Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 09

The sweltering heat clung about Alan, stifling breath and movement alike. The lighting could be better, sunlight filtered in through gaps in the natural stone cave he was crouched in, stained a glorious mix of green and gold by the foliage it passed through. The walls of the cave had been worn smooth over the passing eons, and further smoothed and polished by whoever built the shrine before him.

It was an ancient thing, with a vile, demonic statue looming overhead, carved from the very stone and polished by the care of centuries of shrine keepers. The figure squatted over a stone tablet, with glyphs that he couldn't understand. At its base was a stone box, built into the shrine but with a hinged lid that locked as surely as any mechanism could. It was this very lock that Alan's dextrous hands worked upon.

"Damn it Alan! Hurry it up in there!" Vick's voice boomed from outside of the cave. His words rose even over the distant thunder of rapids in the gorge below, and there was an after echo as his call resounded back along the length of that stone gorge and back into the cave.

"Working on it!" He called back over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to the box. Finally, with a sharp click, the box opened to reveal the object of their quest.

There it lay, placed upon soft cushions within the box, a silver handle, shaped like a wrapped, clawed talon, gripping a polished sphere of obsidian about the size of a man's fist. The orb was unnatural, how that black glass could have been so perfectly shaped was beyond him. Even as he stared into its glistening surface, it seemed to draw his attention inward.

"Alan!" Vick's voice bellowed again, and this time was followed by the telltale clang of steel on steel.

Quickly, the thief snatched up the orb and stuffed the item handle first into his doublet. As he rose, he snatched up the short bow he had set aside, and raced for the cave's entrance. The sound of battle intensified.

Outside, the light was near blinding for a moment, but when his vision adjusted, it was clear how bad their situation had turned. The cave opened onto a narrow ledge, and a rickety rope suspension bridge of indeterminate age spanned a broad, steep gorge. The jungle closed in on either side of the gorge, above the cave and on the opposite side. Far below, a raging river crashed over jagged rocks.

There, upon that bridge, Vick and Garthur stood close together on the precarious bridge, holding back a crush of crudely armed and armored cultist. Vick's helm had been lost earlier, allowing his long locks to blow freely in the wind, while Garthur augmented the powerfully built warrior with his divine prayers. Alan could hardly believe the bridge supported their weight at all.

Closer, Windhawk stood, an arrow notched in her own long bow. The elven woman braced herself delicately on the swaying bridge, her own long blonde hair tied back severely with a leather thong. Her own forest green leathers conformed to every curve of her body. Carefully she aimed, then loosed her arrow into the horde of cultists that made their way down that bridge toward them. One screamed as the arrow planted into his chest, then tumbled over.

Last was Miena, her robes blown against her own lean frame, her hair a brilliant red shock that caught the wind, and blew about without a care. She raised a wand in one hand, and chanted arcane words that the breeze snatched away as surely as they left her lips.

One of the brutish savages on the opposing cliff took aim at Miena, and Alan cursed. He rushed forth toward the young wizard, and tackled her down. A spear sailed over his own back as the two crashed onto the wooden slats of the bridge, and severed one of the support ropes cleanly. The entire bridge began to twist, and the two began to slide off one edge.

Desperately, Alan grabbed onto Miena, and hooked his own legs in the ropes of the side still supported by that ancient rope. Miena's spell, ruined, soared away in a dazzling sparkle of color. The wizard girl's own legs dangled over that chasm, while she clung to Alan's arm. Her terrified blue eyes stared up at him from her freckled features.

"Please don't drop me, Alan," She seemed on the verge of tears.

"I won't, Miena. I promise." He reassured her, but when he turned his gaze back up along the bridge, and at first all he could see was twisting rope and wood. Then, he followed a loose bit of rope downward with his gaze.

Vick dangled from one of the ropes, clutching it in one hand, while his sword hung uselessly from the other. Below him, the mail clad dwarven priest gripped Vick's ankles, and cursed loudly. There was no sign of the bulk of the cultists who had come out onto the bridge, only several stood staring at the edge of the cliff above. Nor was there any sign of Windhawk.

