Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 05

"It's like a bad joke, a dwarf lord and a fat noble are tied to a gnome girl..."

"Har har, Garthur." Vick's rejoinder was punctuated by the impact of a steel gauntlet against a mailed shoulder.

"My Lords, just because they can't see us doesn't mean they can't hear us," Farangalia's voice piped up, high and shrill.

"Are you sure we have to be tied together?"

"For now, Lord Varonne. My spell only shields you from view out to a certain distance, and you two already almost wandered off six or seven times on the way down here."

"Hey, you three," Alan hissed from the mouth of the alleyway. "This is an infiltration, not a party. Be quiet, please!"

"But isn't it a party too? I mean we're technically a party bent on infiltration."

Alan and Daphne both face palmed at the gnome woman's words. Casting aside imaginings of how far he could punt Farangalia, the rogue finally cleared his throat and spoke in a stern, but quiet tone, "Alright, here's the basic plan. There's an entrance through the sewers, but we need to minimize escapes while we clear the place out." He gestured out of the darkened alley they crouched in, toward the structure that housed the thieves' guild.

It was the largest of the guild's safe-houses, and served as de facto guildhall since the destruction of the old guildhall by the forces of Jaron Daar. A mansion that would be the envy of any of the merchant league, tucked into one of the most bustling parts of the city, the structure dominated the corner at the intersection of Winston Street and Old Vineyard Lane. It was a tall, brooding building of gray brick and tan plaster, with wood framing the upper two stories. The roof had recently been re-shingled with red tiles, and the windows on all floors were of darkened glass. An eight foot iron fence and a brief, truncated yard separated the building from the street and its nearest neighbors alike.

"So here's what I think the best plan of action is. Daphne, you get up top unseen, watch the rear of the building for anyone who comes out. Feel free to pick off stragglers."

When the stunning elf maid nodded to his words, Alan continued, "Vick, Garthur, uhm... Gnome, you three watch the front, get close as you wish while invisible, but keep in mind there may be folk outside or just inside that you can't necessarily spot. They'll be able to hear you. If folk start fleeing in force, engage them. Meanwhile, I'll head down to the sewers and come up through the secret entrance. That'll put me near the front of the building. I'll come open the door, then you three can come in and start clearing out the ground floor, while I head back to open the rear door for Daphne. Daphne and I will sweep from the back, we'll all meet near the grand foyer, and head up together."

Of course he couldn't see any nodding or other expressions, so he asked "Is that acceptable?"

"You told us to be quiet," Farangalia piped up.

Visions of backhanding the gnome woman swam in Alan's head, before he just let out a heavy sigh, "Well?"

"Sounds good, boy," Garthur sounded almost jovial, "It feels good to be back in action again."

"Just like old times," Vick concurred.

Alan offered a smile, then looked back to Daphne. The elven woman slipped her long nailed hand up, and traced his cheek with her cool fingertips. "Good hunting." She purred the words out, and her tongue played over those pouty lips. And then, she was off. She seemed to fade back into the shadows, then vanished into mist.

With her on the way, Alan nodded to where the rest presumably were, before he took off himself. He had nothing so impressive as a misty form, just his own two feet. Those feet, however, were well practiced in the art of stealth, and he moved easily and silently down toward the nearest grate cover to the sewer. The things were usually heavy enough to require two men to lift, but as he hooked one hand through the metal cover's handle, Alan was pleasantly surprised to find it was still as accessible as ever. Long ago, the guild had modified these things for easy access, and no one had seen fit to make it more difficult to remove. With the lid popped, the old rogue descended into the sewers.

The tunnels below were as dark as ever. The darkness and rank smell was the least of Alan's worries, however. Brick walls seemed to close in on all sides, and the ceiling was low enough to require a constant ducking. A river of vile fluid coursed down the center of the circular passage, and it was all Alan could do to avoid treading in it. Distant squeaking and splashing echoed down the brick-lined passages, but thankfully no human sounds reached his ears.

The darkness ahead was impenetrable, and while Alan knew the route by heart even after all those years, he couldn't count on the traps having remained the same. A moment later, and a torch was produced from his pack and lit. The flame sputtered and flared occasionally in the poor quality air within those sewers. Still, the flickering glow was better than nothing, and he made his way carefully down that passage.

