Betrayal

Chapter Five Remembering Blöten

Dhamon, Maldred, and the freed slaves from the silver mines stood before a crumbling wall that was fifty feet high in places, the taller portions being the most intact. In some sections the wall had completely collapsed, the gaps alternately filled with boulders piled high and mortared in place, and with timbers driven deep into the rocky ground and held together with bands of rusted iron and thick rope. Spears were jabbed into the tops of the wall, the points angled crazily to ward off intruders.

Atop a particularly weathered barbican stood a trio of well-armored ogres. They were stoop-shouldered and wart-riddled, their gray hides covered with boils and scabs. The largest had a broken tooth that protruded at an odd angle from his bottom jaw. He growled something and thumped his spiked club against his shield, then growled again and pointed at Dhamon and Maldred. He raised his club threateningly and spat. The guard was suspicious. He knew Maldred but wasn’t familiar with the blue-skinned ogre mage in this mundane human form.

Maldred answered the guard in the same guttural tongue. He practically shouted, as he reached his hand to the pommel of his sword. The other he dropped to the coin purse at his belt, and after a moment’s hesitation he untied the coin purse and heaved it up to the guard. The ogre narrowed his bug eyes, set down the club, and thrust a doughy finger in the purse to stir its contents. Apparently satisfied with the toll—or bribe—he growled to his companions, who opened the gate. Inside, ogres milled about on the main street. From nine to eleven feet tall, they varied greatly in appearance, though most had broad-faces set with large, thick noses—some of which were decorated with silver and steel hoops and animal bones. Their skin tended to range from a pale brown, the shade of Dhamon’s boots, to a rich mahogany. There were some that were a sickly looking green-gray, and a pair strolling arm-in-arm across the street were the color of ashes.

“Rikali might still be here,” Maldred said to Dhamon as they entered the city. “After all, you told her you were going to come back for her. The healer Grim Kedar would know if she’s around, and his place is not far.” The big thief gestured toward the southeast section of the ogre city. Dhamon shook his head. “Mal, If Riki was smart, she wouldn’t have waited for me. If she did bother to wait…”

He paused as he worked a kink out of his neck. “Well, then she isn’t very smart, and that’s her own damn fault for not moving on. I hope she’s happy here. Me? I’ll be gone. We intend to be in and out of this place in a couple of hours, right?”

Down a side street Dhamon noted a dozen ogres loading big canvas sacks on wagons. The workers wore tattered clothes and ragged animal skins, and they wore sandals or had bare feet. Every one of them looked filthy, every bit as bad as the freed slaves who continued to shuffle along behind him and Maldred.

“I don’t want to be here,” one of the few freed humans whispered fearfully. Dhamon’s keen hearing picked up the conversation, and he mentally agreed with the fellow.

“It’s better than the mines,” the dwarf at his side returned. “Anything is better than that hellhole. I don’t see anyone in chains here.” The human and the dwarf continued their muted conversation. The ground they trod on was damp, as if there had been a lot of rain recently, an unusual occurrence for these normally arid mountain lands. The sky overhead was thickly overcast, threatening rain and casting a gloomy pallor over an already gloomy place.

“This is a lovely city,” Dhamon wryly mused.

“Indeed,” Maldred said, and meant it.

Within the hour—after a brief stop to buy a few jugs of the heady ogre ale Dhamon had acquired a taste for—they were seated at a massive dining room table in Donnag’s manse. The freed slaves had been taken away somewhere by Donnag’s guards, and Maldred was assured they would be well cared for.

“We are pleased you aided in the return of our people, Dhamon Grimwulf. Most pleased.” The ogrechieftain sat in a chair that could have passed for a throne, though the padded arms were worn, frayed especially where his clawlike fingers caught at the threads. “You have our deepest gratitude.”

Maldred glanced at his father, then turned his attention to the sumptuous repast in front of him and dug in. Dhamon kept his attention on Donnag, not having much of an appetite for eating in an ogre manse. He was glad the ogre ruler had dismissed his guards in order to talk to Dhamon and Maldred, his son, in private.

“You owe me far more than your thanks, your lordship,” Dhamon said, an obvious edge to his voice. The rings that pierced Donnag’s lower lip jiggled, and his eyes widened imperiously.

“In fact, you owe me considerably, you bloated excuse for a—”

“This is an outrage!” Donnag stood. A rush of color came over his florid face, and he raised his voice. “Our thanks—”

“Isn’t good enough.” Dhamon rose too, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed Maldred had set down the fork and was looking back and forth between the two.

