T Lain - Return of the Damned

The blackguard nearly stood up. “Where?”

“In the duchy of New Koratia,” answered the robed man, “in some ruined catacombs off the River Delnir.”

“The Herald of Hell has smiled upon us,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the fist of Hextor.

“Yes, my mistress.” The man kept his face to the dirt. “What is your desire?”

Behind him, one of the cultist’s swords caught the other man under the chin, taking his head off in a single stroke.

The blackguard templed her fingers. “It is time to move the cult to the duchy of New Koratia,” she said. “I want you to personally undertake the retrieval of the bottle.”

The man sat up. As he did, the cowl of his robe fell back to reveal a puckered, gray scar over his left eye and cheek. When he smiled, his ruined lips parted to show his teeth and most of his gums.

“As you command, my mistress.”

Regdar dragged his overloaded pack out of the tunnel and into the fresh air. The sun was just coming up.

“Every time we go down into the ruins of Old Koratia I lose track of time,” mused the fighter. He let his pack settle to the ground and stood up, stretching.

“Then you wouldn’t make much of a dwarf,” replied Whitman. He lowered his load as well to adjust his armor and hammer. “Ain’t no sunrise in the mines.”

Regdar shook his arms, then hefted the sack over his shoulder. “Speaking of that, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Whitman blew out a deep breath and grunted as he lifted his heavy treasure bag. “What would that be?”

Both men started toward the walled city of New Koratia in the near distance.

“Well,” started Regdar, “exactly what kind of name is Whitman for a dwarf?”

The dwarf grunted. “You got a problem with my name?”

“No. No.” Regdar smirked. “It’s just that it—”

“That it what?” growled the dwarf.

“That it sounds like a human name—one you might expect of a banker or one of the duke’s personal advisors. A smart man, not a grumbling, old dwarf.” Regdar laughed so hard he almost lost his load.

“Laugh it up, meat head.” Whitman shifted his pack. “At least I’m not named Regdar.”

“What’s wrong with Regdar?” asked the human.

“It sounds like a human name—one you might expect of a big, dumb guy whose solution to everything is to bash it to bits.” The dwarf laughed. “On second thought, I take it back. It suits you.”

“Very funny, little man.” Regdar snorted.

Whitman laughed again.

“But I’m serious,” interjected the big fighter. “I’ve never met another dwarf with a human-sounding name.”

Whitman cocked his head and looked over his pack at Regdar. He nodded. “If you must know—”

Regdar stopped walking.

Whitman did the same and looked gravely up at the big fighter. “I was raised by a human family until the age of sixteen. They found me wrapped in a blanket, next to a stump in the woodlands not far from Fairbye.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“Don’t know.” The dwarf shrugged. “Guess I was abandoned.”

Regdar was puzzled. “How did the human family find you? Those woodlands aren’t exactly well-traveled.”

“They were part of a traveling circus—tumblers, acrobats, you know. They were getting ready to camp for the night. Guess they were starting a new show the next morning.”

Regdar smiled. “So that’s where you learned to roll around on the floor like that.”

The dwarf scowled. “You call it rolling around on the floor. I call it an art form.”

Regdar laughed. “Whatever.”

Whitman continued with his story, ignoring the jibe. “It was my human parents who named me—after a great-great grandfather who—” Whitman rolled his eyes—“had served as an advisor to the king.”

“Ha!” shouted Regdar. “I knew it.”

Whitman narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Did you now?”

“Well, didn’t I just say Whitman sounded like the name of one of the duke’s advisors?” Regdar smiled ear to ear.

“Proud of yourself then, are you?” Whitman turned and continued toward New Koratia.

Regdar hurried to catch up, still smiling. “But I’ve heard some of the other dwarves in the barracks call you ‘Gruble’.”

Whitman nodded. “That’s just a nickname.” He turned toward Regdar. “For those who don’t like Whitman.”

Regdar’s smile faded. “I meant no offense.”

The dwarf scowled for a moment, then broke into a gap-toothed grin. “I know lad,” he said. “I’m just messing with you.”

The two fighters stepped up to the guardhouse and were greeted by a dozen or more rowdy soldiers. Regdar and Whitman lowered their packs.

“Welcome home, Captain,” shouted a burly, human man with a tattoo of a longsword on his forearm. He slapped Regdar on the shoulder.

A tall, muscular elf stepped through the crowd and lifted one of the heavy sacks.

“Let me help you back to the barracks,” he said. “The duke will be wanting to see you.” He looked Whitman over from head to toe. “And I’m sure he doesn’t want a dirty dwarf in his personal chambers.”

Whitman looked up. “I may be dirty, Tasca, but at least I don’t smell like elf.”

“They’re at it again,” said the big human with the tattoo. He rolled his eyes.

Someone grabbed the other pack, and Regdar, Whitman, and a handful of others walked down the street toward the River Delnir. The river bisected the city into two roughly equal parts. The road the men walked on cut New Koratia in the opposite direction, creating four distinctly different quarters. The southwest part of the city was known as the Dark Quarter—the part of the city where thieves and brigands roamed freely. Several years previous, the duke saw fit to move the army barracks there. Regdar assumed it was to deter the criminal element from overstepping the bounds. Whatever the rationale, the soldiers’ presence did little to instill law and order. Crime still thrived in the darkened alleyways and back streets of the Dark Quarter. Now, however, as a matter of survival, the criminals had grown better at hiding, sneaking, and avoiding the city watch. If anything, the army’s presence made the thieves better at their trade.

At the end of the road, where the cobblestones met the rushing waters of the Delnir, the soldiers turned in to their barracks. Two sentries at the entrance shouted to their returning captain and his dwarf companion.

Regdar entered the barracks and went immediately to his bunk. Doffing his chestplate, gauntlets, and vambraces, the fighter collapsed on the soft bed. The privileges of being an officer in the duke’s army were not lost on the fighter. Though he didn’t need the extra comforts, he couldn’t deny how good it felt to rest his tired body.

He must have fallen asleep, because what seemed like only a few seconds passed before he was awakened by a loud noise. The veteran leaped to his feet, his greatsword in hand.

“Easy, big fella,” calmed Whitman. “It’s just the duke.”

Regdar shook himself awake and lowered his sword. A well-muscled, gray haired man wearing full ornamental platemail and a magenta velvet cape stepped through the door.

Regdar dropped to one knee and bowed his head. Whitman, Tasca, and the other soldiers did the same.

“Rise. Please, rise,” commanded the duke. He smiled as he crossed the room. He walked over and placed his hand on Regdar’s shoulder. “I’m glad for your safe return.”

“Thank you, my lord,” replied Regdar, standing rigidly before Duke Christo Ramas.

The duke nodded, then walked over to Whitman and shook the old dwarf’s hand. “Tell me,” he said, “did you retrieve it?” He looked from Whitman to Regdar.