Miena's squeal brought Alan's attention snapping back to her, only to catch a glint of black and silver. The orb was tumbling, having slid out from where he'd tucked it into his leathers. With both his arms straining to keep Miena from tumbling into the deeps, there was little he could do but watch. But then, the young wizard woman kicked her feet and swung wildly from where she hung, catching the item between her soft boots.

"Vick! Alan!" An impossibility rose up from the crashing waters below. Windhawk's voice rang true over the waters, "Down here!"

Alan's attentions were momentarily seized by the swish of a spear missing him by scant inches. He swung his head up toward the cultists gathered at the edge of the cliff above, then back down past Miena. The redhead was working one hand down to grasp at that orb, apparently trusting Alan to keep her up. There, far below, standing on the back of a huge, green turtle, Windhawk's blonde hair and forest green garb was unmistakeable.

"Come on down! The water's fine!" The elven woman called up with a grin, though she hardly looked like she'd seen a drop of it herself. The turtle she perched upon barely kept up with the current, its massive limbs sweeping through the rushing white water crash.

"Are you crazy?!" Vick called back down, though his words were punctuated by a clang. One of the spears from above glanced off of his armor.

"You blasted elf!" Garthur called down, before wincing as the spear nearly tumbled into him. He closed his eyes and murmured, "Gonna regret this, aren't I?" Taking a deep, heaving breath, the dwarf let himself drop.

The glint of Garthur's armor shone all the way down until he impacted the water below, and though he went completely under with a great splash, he soon came up, sputtering and clinging to the side of the turtle's shell. Windhawk stooped to help him clamber onto the back of the great beast.

Vick shrugged at the display, and sheathed his sword. Only then did he release the rope he'd been clinging to. It caused the whole bridge to wobble and shake.

Another spear streaked by Alan, and he barely twisted out of its way. Miena finally spoke in that soft tone of hers. "I've got it Alan, let's go!" She squirmed free of his grasp, then tumbled downward. Alan watched in shock, then with a kick of his feet, he too was falling.

The shock of the water was icy compared to the stifling jungle heat about them, and he missed the rocks by less than a foot. In truth, any of them could have easily tagged those jagged rocks, but none did. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was an intense breeze called up by the elven ranger, Alan couldn't tell. All he knew was that as soon as he and Miena had joined the others, the turtle ceased its attempts to keep up with the river, and they were all clinging to that great creature's shell, riding it like a boat down the rapids.

Miena's fiery hair was plastered to her head, her robes to her slender figure. She gazed into Alan's eyes, her own excited, grateful. "We got it Alan, we finally got it."

Alan could only smile to his friend, "Yeah, we did. But I never doubted you for an instant Miena. You lead us to it. Now we can put it to use against Jaron Daar, show the world what he really is."

The little redhead flung her arms about the dark haired thief, and nearly knocked them both from the back of the turtle. "Alan, when this is all over, promise me..." she whispered into his ear as she pressed her lean body against his, but her sentence trailed off.

"Promise you? Promise you what?" Alan slipped one of his arms about the wizard woman, and looked to her with genuine curiosity.

Miena didn't respond. She just buried her face against his chest, her cheeks burning brightly. Alan looked her over with concern, only to catch sight of that glistening obsidian orb. Once more it seemed to draw his gaze, tug upon his mind.

The world about him faded. The turtle, the rushing rapids, that gorge from so long ago. Soon it was just him and Miena, and the orb. No longer in the flush of youth, his body still strong but no where near where it was in those days, Alan just held the frail, icy form of Miena. His hair gone gray again, his face lined with years of such harrowing adventures, he just stared at the Nightmare Orb clutched within her frail, spindly hand.

"I never could say what I wanted you to promise me." Her voice came out in a raspy tone, as if she had been crying. She didn't look up to him.

"What did you want me to promise, Miena?" His own tone was one of concern. His brows knitted.

"It doesn't matter anymore," She still spoke against his chest, and then, "I loved you, Alan. I wanted to be with you, but I didn't want you to give up what made you you."

Alan frowned at her words. "Miena, those were different times, we were different people."

"No. No Alan, I wanted you, but I was afraid to tell you. I wanted you always at my side." Her voice grew darker, strained and hollow.