The chieftain growled. He clapped his hands, and a human serving girl who’d been hovering in an alcove brought out a large leather satchel. Empty. Dhamon’s eyes narrowed.

“We anticipated that my son’s friend might want something more tangible,” Donnag said, his tongue working as if the words were distasteful in his mouth. “I will summon my guards who will escort you to our treasure chamber, and you may fill that bag as you desire. Then, Dhamon, you may leave.”

Dhamon shook his head. “I’ll take that—filled with your finest gems—as payment for freeing the slaves. But you will still owe me.” His fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. Maldred tried to catch his friend’s gaze, but Dhamon’s eyes were locked onto Donnag’s.

“I don’t understand,” the chieftain angrily sputtered. He turned to the serving girl. “Guards! Get them now.” Softer, he said, “I had hoped we wouldn’t need the guards. I had hoped this time the three of us could converse civilly.”

“No,” Dhamon interjected. “No guards.” He turned to the girl and gave her a withering look. “You stay here for the moment.”

The girl froze like a statue. “Impudent man,” said Donnag. “Though you are a mere human, we have been more than generous with you. We have treated you better than we have ever treated others of your kind. That sword you carry…”

“Wyrmsbane. Redeemer,” Dhamon hissed.

“…the sword that once belonged to Tanis Half-Elven. We gave it to you.”

“Sold it to me,” Dhamon corrected. “For a veritable fortune.”

Donnag’s eyes were thin slits. “A most valuable sword, human.”

“A worthless sword. I bet Tanis never owned this thing. Never touched it. Never saw it. Never knew this accursed thing existed. You cheated me.”

Before Donnag could say anything else, Dhamon sprang back from the table, knocking over his chair, drew Wyrmsbane, and sprinted toward the ogre chieftain.

“Guar—” was all Donnag managed before Dhamon’s fist slammed hard into his stomach, knocking the ogre back into his chair.

“It’s not worthless,” Donnag gasped, trying futilely to rise. “Believe me, it’s not. In fact—”

“It’s a piece of cow dung,” Dhamon spat. “Just like you. Its magic doesn’t work, Donnag.”

The ogre sadly shook his head and settled back into the chair, trying to recover his dignity. He looked around for his son but could not see past Dhamon to Maldred, who was watching everything stonily, giving no hint of his emotions.

“Magic works different now than when that blade was forged. Perhaps now—”

“I think you knew all along this thing was useless.”

The chieftain lifted a shaky hand in a gesture of argument, and in response Dhamon rammed his knee into the ogre’s gut and leveled the sword at his throat. Behind the pair, Maldred slowly rose and warily backed away from the table.

“Dhamon…” the big man warned.

“Useless! Though I suppose this sword might prove useful for ending your petty life.”

Dhamon glanced at the elven runes that ran along the blade’s length, flaring up as if the sword knew it was being discussed, glowing faintly blue. He couldn’t read them, however. What did he know or care of their meaning? All he knew was that Wyrmsbane, the true sword of Tanis Half-Elven, was elf-forged and was said to have many other owners and names through the decades. It was reputed to be a sister sword to Wyrmslayer, Dhamon also knew, the blade the elf hero Kith-Kanan wielded in the Second Dragon War.

Legend said the blade had been bequeathed by Silvanesti weaponsmiths to the kingdom of Thorbardin. From there it went to Ergoth, where it fell into Tanis Half-Elven’s hands. It was said to be buried with the great Hero of the Lance. Donnag claimed he came by it through a grave-robbing thief.

“I really should kill you,” Dhamon stated. “I’d be doing this country a favor.”

“Maldred, son,” Donnag gasped. “Stop him.”

Dhamon tensed, expecting his friend to do something to protect his father. Maldred stood, watching stonily.

“Leave us,” Dhamon ordered the serving girl, who was standing petrified against the wall. “Say nothing to anyone. Understand?” His eyes were ice, and the girl ran quickly from the room, dropping a tray filled with wine glasses. Dhamon paused, listening for her retreating footsteps, making sure no others were approaching.

“You’re worthless, Donnag,” he continued ferociously. “Just like this sword is worthless! The only difference is this sword doesn’t breathe and steal good air from people more deserving of life than you. The sword of Tanis Half-Elven? Ha! I very much doubt it. This thing should be melted and poured down your throat.” Dhamon’s face was red, anger deeply etching his features, his eyes so dark and wide they looked to Donnag like bottomless pits.

