Lord of the Rose (4 page)

“Dwarf spirits, a double shot!” the dwarf barked at the harried old barmaid.

“I hear you, don’t have to shout!” she snapped back. She finished drawing ale into a couple of mugs and set them down in front of the two knights, both of whom wore the emblem of the Rose. A miserable-looking goblin, his mouth gagged with a filthy rag while his wrists and ankles were shackled with stout metal manacles, huddled at the feet of one of the Solamnics. The creature was hunched over, holding something small in its clawed hands.

“All right, dwarf spirits—and you?” She looked at the warrior impatiently.

“Do you have any of that red ale from Coastlund?”

She snorted. “I got mead from Thelgaard and yellow ale from Solanthus.”

“Well then, give me dwarf spirits, too. A double shot.”

She slammed down two small, clay glasses and hoisted a jug from behind the bar. It was clearly heavy, but she held it steadily as she trickled each glass full. When they were topped off, she set down the jug, pushed the glasses across the bar and left to wait on a raucous draconian at the other end of the bar.

“Lively place,” the dwarf remarked. He tossed back half of his glass and smacked his lips.

“Yep,” the warrior replied. He took a sip from his own glass and winced as the fire ran across his tongue and down his gullet. “Cornellus always has a wild bunch around.”

They leaned back and watched the musical entertainment for a few minutes. The minstrel was an elf, dressed in patched leather leggings and a threadbare cloak. He alternated between his flute and a mandolin, but whenever his tune verged on melodious the hill dwarves would jeer him into making a mistake,
and then the whole room would erupt in laughter.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” The speaker was the nearer Knight of Solamnia. He had finished his mug and was pulling on his riding gloves as he stonily addressed the warrior. “This is a long way from any place.”

“Easy enough to find,” the warrior replied.

“You look familiar, though. Ever been through Sanction?” asked the knight, scrutinizing the whiskered, weather-beaten face.

The rider shook his head.

“What about Caergoth? I spend lots of time there, in the Ducal Guard. You one of Duke Crawford’s men?”

“Nope.” The stranger took a sip of his spirits.

“Cleaning out the riff-raff?” the dwarf asked the knight, nudging the shackled goblin with his foot. The wretched creature looked up apathetically then lowered his head. In his shackled hands he held a chip of stone, a greenish quartz, clutching the shard to his breast like it was great treasure.

“A rabble-rouser,” said the second knight from behind the first. “Preaching about Hiddukel to all the gobs in the hills. We’re taking him in for a talk with the duke.” He laughed mirthlessly.

The first knight stared at the human warrior until his companion, also gloved, tapped him on the shoulder. Each of them took hold of the hobgoblin’s wrist cuffs and pulled the creature roughly to his feet. Side by side, one watching to the right and the other left, they walked to the door, yanking the hobgoblin behind them.

“Some nerve, their kind coming up here,” snapped the hag of a barmaid, returning to meet their eyes. She unleashed a toothless grin at the warrior. “Act like they own the place! Still, that Reynaud was looking you over, all right. Like he reckanized you from somewheres …”

The man shrugged.

“Bah, frightened of shadows, them knights,” said the dwarf, extending his glass for a refill.

The crone poured. “Cornel don’t have no use for them knights either, but he tolerates their business. To keep the peace, you know. Still, that hob was a good enough customer. Never bothered no one. Just sat there and rubbed his green stone—sometimes he’d rub it so hard it glowed!”

“Yeah, Cornellus. Now that you mention it, we need to see him,” the warrior said softly.

She blinked and cocked her head as if she hadn’t heard right. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned over the bar. “Be careful what you ask for. You just might see up him up close and personal.”

“That’s our idea exactly. Can you tell him that we’re here?”

“Who’s here?” she demanded, shaking her head skeptically.

“Dram Feldspar,” said the dwarf, standing and reaching across the bar to shake her hand. “Originally from Kayolin. Tell Cornellus that we’ve brought a bounty he’ll be interested in. He’ll want to see us right quick.”

“It’s your own funeral,” the old woman muttered. “That’ll be two steel,” she said. “I think you better settle up now.”

“Two steel for three drinks?” sputtered the dwarf.

“One steel for the drinks,” she replied, glaring at him. “Another for making me go back there and face Cornellus.”

T
he hag had been gone for about five minutes, her absence arousing an increasingly restive thirst along the length of the bar, when a door slammed somewhere in the back of the room. A sudden hush fell over the chamber as a hulking bozak draconian emerged from the shadows, swaggering and sneering. He held his muscular wings half-spread as he advanced, an arrogant gesture that forced customers to back out of his way or get whipped by one of the stiff, leathery pinions.

This draconian was even bigger than the gatekeeper. A least a dozen heavy chains draped his neck, jangling as he walked. A belt of the yellow metal encircled his lean waist, and golden cuffs gleamed from his ankles and wrists. He halted before the dwarf and the warrior, looming over them. Massive, taloned fists rested on his hips, and his forked tongue flickered out insolently, almost brushing the man’s nose. The warrior didn’t flinch, though his eyes narrowed slightly.

“You got the bounty? You show me the bounty,” growled the bozak.

The human glanced sideways at his companion, and the dwarf raised his right hand to show a strand of cord that pierced a number of leathery flaps, like some crude, gigantic necklace.

“A score of goblin ears!” declared Dram Feldspar, tossing the grisly strand toward the draconian—who made a flailing swipe to try and catch it but had to bend over, muttering, to pick it up off the sawdust-covered floor. A growl rumbled within that massive chest, as he squinted at the first ear.

