatory energy.

“Cinders?”

Magic. Cinders’ fur lay low, and his fangs shone evilly. Old food. Raw hides. Smelly stuff. Hot iron. Half-orcs. Bugbears. Ogre-stink. And elfie-pixie.

“Elves?” The Justicar used his thumb to loosen his sword inits sheath. “Keep your eyes open. There’s work to do.”

Choosing invisibility as her best option for sneakiness, Escalla hovered in the air nearby. “Keoland looks like a good place to be wellaway from. What’s that awful smell?”

Jus shrugged. “Half-orcs, ogres, bugbears, raw hides, hotiron, an open sewer, and some elves or pixies.”

“Elves?”

“That’s what Cinders says.”

The Justicar felt the faerie giving a happy shrug.

“Hoopy! Well, he should know.” The girl’s wings buzzed. “Anyidea where we look to find our shapeshifting spies from this morning?”

“If they’re here, we can find them.” Huge and brooding, Jusscanned the streets. “Stay invisible. You can rest in the backpack if you needto.” Jus settled the hell hound into place upon his helm. “Are you all right,Cinders?”

Burn! Burn!

“Later. Don’t annoy the locals until we have to.”

Jus turned around, but Polk’s wagon already stood abandonedat the edge of the road. Moving at an astonishing rate, Polk had already mounted the steps of a rubble pile that masqueraded as the local tavern. Ignoring the sounds of a fight from inside, Polk tightened his belt, slapped his hands together, and rubbed his palms in glee.

Jus gave a heavy ursine growl. “Polk!”

The teamster turned, incredulous that the others were not following him to the tavern. “Son, it’s a tavern!”

“Polk, we are not here to drink!”

“But it’s a den of iniquity, boy!” Appalled, Polk waved hishands in the air like a maddened bird. “We can’t just pass it by! Dens ofiniquity are part of being a hero! Here’s where you defend a maid, find a clue,buy a treasure map, start a brawl…! Think of the possibilities!”

“Polk, the only adventures that ever start in taverns areusually ones that involve puking or collecting genital lice.” Jus tied the wagonin place and took a long, hard look at passersby, making sure they knew that he would remember their faces. Glowered at by a six foot tall man wearing a hell hound skin, most pedestrians elected to walk hurriedly away. “We are going infor one drink while we skim for information.” Jus sniffed the scent of roastingmeat and gave a prim lift of his chin. “And perhaps a bite of something savory.”

“And then a fight?”

“One fight per day is enough.”

Jus shouldered his way in through a door made from an old blanket. As he passed, Polk gave an unhappy sigh. “That boy has no idea of howto be a hero. It just ain’t in him.”

Escalla’s voice laughed from empty air. “He gets the jobdone.”

“I tell him again and again! It ain’t what you do,it’s how.” Polk swept the blanket aside to allow Escalla to pass. “Youknow, it’s high time that boy took a grip on his responsibilities!”

The Sour Patch tavern sold only two types of food: raw andburned. The beer smelled like old laundry, but Polk drank it nonetheless. Escalla contented herself with lounging inside the Justicar’s backpack as it satbeneath the table. The ranger’s wineskin had yielded a last few drops of decentbeer, and there were still sweets aplenty. The girl reclined with her little feet crossed and her arms behind her head, thinking sly, warm little thoughts as she watched the Justicar.

Jus loomed at the bar, shaking down the locals for information. This was where the guards lived and drank. Teamsters bringing food to the shantytown and sharks keen to fleece refugees of their cash all came here to spend their coin. The crowd was loud, the room smoky, and the jokes were rich with filth.