The ogre chieftain tried to say something, but Dhamon’s free hand shot up and gripped his throat. The ogre paled, his normally pasty complexion looking deathly white now.

“I’ll grant you this sword kept me safe from the spawn’s breath—their acid didn’t burn me. I’ll grant you that.”

“Dhamon…” Maldred warned, padding a few steps closer.

“But Tanis’s sword was said to find things for its wielder. Locate treasure and artifacts. Now, that would really be something valuable.”

Donnag’s eyes were pleading with him. Dhamon’s fingers dug deeper into his throat and his knee pressed harder. “I’ll also warrant you that the blade seemed to select the Sorrow of Lahue from all the baubles in your horde when I asked it for something worth my while.”

“Dhamon…” Maldred was just behind him now.

“It didn’t find what I truly wanted—a cure for the damned scale on my leg. Visions of the swamp, it gave me. Strange shadowy visions. It teased me, Donnag. Taunted me like a spiteful vixen. Worthless!”

Maldred stepped to the side of Donnag’s chair, glancing briefly at his father before catching Dhamon’s livid stare. “He is my father, Dhamon,” the ogre in human disguise said softly. “I’ve no great love for him, else I’d be living here instead of traveling with you. But if you kill him, running this country falls to me. That’s something I would not shirk, but I’d prefer it didn’t happen for a long while.”

Dhamon’s jaw was working as he relaxed—slightly—his grip on Donnag’s throat. “I should run you through with this worthless thing, your worthless lordship.” He smelled something then, and it brought a faint smile to his lips. The ogre chieftain had soiled his regal garments.

“I’d leave this accursed sword here, but you’d only find some other fool to sell it to. I don’t want you to profit from it a second time.”

Donnag gasped for breath. “Wh-wh-what do you…”

“What do I want?” Dhamon dropped his hand from Donnag’s throat. The ogre gulped in air. Dhamon paused. “I want… I want… ? I want never to see you again!” he said angrily. “To never find myself in your lovely city again. For that matter, to never set foot in this wretched country again. And…” A true smile appeared on his face, as he spotted the dropped empty satchel. “And I want two satchels filled with your most exquisite gems. One for me and one for your son. I’ll fill my pockets, too. And I’ll drape chains and bangles around my wrists and arms. That’s not all. I want something more.”

“Wh-wh-what more?”

Dhamon shrugged, thinking. Donnag looked helplessly at his son, who made a show of looking unconcerned about his fate.

“A wagonload of treasure. Two wagonloads, Donnag. Ten! I want ten times what I paid you for this damn sword!”

Donnag was breathing hard, rubbing at his throat. “I could give you what you want, but all of it will be stolen from you before you leave these mountains. You and my son are not the only thieves in this country. There are brigands on every trail. Though the two of you are formidable, their numbers will win out.”

“Their numbers or his assassins,” Maldred whispered.

Dhamon slammed his fist on the arm of Donnag’s chair, the wood splintering from the impact. “I want—”

“There’s something better we can offer.”

“Ha! Another of Tanis’s swords? Ha, ha!”

“We have treasure maps,” Donnag said quickly. “There’s a couple in particular I’m thinking of. They are pieces of parchment easily concealed. If you are robbed, so what? Give them the gems. You will have rare maps to guide you to greater riches. No one the wiser. Let me show you my true gratitude. I will give you gems and wagons, but best of all, I will give you rare treasure maps!”

“Any map you have will be as phony as this sword.” Dhamon waved the tip in front of the ogre’s eyes.

Donnag shook his head, the rings on his bottom lip nervously jangling. “No, no, we—”

“Let’s see these maps.” This from Maldred. “I can tell if they’re genuine, Dhamon,” he assured his friend. “I remember years ago he bragged to me about his collection of ancient treasure maps. There might be some truth to his words.”

“Yes.” Donnag nodded. “Let me show them to you!” His eyes were dull, as if Dhamon had forever chased away any trace of the fire and dignity they once held. “They’re below. In our treasure chamber with all the gems and stuff. I’ll summon—”

“No one!” Dhamon shouted. “You’ll escort us to your treasure chamber all by yourself. I don’t want any guards. No serving girls. No bearers. Just you. And I don’t want you out of our sight for even a heartbeat. No tricks.”

* * * * *

Donnag showed them three maps, all so old and brittle their edges had flaked away and the rest of them threatened to crumble to dust.