Alan slipped one hand to grasp her chin, and tilted it upward to look into her eyes. He immediately wished he hadn't.

It wasn't the cute, freckled face he remembered. Those intense blue eyes were gone, replaced with glowing flames in empty sockets. Her skin was white and pulled tight over her skull, her nose shrunken and gone, leaving only a hollow. With a curled claw wrapped about the Nightmare Orb, Miena's other skeletal hand gripped his shirt firmly.

"You should have been mine!" Her voice rasped out, filled with rage.

Alan started upward in his bed, his heart racing, pounding in his own ears. His room was still dark, someone had pulled the shades closed and shifted a wardrobe to stand before the windows. That someone was curled against his side.

Daphne had slipped into the bed sometime during the night. Freshly bathed and clad in one of his old shirts, she appeared peaceful, almost innocent there. Sadly, her utter stillness betrayed her nature, and made the view more like gazing upon some fresh corpse than some sleeping beauty.

As unsettling as the sight of her was, at least it would allow him to slip out without worrying about her. If he and his friends were to begin tracking his wife, they'd have to set out during the daylight, which was anathema to the vampiric elf. Besides, if she had accompanied them, and they did meet up with Windhawk, the two elves would undoubtedly quarrel, and that was a headache that no one needed.

With his armor from the previous night still damaged, Alan settled for a battered old set of enchanted leathers that, although much patched over the years, still had a fair amount of protection left. For the rest, Alan packed several weapons and an enchanted bag of supplies. He had no idea how long the coming trek would take, and if they had to cross any amount of wilderness, he wanted to be ready without hesitation.

It didn't take long at all to prepare, years of practice in setting out on adventurous expeditions came back Slipping an old travel cloak on about his shoulders, Alan slipped out into the morning light. It was still fairly early, although well after dawn. The stroll to the Reavers Rest was almost pleasant, with clear skies above, a steady breeze, and a steady stream of passersby going about their morning business, oblivious to the slaughter that had taken place in that very town the night before.

In his youth, the simple walk to the Reavers' Rest was invigorating, promising adventures to come. Now, a growing dread settled in the pit of Alan's stomach, though no doubt there would be adventure. Rather than years past, where his own glory or riches were the motivation, now it was the woman he loved on the line. As he passed through the cheerful, peaceful streets, he felt every year of his age settle onto his shoulders.

With grim determination, the old rogue made his way toward the weathered inn where so many of his past adventures had started. It seemed more crowded than usual. The Count's guards joined the usual morning lot, but there were also a number of folk wearing the livery of some of the noble houses throughout Aethwin. As Alan shouldered his way in through the great wooden doors, the jovial atmosphere inside startled him.

The common room was packed. All of the new members of the Reavers seem to have gathered, and were in the midst of some manner of celebration. To add to the confusion, around the grand table where the older members of the adventuring company usually sat, a collection of nobles were gathered, as if the count were holding court. Alan spotted Tannon skulking amongst the shadows, but before he could question what he was doing there, a slender hand grasped his arm.

"Sir Tinsley! It's about time you showed up," Charity's chipper voice caught his attention, and the blonde pulled him along through the crowd. He had to watch himself to avoid tripping over her trailing white robes.

The grand table which dominated its portion of the common room was almost full. Count Varonne sat there with Madame Pryce clinging to his arm. The whore had dragged a stool up to be near without taking up one of the seats proper. To Vick's right, Dwarflord Garthur Steelwright sat, his armor repaired and clean, a mug of dwarven stout clutched in one fist. He was in the midst of some prayer to the earthen father when Alan came into view.

Also at the table sat a sight he hadn't seen in many years. Of course Windhawk hadn't aged a day, her elegant features near hawkish, her long hair bound back in a single tail down her spine. She was clad in supple leathers edged with wolf's fur, and her bow rested, unstrung, against the table. The elven woman turned her almond eyes toward Alan, and he thought her lips quirked into a hint of a smile, but it was too fleeting to be sure.

This left only two official spots unoccupied at the table. Alan drew out his own chair, as he had so many times in the past, and settled into it. His gaze drifted across to the lone spot remaining, left empty by common agreement. A part of him still expected that wild haired redheaded wizard to peek over the pages of whatever book she had been reading as she had so often in those years past, to steal those glances he was pretty sure she thought went unnoticed. But Miena was, of course, long dead.

