Descent into the Depths of the Earth (6 page)

“Don’t go, friend!”

Jus looked at him and asked, “Where?”

“Sour Patch.” The woodcutter had a donkey, and the donkey
carried a hundredweight in fresh cut wood. “Bad luck. Don’t stop. Turn back.”

“And go into the woods?”

“No. Turn back to Keoland!” The woodcutter gave Jus a sharp
look of panic. “You mean you came through the
woods?”

“From the coast.”

“Friend, you’re mad.” The man worked solidly to make a pile
of timbers. “I’m here because the baron paid me. He paid me because the king
paid him. We’re running supplies here to the refugees. If they’re fool enough to
settle here, then they have to have a chance.”

Standing and carefully looking over the crowded shantytown,
Jus fingered his sword. “Refugees from what?”

“Raids. Something’s been clearing out all the villages in the
river valley, sweeping them clean. No one left. No warning. No trail. It’s like
the gods just up and took ’em.” The woodcutter finished his work and wrenched
his donkey around. “Everyone’s fled the valleys. Some merchants offered free
land to refugees, but no one thought to ask em where the land might be. But the
Dreadwood… !” The man looked at the forest and shook his head. “Even the
valley’s better than that! Only a fool goes near the Dreadwood.”

He made to leave. Jus extended one big hand and held the
donkey’s bridle. “What’s wrong with the Dreadwood?”

“Cursed. Bad luck. Was never meant for mortal man. It’s a
haunted wood. People see things in there. People disappear.” Agitated, the
woodcutter looked in fear at the trees. “Five, six years ago, giants wiped out
all the villages, killed everything that moved! Now it’s happening again, you
mark my words! Bad luck in the Dreadwood.” The man wrenched his donkey free from
the ranger’s grasp. “Bad luck!”

The woodcutter left, fleeing down the road at the best speed
his little donkey could manage. Emerging from her hiding place in Polk’s cart,
Escalla rubbed thoughtfully at her little freckled nose as she watched the
woodcutter depart.

“What was
he
drinking?”

“I don’t know.” Jus hitched his belt. “Someone’s running this
camp as a scam, maybe trying to repopulate some junk land. Keep a lookout for
trouble.”

Half-orcs and slovenly humans kept watch over the refugees.
The guards ate meat and drank wine while refugees lined up for stale bread. Jus
took one look at the village and seemed to swell with predatory energy.

“Cinders?”

Magic.
Cinders’ fur lay low, and his fangs shone evilly.
Old food. Raw hides. Smelly stuff. Hot iron. Half-orcs. Bugbears. Ogre-stink.
And elfie-pixie.

“Elves?” The Justicar used his thumb to loosen his sword in
its sheath. “Keep your eyes open. There’s work to do.”

Choosing invisibility as her best option for sneakiness,
Escalla hovered in the air nearby. “Keoland looks like a good place to be well
away from. What’s that awful smell?”

Jus shrugged. “Half-orcs, ogres, bugbears, raw hides, hot
iron, an open sewer, and some elves or pixies.”

“Elves?”

“That’s what Cinders says.”

The Justicar felt the faerie giving a happy shrug.

“Hoopy! Well, he should know.” The girl’s wings buzzed. “Any
idea where we look to find our shapeshifting spies from this morning?”

“If they’re here, we can find them.” Huge and brooding, Jus
scanned the streets. “Stay invisible. You can rest in the backpack if you need
to.” Jus settled the hell hound into place upon his helm. “Are you all right,
Cinders?”

Burn! Burn!

“Later. Don’t annoy the locals until we have to.”

Jus turned around, but Polk’s wagon already stood abandoned
at the edge of the road. Moving at an astonishing rate, Polk had already mounted
the steps of a rubble pile that masqueraded as the local tavern. Ignoring the
sounds of a fight from inside, Polk tightened his belt, slapped his hands
together, and rubbed his palms in glee.

Jus gave a heavy ursine growl. “Polk!”

The teamster turned, incredulous that the others were not
following him to the tavern. “Son, it’s a tavern!”

“Polk, we are not here to drink!”

“But it’s a den of iniquity, boy!” Appalled, Polk waved his
hands in the air like a maddened bird. “We can’t just pass it by! Dens of
iniquity are part of being a hero! Here’s where you defend a maid, find a clue,
buy a treasure map, start a brawl… ! Think of the possibilities!”