What was only a few dozen yards and a few intersections could easily turn deadly to a careless explorer, but Alan was expecting the place to be rigged. He proceeded slowly, keen eyes roaming the dark, stained brickwork. A loose stone to be avoided here, a hair thin tripwire there, Alan was thankful he'd chosen to go this route alone. With the others tagging along, he would have had to stop to disable each trigger in turn, rather than simply step past. Past experience had taught him that dwarves and men in armor seemed to stumble into every thing left in their path.

Then there were the rats. Most of them fled before Alan's footsteps and the sputtering, flickering flame of his torch as it struggled to burn against the foul air. As he neared that stretch of brickwork where he'd have to start looking for that telltale crack in the masonry that marked the entrance he sought, two large black rats refused to retreat before him. The sleek, well fed creatures simply watched as he approached. Cursing under his breath, Alan waved his torch toward them, but only managed to almost douse the flame. The rats seemed supremely unimpressed.

Conscious of the need for haste, and wary of making too much noise, the old rogue turned his back to the rats and studied the damp bricks before him. There was the crack in the mortar, as he remembered, but someone in those passing years had outlined it in chalk. As he muttered about the laziness of youth, Alan drew his fingers along the crevice, toward that single brick he remembered so well.

With a faint click, and a slight grinding, the wall began to pivot inward. Alan hoped the noise would scare the rats away. The beasts had unnerved him ever since the prior night. As the brick wall swung inward, revealing the brief, darkened passage beyond, the memory swam in his head, of the battle with the rat man and the thugs in the street. His eyes shot wide as the realization of what those rats could be finally hit him, and he half turned to illuminate the empty spot where the rats had been with his torch.

It was this sudden movement that saved him, for a crossbow bolt whistled out of the dark passage just revealed, and slammed into his shoulder. If he hadn't turned, it would have buried itself in his chest. Still, while the wound wasn't immediately fatal, it very nearly crippled Alan's sword arm. His torch tumbled to the ground, where it lay, fortunately not extinguished. As he ducked to the cover of the brick wall, within the secret passage a strange and unwholesome figure was illumined from below by the weird flicker and glow of the grounded torch. Like the previous evening, the sight before Alan was a twisted amalgamation of man and beast, a furry humanoid figure with claws, an over-broad chest, a long tail, and a ratlike snout.

Cursing, Alan dropped his good hand to draw the silver dagger strapped to his thigh. After last night's encounter, they'd all taken precautions, but it looked woefully inadequate based on what he now faced. The pain of the bolt penetrating flesh and bone was agonizing, and it was all he could do to keep from passing out at each accidental movement of his shoulder. If he lost it now, however, he'd be dead and his wife would be condemned to whatever her captors had planned.

He could hear the wererat approaching, but it was moving slowly, no doubt fully aware he wasn't dead from that shot. With his options limited, Alan began to back down that sewer tunnel. With the silver dagger clutched in a white knuckle grip in his off hand, he gritted his teeth against the pain blossoming from his wounded shoulder. Forcibly, he struggled to fish a glass vial from his belt with that arm, even as blood coursed down his wounded limb.

As soon as the black-furred rat man rounded the corner, Alan flung that vial weakly forward. It was a haphazard throw at best, and the forced movement of that wounded arm brought a pained roar from his own lips. He didn't hit the rat man, but he didn't need to. As soon as the glass impacted the rough brick near the wererat's head, it shattered. The fluid within splashed out in an arc from the point of impact, and where it landed, there was a smoldering sizzling. The wererat cried out in pain as the splash from the acid began to eat into its flesh.

Enraged, the rat man abandoned all pretense of using that crossbow for another shot. It tossed the mechanism to the ground with a noisy clatter, then charged Alan. The old thief ducked under the first swipe of its claw, and pushed past it, causing those jaws to snap on air just where his head had been. The second of the brute's claws impacted his side, sending him into the wall. By the gods' graces alone, its claws didn't manage to penetrate the tough leather that sheathed his form.