"The Reavers of Aethwin, together again!" Vick's booming voice stole his attention, and was met with a resounding cheer from the crowd of younger adventurers. He let it continue for some time, before raising his hands to request silence. Only after they calmed down, did he continue.

"Together again, but it has been dire circumstances that have made it so." The rotund Count let the gravity of his voice settle throughout the room, before he continued, "Dark forces now threaten our city, my city. They have infiltrated the Guild, and shattered it. And I know that many of you would say good riddance, but in doing so they have sewn chaos and anarchy throughout the underworld, and indeed endangered many of your holdings." At the last, Vick jabbed one thick finger toward some of the nobles, whose protests died upon their lips.

"They have attacked our citizens, they have enlisted the aid of shape shifters, some of which could be masquerading among you right now!" With those words, the Count gestured to the room at large, and there were several gasps scattered throughout the crowd.

Alan couldn't tell whether the seemingly shocked individuals been planted for effect beforehand. It was clear, however, what Vick was doing. They were about to head out on a journey from which they might well fail to return from. By uniting the people and the court before they headed out, it would give the city the strength to endure for a while at least.

At least, that was the logical reason. Alan was beginning to suspect Vick just liked the drama, especially when the old, rotund warrior swept his broad hands toward the group of aging adventurers.

"But there is naught to fear. We have overcome beings that threatened the very fabric of the kingdom before. Together, we, the Reavers of Aethwin have toppled usurpers, ended dark cults, and brought dragons to ruin. Today, we set out to bring our wrath down upon those who have attacked our city. But first, there is some business to settle here."

Alan raised his brows at this announcement, but as he looked to the others gathered, he realized they must have been told of this, as none of his old friends showed signs of surprise. Indeed, Garthur just kept with his mugs, while Windhawk looked suitably bored. Alan was about to lean over to the the elven woman and ask what was going on, when Vick continued.

"First, there is the matter of city business. I am certain that the council of nobles will be pleased to note that I have increased the watch patrols. I am certain that the younger Reavers will be equally pleased that I have authorized a bounty on any lingering wererats discovered in the city sewers."

While the reaction of the gathered nobles was muted, the other adventurers waiting in the wings let a small cheer erupt. Alan couldn't help but smirk. Official court bounties were little more than pocket change to the seasoned Reaver, but with the state of things lately, it would bring some needed coin into the ranks, as well as build prestige for those successful hunters who managed to return.

"Further, during my absence, I do appoint my betrothed, Margaret Pryce to be warden of the city in my stead."

Alan's jaw dropped, and Garthur did a full on spit-take, showering that dwarven stout over the table top. A murmur of disapproval spread through the gathered nobility, but it was quickly quieted by an angry glare from Vick himself. The Count hammered one fist into the tabletop.

"Unless there are any objections?" His tone was a violent snarl, and as if on cue, several of the city guard stepped into the tavern's common room. There was stone silence for a long moment, before Vick nodded, satisfied.

That hand lifted from the table, and waved dismissively to the gathered nobles, "And that is all the city business that needs to be addressed. The rest, well the rest involves the Reavers." At his dismissal, some of the nobles and their footmen began to disperse, though a few stayed on to listen. Vick turned his gaze to each of those at that great table. Beside him, Madame Pryce smiled like a cat that got the cream, and nestled her curvy form against his rounded side.

"Alan, your guild is no more. At least until it is rebuilt. In the meantime, Tannon, Amarinth, and Merideth have volunteered to try to scrape together the pieces, and work to gather any intelligence they can on the street, in case this turns out to be more than just a hunting trip. Is this agreeable?" Vick's tone was somber and muted.

The question itself was just a courtesy, as a thieves' guild itself occupied a gray area. It was seen as a necessary evil, a way to control the otherwise uncontrollable, as well as a resource that the court and crown could use when underhanded dealings were necessary. Technically speaking, Alan had little real power to either found a new guild or deal with rebuilding the old. But as a former master of the guild, and a friend of the Count, he certainly had unofficial influence in both venues.