“Polk, the only adventures that ever start in taverns are
usually ones that involve puking or collecting genital lice.” Jus tied the wagon
in place and took a long, hard look at passersby, making sure they knew that he
would remember their faces. Glowered at by a six foot tall man wearing a hell
hound skin, most pedestrians elected to walk hurriedly away. “We are going in
for one drink while we skim for information.” Jus sniffed the scent of roasting
meat and gave a prim lift of his chin. “And perhaps a bite of something savory.”

“And then a fight?”

“One fight per day is enough.”

Jus shouldered his way in through a door made from an old
blanket. As he passed, Polk gave an unhappy sigh. “That boy has no idea of how
to be a hero. It just ain’t in him.”

Escalla’s voice laughed from empty air. “He gets the job
done.”

“I tell him again and again! It ain’t
what
you do,
it’s
how.”
Polk swept the blanket aside to allow Escalla to pass. “You
know, it’s high time that boy took a grip on his responsibilities!”

* * *

The Sour Patch tavern sold only two types of food: raw and
burned. The beer smelled like old laundry, but Polk drank it nonetheless.
Escalla contented herself with lounging inside the Justicar’s backpack as it sat
beneath the table. The ranger’s wineskin had yielded a last few drops of decent
beer, and there were still sweets aplenty. The girl reclined with her little
feet crossed and her arms behind her head, thinking sly, warm little thoughts as
she watched the Justicar.

Jus loomed at the bar, shaking down the locals for
information. This was where the guards lived and drank. Teamsters bringing food
to the shantytown and sharks keen to fleece refugees of their cash all came here
to spend their coin. The crowd was loud, the room smoky, and the jokes were rich
with filth.

A half-orc seemed to be giving Jus trouble—probably not the
best choice the half-orc had made in his career. The Justicar’s patience was
remarkable but would eventually wear thin. Enjoying the interval between the
disappearance of rational, talkative Jus and the appearance of wrath-of-the-gods
Jus, Escalla smiled.

The ranger had an endearing habit of tugging his grim persona
about himself like a cloak. He enjoyed it like an actor living for a good role
in a play, but from time to time, Jus could be persuaded to drop the facade, and
then a rather interesting man began to emerge. Escalla had rolled onto her belly
amidst the warm depths of the backpack, when quite suddenly a hand began groping
at her rear.

Escalla jerked away, whirled about, and scowled.

A hand had snuck into the backpack. The hand was attached to
an arm, and the arm had somehow ended up affixed to a pimple-smothered thief
with protruding teeth. The thief groped about in the backpack, looking for
anything valuable, and kept himself hidden under the table.

Escalla gave an amused little smile. She watched the groping
hand, cracked her knuckles loudly, and then went to work.

Working carefully and with his eyes peering under the table
toward the Justicar, the thief frowned as something touched his wrist and then
jerked tight. He scowled, looked down at the backpack, then almost expired as he
saw that the bag now had evil eyes and horribly sharp teeth.

With a noise like a whip crack, a long, rough, rope-like
tongue wrapped around his arm, holding it in place. Talking with its mouth full,
the bag gave an evil little roar. “Me magic bag of gnawing! Now me feed! Feed
good!”

Serrated fangs gleamed, the thief screamed, and quite
suddenly a flash of magic sparkled in the air. With a bang, a weasel appeared
beside the terrified thief. The weasel wrung its paws and pranced in concern.

“Don’t move! One wrong twitch and
pow!
It’ll rip your
arm off!” The weasel moved to hastily survey the thief’s arm. “It’s all right.
I’m the magic wishing weasel. I’ve got the bag held in a spell. Don’t make any
sudden moves, and you might get out of this alive.”

Pale with fright, the thief held his arm rigid, the bag’s
tongue holding him trapped. He stared at the backpack’s fangs in fright.
“M-magic wishing weasel?”

“Well, you wished for a way out of this, right?” The weasel
opened up its front paws. “So what are you complaining about? I happened to be
passing, so I’m on the job… unless you want me to go?” The weasel snapped its
fingers, and instantly the backpack roared and yanked the thief’s arm deeper
into its maw.

The thief gave a pathetic bleat of fright. “No! Stay! Just
get it off me! Get it off!”

“Sure! Fine!” The weasel clicked its fingers again, and the
snarling backpack subsided. The magic wishing weasel leaped onto the thief’s
frozen arm and inspected the backpacks hairy tongue.

