The Winding Road: The Ambush

by Frank Gori

Dab tried to stay alert this time.

It had been a rough week of ambushes and assassination attempts just trying to acquire the necessary supplies for their journey. Bellany and Zool called the assassins The Tradesmen. They were great at blending in, striking, and fleeing, causing the caravan damage in their wake.

Dab was learning that the great guilds of Hub were more interconnected then one might otherwise perceive. While the Merchant's Guild itself was supplying the majority of the personnel and physical goods for the journey, Malleck still needed various jobs performed by the Workman's Guild, tools from the Blacksmith Guild, and the Mage's Guild was for the most part necessary for magical supplies to ease the road.

One moment a group of roofers were working on a building across the street, then the next they were shooting at you with poisoned crossbow bolts. Malleck tried sending intermediaries unaffiliated with the caravan, but The Tradesmen always struck anyway. Malleck tried disguising people, again the Tradesmen struck. They targeted anyone going on or helping with the expedition and Dab had yet to spot one before they struck.

Clearly the Merchant's Guild had spies within, but that was hardly Dab’s department. He was guarding this transaction which was the only thing that somewhat worked. Malleck was resolved that if the Tradesmen would not cease the attempts to harm the caravan then they’d pay a blood price for every attempt. Even expecting trouble the bastards were hard to spot.

By the time it was sorted out who needed killing, most Tradesmen ran. They used smoke sticks, flash powder, and caltrops but still Dab usually got a hold of one. The Tradesmen always worked in a group multiples of four, or quads (which apparently was the term even when there was sixteen of them.) Losses didn’t seem to daunt them, despite having traded an equal number of lives from their ranks to the losses they inflicted the kept coming. It was a bloody week roughly two dozen people didn’t see the end of and Dab was getting weary of it.

Mal, Zool, Bellany, and Snook were the only reliable spotters they had. Everyone was on alert, but being alert didn’t seem to be enough. 

Despite his resolve, Dab found himself reflecting on Laz. Laz seemed preoccupied and edgy lately. Perhaps understandable given the circumstances, but there was something akin to the skinny boy that helped him stand up to the street toughs despite clearly being terrified. Laz was the kind of guy that threw his best punches when he was scared to and if Laz was scared there was good reason to be…

An arrow interrupted Dab’s thoughts, “Dammit,” he said aloud in exasperation. The carpenter with the arrow perforating his throat was the obvious target, which Dab found himself charging. This time he took a moment to focus and noticed a customer in the grocer stand not very far behind the carpenter reaching into a canvas bag. The customer was too calm in the face of violence, Dab squared his shoulders and lowered himself further in the run.               

In the last second he pulled wide of the carpenter and pushed with all his bulk and muscle. The shopper had raised a crossbow out of the bag and lined it to someone in the caravan.

“Not this time,” the carpenter flew into the field of fire just as the bolt flew clear of the crossbar. If the carpenter survived Bellany’s shot, he’d likely not survive this one. Dab made eye contact with the crossbow woman just as a stream of Marta’s energy bolts twisted around the obstacles of the grocer stand and slammed into the would be assassin.

Dab followed that up with a throwing axe, before turning around to see who was next. A gardener had an arrow through his eye and some attention was further ahead of the wagon at some fleeing foe making it four.

Dab’s eyes swept back to the caravan, one of Zool’s Blacksmith’s had a bolt in his buckler. That made this attack three of them for none of theirs, perhaps the next Quad would think twice.

The scuff of boot on cobblestone to his left was Dab’s only warning. On instinct he punched out to his right before dropping into a roll to his left. His fist connected and he managed to trip his other attacker into a tangle with the first. They set up in his flanks invisible, likely from a potion or some dust.

Dab managed to get back to his feet before his attackers which afforded him a few seconds to scan the area and get a lay for the battlefield. Aside from the two, the shopkeeper held a wand over the not quite dead crossbowman and she had already apparently used it on the carpenter who was downing a potion and had already retrieved his weapon. The five on one would for a short time wouldn’t be so bad, but a glance over at the supply wagons now shrouded in mist, indicated a caster focused on cutting off reinforcements.