With his earlier acid attack still boiling away on the creature's flesh, Alan stabbed his silver dagger up toward the creature's throat. The beast raised its arm in time to avoid a deadly blow, but the blade still sunk deep into the rat's forearm. The silver sizzled and burned against the shapeshifter's flesh, and with a quick twist and yank, Alan pulled the blade free.

Grievously wounded by acid and blade alike, the werebeast began to back cautiously up, retreating toward the darkness beyond the edge of that torch's dim illumination. Unable to let the thing flee to potentially warn others, Alan followed it along, his steps careful on the slick brickwork. When the creature hesitated but a moment, he took another swipe at it with that silver blade. The dagger's point found its way through the creature's defenses, and the wererat sank to the ground, its lifeblood seeping across the brickwork to join the trickle of filth coursing down the center of the tunnel.

With his foe vanquished, Alan wiped the silver blade on the beast's fur, then slipped it back into its sheathe. He didn't have time to pause and catch his breath, he had to get out of the sewer and up into the house. Besides the others waiting on his infiltration, the filth of the sewer was perhaps the worst place to take a wound. No doubt he'd have to have Garthur tend not only to the damage the bolt inflicted, but any vileness that had settled into the blood from the nature of his surroundings. Stumbling back toward the secret passage, he swept up that torch and stepped within. The brick wall slid back into place behind him with a solid grinding, and an audible click.

The wererat had been a walk in the park compared to what followed. After some inspection, Alan ascertained that the bolt had been barbed, and thus opted to leave it in the wound until Garthur could tend properly to it. Thus he doused his torch, and was forced to climb the rickety ladder up into the safe house one armed, in absolute silence. The pain faded from a constant torment to a dull throb, exacerbated by the occasional lancing agony when he moved the arm in question. It made it difficult to do what needed to be done, but somehow the old thief made his way from the hidden passage and into the halls above.

He crept down well kept halls decked in finery, only to pause from time to time to listen for the movements of those within the structure. From what he could tell, there were only two watching the front door, but as he crept toward them, a familiar cry sounded from behind one of the doors he was set to pass. It wasn't his wife, no, but something about that voice caused him pause. With the help of his friends no doubt but a few paces and a short fight away, Alan hesitated, then carefully cracked open the door from which he heard that woman's cry. What he saw turned his stomach.

Somehow, the young priestess Charity had been captured. Within the ornate room, the young blonde was shackled to a wall, the cruel iron suspending her wrists above her head. Her clerical robes had been rent from her form, exposing her lush curves to any who might view her. Clad only in the remnants of opaque white stockings, her body was displayed enticingly, from smooth thighs to the curves of her hips. Her slick folds were bared, that mound dusted by light blonde curls. Her taut belly strained, and her pale flesh glistened with perspiration. Full, pert breasts heaved with each quick breath, and those lips of hers parted to offer another cry, only to still when her eyes caught sight of Alan. The delicate blush which rose upon her cheeks at the sight of him was as alluring as anything else displayed there.

She wasn't alone. Before her, a dark haired man stood, wielding a whip. As he caught Charity's gaze, he began to turn. In a split second's decision, Alan acted. He never paused to draw his sword, he just sprinted forward, and wrapped his good arm about the man's neck. The muted struggle lasted but a little over a minute, as he choked the fight from the man without a word, then lowered the stilled body to the floor. Only then did the old thief draw a dirk from one boot to finish the job.

After his grim work was done, he snatched the keys from the man's belt, then rose to his feet and approached Charity. His eyes met hers, and she offered a shy smile.

"Alan," her tone was breathless, and the lack of formality brought a gentle smile to his own features.

"Charity, how did you get here?" He spoke quietly, not wanting to be overheard. Without waiting for an answer, he reached up to begin to unlock her shackles, conscious of how her lush curves pressed warmly against his body.

"I... I had stepped out for a moment, then a man grabbed me, and put a bag over my head."

It had to have been almost immediately after they left, and it troubled him that he hadn't seen anyone moving her on the streets, or within the tunnels below. Still, perhaps it meant they hadn't had much time to abuse her.

As soon as her arms were freed, she slipped them about his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. "Oh Alan, I was so frightened." Her bare breasts pressed to his chest, and he gingerly patted the back of her head with one hand.

