T Lain - Treachery's Wake

The magic tingled as it welled up in her hands. The words on the scroll twisted, blurred, and flowed together. She repeated the words seven times as the spidery, magical script faded from the face of the parchment. Fire coursed through the elf’s veins as she raised herself up and stretched her arms toward the clustered gnolls. The used scroll fluttered into the harbor, sending out a series of concentric ripples as it settled on the surface of the water.

A spot of fire appeared in the air at the edge of the wizard’s hand, looking like the pea-sized light of a firefly. The luminescent bauble streaked up the length of the dock and struck the pack-master in the chest.

The gnoll commander stared in wonder at the tiny light, unsure whether it was getting closer, or moving at all. As it hit him, his eyes grew wide with comprehension. A slight tremor ran through the air when light and leather met. The bead of magic drew oxygen in around itself, then let go. Fire and heat erupted into a blazing sphere of destruction.

Howls from the dying creatures could be heard above the whoosh and hum of the ball of fire. The cloud of flame engulfed the row of gnolls. Mialee flew back against the side of the boat as a wave of heat and flame passed overhead. She smelled the pungent stink of her own burning hair, singed by the searing graze of the flames. The scene at the end of the dock wavered through blurring and distorting lines of heat.

In the space of a few breaths, the pack was reduced to twisted, ashen shapes on the scorched planks. Their charred remains smoldered and crackled. Small piles of melted, misshapen arrowheads marked where quivers of arrows had burned away. Small embers still glowed, showing dots of red light along the length of the wharf. The tar-soaked timbers kept them alive, feeding them with a steady trickle of fuel.

Mialee pushed herself to her feet. She climbed out of the boat and stumbled down the dock, tripping over an embedded arrow.

The smell from the gnoll commander’s body was overpowering. Mialee held her hands across her nose as she rolled the blackened corpse over with the toe of her boot. Wotherwill’s staff was still clutched in the creature’s skeletal hand. As she took hold of the artifact, the bones of the gnoll’s fingers disintegrated. A quick shove with her heel sent the foul corpse tumbling into the bay. It sank slowly, leaving behind a sooty slick.

Vadania called to Mialee from the rowboat.

The wizard looked around and saw that the dock was rapidly coming to life and moving in her direction. She sliced the rope holding the craft to its mooring, hopped in, and used the staff to shove off from the dock. Vadania already had the oars slipped into the locks, and the two of them worked together to maneuver the boat out across the harbor. Mialee put her aching back into the work, watching the staff roll from side to side across the bottom of the boat.

Lidda stepped around the corner in time to see the barbarian crash headlong into the ranks of the gnolls. Those in his path were bowled to the ground and the rest scattered in all directions, trying to get beyond the reach of his sweeping axe.

She moved in the half-orc’s wake, using the uproar and the darkness to hide her passage. The confused gnolls were too concerned about the possibility of Krusk turning back and charging them again to be aware of the small shape passing by in the shadows. Slowly, Yauktul pushed them back into a pack and they started moving again, toward Vadania, Mialee, and Malthooz. They weren’t moving fast, the rogue noted, least of all Yauktul. The leader of the pack muttered to himself under his breath as though he was engaged in an argument with someone unseen. His jaw snapped from side to side as he engaged himself in dialogue. Lidda was not sure who was winning the debate, but she had no time to find out. Farther ahead, she saw Krusk jog to the far end of the alley and disappear around a corner.

The others would have to deal with the gnolls, Lidda decided, and she sprinted off in pursuit of the half-orc. They hadn’t noticed her passing. She hoped the others would be as lucky.

The rogue rounded the bend at the end of the alley only to see Krusk turning down another street. At each corner it was the same. The barbarian wasn’t pushing himself, but his legs were much longer than the halfling’s. It was all Lidda could do to keep track of his twistings and turnings. She knew that even if she lost sight of Krusk, she could follow him by the heavy boot prints he left behind on the snow-dusted road and by the spatterings of red blood that also marked the trail. Clearly, at least some of the blood on his armor was his own. He probably didn’t even know he was bleeding, Lidda thought, or if he did, he didn’t care. He would not stop until either he or Flint was dead.

Lidda pushed herself harder, hoping to catch up to her quarry. Storefronts and inns raced past. From out of nowhere, a stooped form materialized directly in the rogue’s path. With a yelp, Lidda slammed into the man. The two of them tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Lidda felt the chill of slush oozing across her chest as they slid to a stop. She lifted her head and saw Krusk receding into the distance. At her side, the man cursed her, shaking his fist. She jumped to her feet in one swift movement and ran on, but she took a different turn than the one Krusk had taken.

Lidda had little doubt where the barbarian was heading, even though he seemed uncertain of the route. There was a quicker way to the thieves guild, and the halfling intended to take it. Either Flint was weaving through the streets trying to shake Krusk’s trail, Lidda thought, or the barbarian had already lost it and was desperately looking for the guild himself. Either way, the rogue knew that she could get there ahead of him. She cut across a wide junction of streets and passed into an alleyway. If she was wrong, Krusk would pay the price, hut she would never catch up to him the way he was moving.

More of the city was stirring now that the sun was lifting the morning chill. People were entering the streets all around Lidda. Merchants and mongers, the city’s earliest risers, were hurrying to the market, hoping to beat their competitors to the choicest stalls. None of them paid any attention to the rogue as she sped past, and she was thankful that their own pressing business kept the peddlers from noticing her. She doubted that the wounded and raging barbarian would be so easy to ignore, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be delayed. She brushed by a man pulling a cart loaded with pots and pans and came around the corner of the street that fronted the guild. The din of the copper wares trundling over the rough cobbles rattled behind her.

Krusk was approaching from the other direction. The barbarian looked horrible, like a figure from a nightmare. His gait was strong, but his gashed and spattered armor was shiny with frozen blood. Crimson streaked his face and outlined his eyes. A thin layer of reddened frost glistened on the razor edge of his axe. Lidda dashed in front of him as he jogged up the stairs in front of the guild house. She caught his elbow as he raised the heavy axe to bash in the front door.

“Krusk,” she hissed, “there’s a better way.”

The barbarian stopped, axe poised and said, “Flint is inside. This way’s fine.”

Lidda clung to his raised arm.

“You don’t have to die here, Krusk,” she pleaded. “I’ll get you inside a way that Flint doesn’t suspect. You can take her by surprise.”

Lidda grabbed the handle of Krusk’s axe and slowly pulled the weapon down. The barbarian’s chest heaved. Lidda saw fresh blood trickling from two gashes in his armor, one across his ribs and the other, much deeper, on his thigh.