They used magical resources to isolate him and get the advantage of first strike. They counted on that being enough, they counted on taking him down, but they didn’t count on a loose cobblestone ruining their stealth. That was their mistake.

Dab touched his new ring and said the command word that would make his skin stone hard and enhance his already impressive ability to take a beating. In all likelihood they assumed they had the advantage with numbers, the reality was they were outnumbered and attrition favored Dab. Laz would be annoyed he used the charge up already but being captured or killed was probably worse. It also made his priority to take down the casters as the other four would have a hard time damaging him.

Dab ran at the shopkeeper first. Barreling past his assailants allowed them to take swings on him and were he not protected he’d have paid a blood price. As it was the minotaur barely felt the blows. A crossbow bolt bounced off his chest before he closed on the wand wielding shopkeeper who now had a blue disk of energy in front of him.

Dab let go. Let go of the dozens of half remembered beatings in the course of a battered life, let go of the frustrations of a lost career, let go of the anger of being separated from his only childhood friend, let go of being tortured. He let all of that go in a raging flurry.

When the fog cleared a few moments later they found Dab covered in blood on his knees. Five foes lied broken and dead.

The Winding Road: Zool’s lesson

By Frank Gori

Zool felt like he had been struck by an arrow. Hodge was alive and offering to soul forge a weapon for the Sewer King as payment for their escape. Every apprentice Blacksmith dreamed of rebuilding the great fire-forge of Hodge. Finding out Hodge was alive was like hearing The Nameless God was reborn.

They say Hodge lived among dwarves for fifty years and studied a great red dragon to build the forge. The forge was based on the dragon’s breath chamber and could make a flame so hot it would melt diamonds. It survived only long enough to forge “Hallow-shard” the great sword held by the Blacksmith Guild high general. “Hallow-shard” was made of an alloy no Blacksmith has seen before or since, as the great fire-forge 

 

Yet Zool believed the elderly orc when he claimed to be Hodge. Something inside of Zool understood immediately the elder orc’s quality and were he not in the literal bowls of the city in hostile company, Zool would kneel before him.

Soul-forging was beyond the comprehension of most. Hacks used it as a shortcut to magic, discarding parts of their own experience cheaply. In the hands of a master, one who had honed a soul of worth sacrificing a piece of such a worthy individual made for a potent item worthy of legend. Such an item in the Sewer King’s defiling hands was like swallowing shards of glass, it just didn’t sit right in the gut.

The bargain was struck quickly, and Zool barely recovered from the shock before it was time to go. Hodge walked up to Zool and the Lizardman could not keep a tear from forming in the corner of his eye. Hodge took his hand in the clasp of brotherhood and drew Zool into a mentor’s embrace. In Zool’s ear he whispered, “you are more than a sunder, Zool Swiftblade. I have seen the quality that lies inside you. It just needs to be tempered by a steadier hand.” Hodge’s grasp burned like molten steel then cooled like the quench, “I’ve given you a gift and I forbid you to pass it to another until you have learned the secrets of soul forging.”

 

The moment would haunt Zool. As Hodge drew away Zool knew that he intended to die. They had not broken Hodge in that cage. Whatever the fools from the Workman Guild sought, they had not taken it. Hodge was trading his life for the lives of seventy eight other souls and he was resolved to do so.

Zool could feel the new mark on his forearm, Hodge’s mark. In a saner world Hodge would have passed that mark to his finest apprentice before he died, and with it a measure of his skill and power would live on. For the first time since his apprenticeship Zool yearned to work at the forge, for the first time in over a decade he yearned to be a maker. His master told him he lacked the talent, but for the first time Zool didn’t believe it.

As everyone else filed out of the Sewer King’s receiving chamber, Zool lingered. The mark on his arm was imbued with strong magic and the guild would want it passed on to a more worthy hand. Forbidding Zool to do so until he learned the secrets of soul forging would make things complicated. Yet it all felt like… providence.