"It's alright Charity, are you able to walk?" He winced a bit as his wound shifted again, "And are you able to see to this wound?"

The priestess turned her gaze to the bolt projecting from his bloodied shoulder, then gasped "Oh Alan, you're wounded!"

Her words were a bit too loud for his comfort, so he pressed one finger gently against her soft lips. After a moment's silence, he was reassured no one had heard. Or at least if they had, no one approached. "Yeah, it was my own stupidity. I fell into a rat's ambush. Can you help with the healing?"

Her smoldering eyes caught his as he looked back to her, just gazing up through thick lashes. She shook her head, and caught the tip of his finger between her lips. Her cheeks hollowed as she suckled on the tip of his finger, and as he drew it back, she caught it momentarily between her teeth, only to let his finger go at last after a teasing little lick. "I used all my healing up this morning Alan, I'm sorry."

The pout that followed was as devastating as anything Daphne could muster, and it took the old rogue a moment to regain his composure. "Uhm, that's alright Charity. We need to get you out of here." This was no time to be thinking of what she was making him think. His friends were outside, his wife was possibly just a few rooms away, and Charity's hands were slipping into his pants.

"Please let me reward you for saving me, Alan," Her breathy words wrapped about his mind as her soft hand wrapped about his growing cock. "We may not get a chance after."

There was something fundamentally wrong about the priestess's actions, even putting aside the danger they were both in. But he had trouble putting his finger on exactly what. Probably because Charity was having no trouble putting her finger on exactly how to arouse him. Finally, with a supreme effort, Alan laid his good hand on her shoulder. "We can't, Charity. We have to get you safe." His voice wavered with each slow, warm stroke of her delicate digits over his engorged shaft. As if he didn't have enough trouble sneaking around the place already.

Her hand gave his manhood a firm squeeze, and she arched her back. Her pert breasts pressed to his chest, nipples drilled into the leather separating them. "Promise me, Alan. Promise me you'll let me reward you before this is all done." Her words tickled across his throat as she leaned so close, her lips fractions of an inch from his skin.

Perhaps they had drugged her, perhaps she was suffering some sort of breakdown. After all, she had seemed to forget the night before earlier that day. "I promise," he wasn't sure if he meant it, but he had to calm her down somehow.

The promise, however halfhearted, was met by the sudden press of her warm body against his own, the crook of one arm about his neck, the squeezing stroke of her other hand upon his erection, and then the press of her warm, wanting lips to his. He blinked in surprise, but returned the kiss after a moment. He wasn't sure just where a supposedly chaste priestess had learned such an act, but at that moment, his logical mind was slowed.

When Charity broke the kiss, she stepped back slowly, then deliberately drew that hand that had been wrapped about his cock up to her lips. Alan watched as she traced her tongue over each of her fingers. She made no effort to cover her nudity. She was so lewd in that moment, so detached from what he knew she should be.

Although her clothing was gone, it didn't take long for Alan to salvage a cloak that had been hung on a peg near the door, and wrap it about her shoulders. She finally tugged the material about her body, but the way the thin, dark fabric clung to her curves was hardly any improvement.

"Follow me, but as quiet as you can. Don't make a noise, alright?" His tone took on a deadly seriousness.

She simply nodded.

With the priestess in tow, Alan crept toward the door. The two men stationed in the front chamber were chatting about some bar wench or other, and seemed thoroughly distracted. Alan looked back to Charity, then gestured to the door beyond. When she nodded, Alan drew his sword in his good hand, then stepped out into the room.

It was over almost too quickly. Alan stepped around the corner, and thrust his sword with a practiced twist into the back of the man nearest. As the other man's eyes widened in surprise, Charity padded past swiftly, then flung the door open. She was almost immediately buffeted aside by some invisible force, probably vaguely dwarfish. The second guard's sudden cry was cut off in the most gruesome way possible. His body suddenly split and crumpled, as if cleaved from crown to sternum, and only then did Vick's black bladed sword appear, wielded in both hands by the warrior himself. Although his invisibility had faded with the blow, the gnome and the dwarf remained unseen.