“This one is of the Teeth of Chaos, the islands north of the Estwilde and Nordmaar. I don’t fancy traveling that far,” Maldred said disapprovingly. “And it’s vague of what we’ll find.”

Dhamon nodded in agreement. “But this one, it’s of the Elian Wilds, the island east of the red overlord’s land. Again, a far distance, but not as far, and I’m in no mood to stay around here. It hints at magical items, and that’s worth a lot now.”

Maldred was scrutinizing the third, a smaller map, older even than the other two, the ink so faded it was practically indiscernible. “This one isn’t so far as either of those. We wouldn’t need to find a sailing ship. And it certainly looks genuine.”

Dhamon joined him, looking over his shoulder while keeping an eye on Donnag, who was nervously waiting on the stairway. “Aye, this indeed looks intriguing, my big friend.”

“The land has changed, but this has to be of the Plains of Dust,” Maldred said. “Due south of here. Through the Black’s swamp. Bah, the map is practically falling apart. Let’s fix it up so it’s a little sturdier.” He started his magic, humming, a throaty tune that rose and fell as his fingers flickered over the map. His eyes glowed pale green, the color intensifying and moving down his arms to his fingers, then covering the map.

“Son! What are you…”

“I’m giving the parchment a little fixing-up, father. It just takes a little of my power away, so little I’ll never miss it.” The glow dissipated as Maldred’s shoulders rounded and he shook his head.

“Magic is so difficult,” he breathed heavily. “Seems harder now than even a few months ago. Good thing I have my masking enchantment down to an art. Looking human is the one spell that’s still easy for me.”

A moment later and he seemed his old self again, briskly rolling up the parchment and putting it in a small bone tube. He thrust this into a deep pocket of his trousers. “Dhamon, you and I will take a much better and closer look at this map later when we’re away from here. See if we can make out some of the writing.” He nodded to his father. “We’ll leave the other two maps. Don’t sell them to anyone. Dhamon and I may want them later. We’ll be back if this one doesn’t work out.”

“I still want those two satchels full of gems,” Dhamon said. He was already filling his pockets to capacity, draping a thick gold chain around his neck and a bracelet around his wrist. Donnag glowered at him. “Done,” he said.

“Then,” Dhamon continued, “I want you to escort us out of town. I don’t want to give you a moment away from us to summon your generals or cadre of assassins. You’d better not have any of your minions follow us. Do you understand?”

A grudging nod.

Dhamon didn’t even let the chieftain change clothes.

* * * * *

Of course, the tale he related to the women didn’t include the fact that Maldred was an ogre mage disguised as a human thanks to a long-lasting spell he had mastered, or that Maldred was Donnag’s son. Of course, he left out where the treasure map led. Too, he made no mention of the scale on his leg. Dhamon simply said that the sword did not function as promised and that he garnered two satchels of gems and a treasure map for Donnag for his trouble and for freeing the slaves.

“So we’re through with Blöten,” Maldred finished. “At least for the time being.” The big man had tossed off the sheet, his body slick with sweat, his movements awkward from the alcohol. His three companions were still fawning over him. One of them took a big gulp of the spiced rum, then kissed Maldred and released the drink into his mouth. He cheerfully nudged her for another swallow.

“Anyway, we wouldn’t be safe there at the moment.” He laughed loudly.

“Aye!” Dhamon laughed too, upending his jug. He steadied himself by leaning back against the rickety headboard, then he passed the empty jug to Elsbeth. “I s’warned you there might be none left if you waited.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

She frowned, then quickly brightened. “It’s getting dark outside. I’ll fetch another bottle. Maybe with a few more sips, you’ll be wanting to…” She let the words hang as she slipped from his side, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before rushing out the door.

“So that’s why you’re in a hurry to get out of Blöde,” Satin said. “Because of how you threatened the ogre chieftain’s life?”

“Aye again,” Dhamon said. “There’s a s’warrant on me, no doubt through this whole damned country now—from Donnag, and from some Legion of Steel Knights we crossed earlier. And s’while every man’s got to die sometime. I’d prefer it not to be in this filthy land. ’Specially not at the hand of Donnag’s men. ’Sides, I s’think I hate these mountains. Time for a s’change of scenery.”

“You are an odd but brave one.” Satin cuddled close.

“So warm,” he said. He ran a finger along her arm, deciding that her skin felt like her name—satin.

“Warm,” he repeated.

“It’s the rum that makes you hot. This summer’s not so bad. Really,” she purred. “We’ve been through worse. I can make you hotter, and I know that you won’t mind one little bit.”