“Huh, real goblin.” He nodded in apparent satisfaction, and starting sliding the dried ears past his fingers on the leathery strand. “Four … eight, ten … twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen. Yep, two more makes a score.”

He looked at the pair with somewhat more interest, filmy lids half-closing over the vertical slit pupils of his snake’s eyes. “Come this way. Cornellus will see you. If he likes you, you might even come back out alive.” The draconian threw back his head and roared with laughter that was echoed by appreciative chuckles from the dozen or so other draconians in the rooms.

The hobgoblins, close relatives of the goblin race, were not laughing. Instead, they glared murderously at the bounty hunters. One burly chieftain put his hand around the hilt of his knife, but—at a sharp glance from the bozak—made no move to draw the weapon.

Still chuckling, the gold-bedecked messenger raised a paw, the sharp talon of his forefinger extended like a stiletto toward the door at the back of the inn. The bozak stood back to let the visitors pass in front of him. The man led the way while Dram Feldspar stepped right behind, with a glance at the draconian who followed at a respectful distance.

Two baaz draconians armed with short swords flanked the sturdy, iron-strapped door. At a nod from the bozak, one of them pulled it open and the other drew his weapon, warily studying the dwarf and the human. The two sauntered inside.

Cornellus the Large was seated upon a stout wooden throne, a chair that would have held two normal sized men with room to spare. The bandit lord not only covered the seat, his body seemed to bulge outward over either arm of the massive platform. His half-ogre lineage was clear in the small, round eyes that glared from the folds in his fleshy face and in the twin tusks
that jutted upward from his lower jaw. Those tusks were gold plated, an ostentatious display of the bandit lord’s wealth.

Beams hewn from solid pine trunks supported a ceiling dozens of feet overhead. That space was cloaked in shadow, for no windows broke the solid stone walls of the chamber. A massive blaze roared in a cavernous fireplace, shedding light if not much heat. The flaring illumination revealed several other doors leading deeper into the mountain.

A plump human woman stood behind Cornellus, holding a fan. She gaped stupidly at the man and the dwarf as they approached until the bandit lord reached back and cuffed her. Quickly she began waving the huge feathered device.

Not that it was hot in here; it was frigid as a root cellar, half-buried in the bedrock of the mountain. The fire was so far from the throne that it had no effect on the chilly temperature. Still, Cornellus was sweating like a slave laboring in the hot sun. By the time the visitors reached him, another female slave had stepped forward with a towel. Gingerly she mopped the perspiration from his forehead, cheeks, and jowls.

“So, you claim to be brave goblin-slayers? Is this true?” His voice rumbled as though it came from a deep well, gurgling on the last words.

“As a matter of fact, Your Lordship, that is true,” said Dram, stepping forward. He grinned, bowing with a flourish. “We are only too happy to—”

“I was asking
you
, warrior.” The bandit lord raised a massive paw, pointed a wrinkled finger the size of a large sausage at the human. “You like to kill goblins?”

“I kill my share.” His voice was quiet, matter of fact. “We work as a team.”

“A score is many goblins. Where did you find them?”

“In the foothills of the Garnet range. South of the city the Solamnics call Solanthus.”

“Ah, yes.” Cornellus allowed himself a rumble of amusement. The sound was like a massive cauldron full of boiling water. “A realm of the knights. But the goblins breed like maggots down
there, fill the valleys, spill through my woods. They are a plague upon my humble business.”

It was well known that the bandit lord’s humble business was the import of smuggled elf slaves and other contraband from the lands south of the Newsea. Goblin raids ate into his profits.

“We have heard of the bounty you offer for those enemies of your humble business!” said the dwarf. “That is what brings us here.”

“Ah, the bounty. No one kills goblins just for the sport of it anymore—always, there has to be a reward.” The half-ogre sounded rueful and contemplative. “Snaggart, have you inspected the ears?”

“Aye, Lord Cornellus,” replied the bozak draconian, who had followed the visitors into the room. He still clutched the dried flaps and their leather thong. “Indeed they have a pretty score.”

“Well, ahem, I regret to inform you that the bounty has changed,” said the bandit lord tersely. “I pay only one steel for one ear, now.”

“One steel?” sputtered the dwarf. “For years the bounty has been five!”

Cornellus shrugged, a massive rippling of his flesh. “You are out of touch. I offer one now. Take it, or do not take it. The gobs are no longer such enemies. Maybe soon they collect bounty for human and dwarf ears!” The bandit lord guffawed momentarily at that thought then scowled and added, sniffing, “Either way, you bore me. It is time for you to go. Maybe I tell gobs where to find you.”

“One steel might be all right,” said the warrior, his voice still calm and quiet, “but we also need a little information from you, just a few words.”

“Eh? What words would these be?”

The man stepped forward, pulling a flat object from beneath his cape, and, not incidentally, revealing one of the small crossbows, cocked and ready, that he wore at his waist. At the gesture, more draconians stepped forward from the shadows to either side, but Cornellus held up his hand and the guards halted. The
half-ogre squinted his tiny eyes as the man unwrapped a piece of white stone about the size of a small dinner plate.

“This is a piece of marble, part of a tablet we found at a place near here. It bears a name.” The man extended the shard upward for the bandit lord to take it with his sausage-sized fingers. The bandit lord looked at it, blinked once, and shook his head.