T Lain: The Sundered Arms

Even hindered by his skirts, Devis quickly outran everyone.

“Wait until I get my hands on that half-elf,” growled Tordek as he watched the bard vanish down the dark street. No matter how he pumped his thick dwarven legs, the predominantly human mob at his back drew ever closer. Their murderous shouts grew louder than the clanking of his plate armor, and he could almost feel the heat of their torches on the back of his neck.

With a stride even shorter than Tordek’s, the halfling Lidda ran at his side. In her lightweight leathers, she could have easily left him behind, but she remained loyally at his side. Despite their peril, she could not suppress a grin as she shot back, “That’s what got us into this mess in the first place, hero!”

“Let’s…not…talk about it,” panted Tordek. “And I told you… never to call…me that!”

If the townsfolk caught up to them, Tordek knew Devis would escape while he and Lidda suffered their full wrath.

After his own death, Devis’s escape was the last thing Tordek wanted.

“You’re the one who kissed—”

A spear slammed into the road in front of Lidda. She threw herself to the side, tumbling deftly around the obstacle while barely breaking stride.

Tordek grunted his approval of her skilful maneuver without looking at her. Lidda beamed at the compliment, even as she, too, kept her eyes forward. She might have enjoyed the chase, but she knew as well as Tordek that they were running for their lives.

A hail of rocks fell around them, and one heavy cobblestone clanged off Tordek’s pauldron. It struck close enough to his head that he wished he’d worn his helmet into the tavern rather than leaving it in his wagon.

“Which way did he go?” he yelled. There was no sign of the half-elf or his conspicuously bright orange dress.

“This way!” shouted Lidda, veering to run between the cooper’s and the wainwright’s shops.

Tordek followed, trusting his companion’s sense of direction better than his own, at least above ground. The alley between the buildings was cluttered with empty barrels, stacks of timber, and wagon wheels. A thin corridor of moonlight drew a line from one end to the other. At the far end was an unpaved road leading away from Caravans Cross, toward the nearby farms. Dense woods loomed on either side, promising shelter from the eyes of the angry mob.

“Head for the trees!” called Lidda. “We can double back to the wagon once we’re out of sight.” She wasted no more breath but dashed ahead with a burst of speed. Just as she emerged from the alley, four big figures lunged at her from both sides.

Lidda shrieked in alarm and threw herself into a forward somersault. The men fell into a bone-crunching tangle of surprised shouts and flailing limbs as the nimble halfling rolled low and darted out from beneath their grasp. The men had missed their target, but as they sorted themselves out, the would-be ambushers ignored Lidda and turned to glower at the dwarf still trapped in the alley.

Torchlight spilled into the narrow passage between the buildings, and Tordek did not even have to look back to know that his pursuers blocked his escape. Their shouts subsided into the ominous mutters of a lynch mob that knew it had its quarry.

One of the burly men who stood between Tordek and the road yelped and clutched his head.

“You’ll catch the next one in the gnarlies if you don’t stand aside!” shouted Lidda. She held another stone high in warning.

Tordek knew the man might just as easily be dead if the halfling had used a sling to launch that missile. In his opinion, Lidda was far too kind to townsfolk and other dumb animals.

“Hurry, Tordek!”

“Always wear your helmet to town,” Tordek muttered, as if intoning a universal wisdom that would one day be inscribed on the hearthstone of every dwarven home. He lowered his head and charged straight toward the men barring his way. One of them raised a rake, while another defended himself with a stout oak quarterstaff. The other two crouched and held out their arms as if to grab an escaping hog.

Tordek barreled into them head first, knocking two to the ground and sending a third tumbling high over his shoulders to hit the ground with a thump. The man with the rake was canny enough to step aside, but when he raised his implement to stab down at the dwarf’s undefended back, he doubled over with a horrid, sobbing moan.

“I warned you,” said Lidda, dusting off her hands.

“Stop gloating,” warned Tordek, hastening past the dazed figures of his would-be captors. “They’re almost upon us.”

Without another word, they rushed across the road and toward the dark shelter of the woods, but it was too late. Two more clusters of torch-wielding townsfolk had already circled the buildings and closed in from either side. Tordek and Lidda could only put their backs to the woods and turn to face their doom together.

More than four dozen citizens of Caravans Cross converged on them. Those who didn’t carry torches bore quarterstaves or pitchforks, and a few held swords or the long spears of the volunteer militia. All of them glowered at the outsiders, their eyes filled with greed and hatred. No one could mistake their intentions for their trapped quarry.

The townsfolk brought along Devis, the bruises on his fair face already deeper than the rouge that had been his disguise. His yellow wig was gone, and the shoulder of his dress was torn away. The townsfolk hadn’t bound his hands, but the way his head lolled suggested that one of his captors had already given him a good rap on the skull.

“Are you prepared to meet your maker?” Tordek asked Lidda. He reached back to unsling his war axe from its loop on his back.

“Not really, no,” said Lidda. She made a quick flourish, and twin daggers appeared in her hands as if by a prestidigitator’s trick.

“Then stop playing patty-cake with these oath-breaking devils, and draw some blood! By Clangeddin’s Axe!”

Together, they screamed and raised their weapons as they charged toward their assembled foes.

Like a school of fish under a shark’s shadow, the townsfolk turned as one and fled back through the alley. They dropped everything as they ran, leaving behind only the creaking of the crickets and the sizzling of a half dozen torches dropped on the damp ground.

Tordek and Lidda gaped at their retreating foes. They turned to stare at each other, bewildered by the effect of their bluster on the formerly ferocious mob. Tordek looked down at Devis, who sprawled on the ground at their feet, still stunned by the blow to his head. It was obvious to Tordek that he had done nothing to send the townsfolk screaming back into their homes. He and Lidda looked back at each other, their astonished expressions gradually transforming into self-satisfied grins.

“Well, you were pretty fearsome,” said Lidda. “There’s nothing like a good dwarven war cry.”

“I should have known they would bolt,” said Tordek, glad despite his bluster that he did not have to slay the townsfolk. They might be cowardly cheats with no respect for the laws of hospitality, but the gods would punish them for those crimes. This way, at least the blood wouldn’t be on his hands or Lidda’s. “You weren’t bad yourself,” he told her. “Most terrifying halfling this side of Arvoreen.”

“You really think so?” said Lidda. She sheathed her daggers with a theatrical flourish. “You aren’t just saying that?”

“It’s true!” protested Tordek, slinging his axe. “Why, you nearly scared me.”

“Uh, pardon me,” said Devis. Struggling to disentangle his legs from the unfamiliar skirts, he rose unsteadily to his feet. “I don’t think they were afraid of the two of you.”