Her fingers drifted to his trousers, but she frowned as once again he batted them away.

“Hey, it’s s’not dark yet,” he said. “It’s not….” He watched Elsbeth return, two more jugs in hand. Maldred climbed out of bed to grab one, quick to return to his women.

“Ale,” Elsbeth said, noting the sour expression on Maldred’s face. “No more spiced rum. You drank the last of it. Sorry.”

Dhamon accepted his jug without comment, however, and took a deep pull. Like the women’s perfume, the ale was cheap and had a bothersome odor, but it was strong enough. His vision had blurred just enough so the crows’ feet around Elsbeth’s eyes had disappeared. She didn’t look quite so plump now. She looked softer, prettier. Dhamon took another long swallow, then passed the bottle over to Satin. He reached out and grabbed Elsbeth’s hair, pulling her face close, then kissing her. Passion of Palanthas wasn’t as annoying any more, and the fragrance seemed to complement whatever Satin had on.

The girls were murmuring to him, unfastening his pants and tugging at them. It wasn’t dark enough, he registered. There was faint light spilling in through the window, and someone had lit a candle, probably one of Maldred’s companions. It should be dark, he told himself, but the alcohol and the perfume were heady, his tongue was too thick to protest and his fingers were too busy entwining themselves in the women’s hair.

He heard a loud thump and a groan, a rustling of sheets, and he knew this was coming from Maldred’s side of the room. No doubt the big man had fallen out of bed. Dhamon opened his eyes and canted his head, and through a gap in Elsbeth’s curls, he saw Maldred laying on his stomach on the floor, the ale jug just beyond his limp fingers.

Dhamon would have chuckled, had his mouth not been alternately covered by Satin and then Elsbeth’s lips, and then his mouth opened for another long swallow of the cheap ale. He would have clapped his hands in amusement had it not been for the fact he noticed the three women struggling to pull Maldred back on the bed, face down, and one of them tying the big man’s hands to the bedpost.

“Hey!” Dhamon craned his neck. They were tying Maldred’s feet, too, and now the big man’s three companions were getting dressed.

“Somethin’s not right.” Dhamon tried to say more, but the words were lost somewhere between his mind and his tongue. He tried to push Elsbeth off him, but she felt terribly heavy. His fingers were thick and clumsy and difficult to untangle from her hair. He felt like a rock, unable to budge, riveted in place by the hefty blonde.

“You just lay back, honey,” Elsbeth cooed.

“Have some more to drink,” Satin said. She tipped his head back and poured more ale down his throat. The ale was strong, too strong, and the more he imbibed the more he tasted something not right about it.

“N-no,” Dhamon sputtered, trying to spit it out.

“Honey, you should’ve been asleep sortie time ago. We put enough powder in these jugs to knock out a small army. One jug o’ that spiced rum should’ve been more than enough for the both o’ you. Seems like the two of you’ve got the constitutions o’ bull elephants. Satin…”

The slender Ergothian upended the jug again, but Dhamon managed to grind his teeth together, and most of the ale splashed outside his mouth. His head alternately felt heavy, then light. He tried again to shove Elsbeth and Satin away, this time with some success. He rolled with Elsbeth, falling to the floor on top of her and becoming entangled in the sheet and his pants. He tried to rise, but his arms and legs felt numb.

Elsbeth managed to crawl out from under him and push him onto his back. Satin peered over the edge of the bed.

“Satin, look at his leg! There’s a…”

“I see it, Els. A very strange scar it is. We’ll take a closer look at it later. Here grab the jug. Do it!”

His eyes closed, Dhamon concentrated. Move! he told himself. Move, you sorry excuse for a man!

He finally struggled to get free of the sheet and to tug his pants up, rolling farther away from Elsbeth. The drugged alcohol had so dulled his senses, however, that he forgot about the three wenches on the other side of the room. Several pairs of hands now grabbed at him, keeping him down. A moment later he heard someone shuffling toward him. With considerable effort he cocked his head and spied Elsbeth towering over him, empty jug in her hand. The jug was coming down fast and hard, soundly striking his forehead and sending him into oblivion. He awoke minutes later—or at least he thought it was minutes later. Little time must have passed because the room appeared to be no darker than before, and his head hurt terribly from where Elsbeth had hit him. Satin was wearing his tunic, belted with the curtain cord to keep it from falling off her slight frame. Elsbeth was dressed, too, and busy pawing through his satchel, oohing and ahhing at the gems and jewelry. He could see that the three other women had already gathered up Maldred’s possessions. Each had a long-bladed knife strapped to her waist. Satin padded over and pulled Dhamon’s sword off the bedpost. “Worthless, huh?” She unsheathed it and ran a thumb over the edge, jerking when she cut herself slightly, thrusting the thumb into her mouth and greedily sucking at it. “Might be worthless to you, but I’ll wager it’ll fetch a pretty steel piece somewhere. You see, we’re headed out of Blöde, too—now that we have more than enough wealth to do it. All thanks to you.”