“Hmm. All right. Simple to fix. You’ve got one hand free,
right?”

“You want me to cut the bag?” The thief groped hastily for a
knife. “Fine!”

“No!”The weasel hurriedly waved its paws. “You’ll enrage it!
No, in a case like this, you have to make use of natural strategy.”

“Natural strategy?”

“Trust me, kid. I’m a weasel.”

Traveling in a sinuous round-about route, the weasel ended up
upon the thief’s shoulder. It tapped its paws together and gave a brief flip of
its tail.

“All right, kid. We have to make nature work
for
you,
not
against
you.”

The bag shifted its grip, trembling as if about to break its
restraining spell, and the thief swallowed in fright. “Magic weasel, help me!”

“All right, kid, now listen.” The weasel looked down at the
thief’s bulging purse then stood aside. “I’ve got it held for a while. To escape
the bag, you have to trigger its gag reflex, but not by putting a hand or a tool
in there! Oh no. That thing senses anything big in there, and it’ll rip your arm
right outta its socket!” Drawing a brief sketch in the dust, the weasel
chattered on. “There’s one patch at the back of its throat that can trigger the
gag reflex. You have to hit it with something heavy—something small, dense, and
solid—to make it spit out your arm.”

The thief immediately threw an empty beer stein into the backpack. The magic
weasel gave a tired sigh. “No. Something
small
and heavy. Very small,
very dense.” The weasel rapped on the thief’s head. “You understand dense,
yeah?”

“What?”

“Nothing. You want brains, don’t come to the Flanaess.”
Sketching out a diagram in midair, the weasel tried to educate the thief. “Look.
There’s a little tiny slot at the bottom of the bag. All you do is drop little
heavy things in there in the hope they’ll go through the slot. Little flat heavy
things—small, flat, round, heavy things.”

The thief blinked cluelessly, and the weasel gave a snarl.
“Look! Just drop coins into the bag, or it’ll nibble your knuckles off!”

Fumbling in haste, the thief grabbed for his purse, undid the
drawstrings with his teeth, and sent a tumble of gold coins spilling down into
the backpack’s toothy mouth. The carnivorous backpack scowled, mumbled, then
suddenly gave a great cough. Feeling his arm held in a briefly loosened grip,
the thief jerked his hand free. He immediately threw himself as far away from
the backpack as possible.

Frustrated, the backpack gnashed its fangs and grumbled.
Meanwhile, the wishing weasel slapped the panting thief on the back in
congratulations.

“There you are! Free as a bird!” Grinning, the weasel began
to prod the thief out from under the table. “Now go on. Scram! Off you go.
Borrow some money, have a drink to celebrate, and maybe consider a change in
career.”

Pale with fright, the thief still had eyes only for the
gnashing backpack.

“Th-thank you, magic wishing weasel!” The man withdrew into
the tavern light. “How can I repay you?”

“All in a day’s work, kid! No need to thank me. Just naff
off!” The weasel suddenly bit its lip and scuttled closer. “But if anyone was to
ask—say, just for arguments sake, if a really big shaven headed guy in black
armor wearing a hell hound skin—if a guy like
that
asked what happened to
your money, you’d say that you
chose
to put it in the backpack, right?”

The thief rubbed his bruised wrist in fright and said,
“Right!”

“Great, kid. Now scram!” The weasel crept onto the table
beside an incredulous Polk. “Nice kid, but a brain the size of a peppercorn.”

Polk looked at Escalla the weasel in confusion and asked,
“Was that boy a thief?”

“Nah. He came to make a donation. I think we must have made
about fifty gold pieces outta him.” Escalla dropped her illusion spell from the
backpack, which returned to being a plain old leather pack. The “tongue” of the
beast—a disreputable length of chord—was stuffed back into the darkness of the
pack. Escalla shifted back into her usual form and rummaged about inside the
backpack to find her discarded clothes.

She was tugging her leggings into place when a heavy presence
made itself known outside her sanctuary.

“Escalla?”

“It was an unsolicited gift!” Escalla jammed her head out of
the bag to face the Justicar. “Ask him! He gave it to us on his own initiative!”

Jus squatted on his heels beside the backpack and scowled.
“What?”

“Oh. Nothing.” The faerie saw Jus’ look of confusion and
gave a nervous twiddle of her wings. “Nothing at all! Did you get any
information?”