Elsbeth had fastened her backpack and was leaning over Dhamon. She had a long-bladed knife on her waist, too. The knives were all the same, the handles wrapped with brown snakeskin and a symbol sewn on them, marking them members of some thieves’ guild.

“You’re not the only thieves in this pitiful town,” Elsbeth said, “and we’re obviously far better at stealing than you are. Than you were.” She turned the knife and brought the handle down hard on his breastbone. She hit him a few more times, then drew the blade across his stomach until a thin line of red formed. “Since the drug hasn’t completely taken you out,” she said, “I’ll bet you can feel that. At least I hope so.” She slapped him hard across the face, then took a step back to admire her work before she slapped him again and again and again.

Dhamon tried to struggle with the ropes that held him to the bed, but all he managed to do was feebly move his arms. The ropes were tight, knotted as well as any sailor could have done. He was certain he could’ve gotten out of them if he had all his strength and wits—the drugged alcohol had sapped him of both. He lolled his head to the side, watching Satin move over to inspect Maldred, who was on his back, out cold.

She glanced back at Dhamon. “When you mentioned you’ve a price on your head, I considered finding a way to collect it, but I’m a thief, not a bounty hunter.”

“So what’re we gonna do with them?” one of the others asked her.

“No witnesses, girls,” Satin told them. “You know that we never leave witnesses.”

Elsbeth made a tsk-tsking sound. “Too bad, Mister Dhamon Evran Grimwulf, I kind o’ fancied you. I would’ve liked to play a bit longer. But Satin’s right. Leaving witnesses is an unhealthy thing to do.” She reached behind Dhamon’s neck and unfastened his gold chain, then hung it around her own neck. His gold bracelet quickly followed. “We just can’t afford to leave anyone behind to tell o’ our deeds. You understand, don’t you?”

Two of the women had strapped on Dhamon and Maldred’s backpacks and were climbing out the window.

Another was hefting Maldred’s greatsword, trying to figure out how best to carry it. Satin was wearing the Sorrow of Lahue and had purposely turned so Dhamon could see it hanging low on her, almost to her waist, the platinum chain catching the candlelight and sparkling like miniature stars. She tucked the rose-colored diamond beneath the tunic and smiled slyly.

“This large fellow here… Maldred, you called him. He’s mine,” Satin said. She held Wyrmsbane high over the big man’s back, angling the tip down over the center of his spine, still watching Dhamon. “I’ll kill him with your worthless sword. It’ll be quick. Maybe he won’t even feel anything.”

“Then I guess you’re left to me, Dhamon Grimwulf.” Elsbeth drew her long knife and stepped closer.

Dhamon could no longer see either woman. His vision blurred. All he saw was a twisting mass of gray and black. There was one point of light, perhaps the burning candle. Everything else was gray swirls.

“I have to admit though, honey, I sure would’ve liked to have spent the night with you. And it would’ve been nice for you to get something in exchange for all this treasure you’re handing over to us.”

“Me first, Els,” Satin purred.

The slender Ergothian winked at her companion, brought the blade high above Maldred’s back, then, startled, spun away from the bed as the door was kicked open. The door struck the wall so hard the mirror fell and shattered on the floor.

“What in the name of…” Elsbeth turned, knife held in front of her, eyes narrowing at the woman who stood in what was left of the door frame.

The lantern light that spilled in through the hallway revealed a slight half-elf in a voluminous sea-green dress, a wild mane of silver-white hair fanning away from her face. She had wavy-bladed daggers in each hand and a sneer on her petal-pink lips.

“Not ‘what in the name of’,” the half-elf corrected. “Who. Who in the name of. My name’s Rikali Lockwood, and I truly don’t mind if you kill those two worms you’ve got all trussed up. Riddin’ the world of them would be doing us all a great big favor. You can do it nice and slow and painful for all I care. But while you’re doing it, I want a share of the wealth you’re takin’. It’d only be fair. I want in on your little operation.”