Dab’s meaty oversized hand roughly clapped Zool’s shoulder, “Come on, we got to go now.” Zool pondered drawing his magic and steel against this Sewer King for a moment, but the mark seemed to gain weight with the thought.

A last glance toward Hodge was all Zool could afford because in the end he had work to do. The boy who daydreamed of rebuilding a forge that mimicked dragon-fire had another calling to answer. Zool afforded himself a second to salute Hodge, so he choose the salute of a student to his master.

In that moment Zool understood that it wasn’t his master’s assessment of his worth that held him from becoming a maker, it was his own acceptance of it. Another time soon Zool would stand before the forge and follow the instructed work of a new master but for now…

Seventy seven backs needed watching.

The Winding Road: Fire and Ice

by Frank Gori

Bellany knew enough to almost prefer the dragon to the sewers. Music Guild contractors referred to taking a sewer escape route as Plan D, the D being for desperate. Below the streets of Hub was a realm, it was a place where men and women were twisted and misshapen by magic, where the vermin cooperated and seemed too intelligent, and where dead men walked and spoke retaining the semblance of life. It was home to a mad king with potent magic.

There was an arrangement between the guild and the Sewer King, but he always exacted his own semitone and it was notoriously the one a guild rogue held most dear. Bellany was unaccustomed to fear. Yet today she was afraid, prices are more dear when you have something to lose.

Mel shouted orders, and he picked a direction but it was little better than running blind in the dark. He had the wisdom to advise everyone to be careful where they step and to harm no creatures in the sewer. At least he knew enough to advise that; trespass was an opportunity for the sewer king. Harm any creature and you went from being an opportunity to being a source of meat for his minions. 

The guild file on the Sewer King was extensive and frightening. He could petrify organic matter with a touch and he had a potent batch of necromantic spells at his disposal. The man was mad and tended to gibber, but most importantly he was extremely territorial. All objects and creatures that dwelled in the sewers were under his protection, harming them was harming him and he took a pound of flesh for every ounce of harm.

Eventually the raging sound of the dragon became distant and the 80 or so survivors found themselves at the bank of a wide underground river. The water was clean, the sewers themselves were cleaner than most of the lower rung Workman neighborhoods. The Sewer King was Mage Guild and the sewers were perhaps the one true contribution they had made to the city. Bellany had never taken “plan d” and was somewhat surprised.

It wasn’t long before the Sewer King’s undead boatmen came. Through the eyes of his mongrelmen spies or the vermin that skittered around the sewers, the king knew of their presence and had taken an interest. “Don’t deal with death, Mal,” Laz managed to mutter before losing himself once more into the delusions of deep despair.

The first Gondola landed on shore and its zombie pilot extended his hand in a greeting about six hundred years out of date, Mal moved forward. He pricked his palm and bled two drops of blood for the boatman; it was an archaic gesture of Mariean courtesy. It was an oath to negotiate and pay the Sewer King, or forfeit one’s lifeblood.  A gesture that he was dealing in good faith.

Given the number of passengers and the importance of several members of this particular party, Bellany anticipated that the price would be a steep one. The cold logic of her Elvish ancestry appraised the situation quickly and concluded a sacrifice was going to be required.

Feelings that were not her own, feelings that burned like fire, threatened to break the mask of stoicism Bellany had maintained her entire professional career. Fear and rage blossomed at the prospect that she might be the price the Sewer King demanded, for Jax would pay dearly for her return. With effort she compartmentalized those feelings to deal with later. It cost her.

Bellany’s thoughts turned to the belt pouch holding the herbs that could solve her problems. Another riot of emotions rallied against her. It was to be expected, the life inside her was filled with Jax’s fire and it very fiercely wanted to live. Still, Bellany could chew the herbs, or brew them into a foul tea and her Jax problems would become more manageable. He’d simply try to kill her, as opposed to capturing her and having her returned to him.

The threat of Jax wasn’t the real temptation though. Ballany didn’t like that her emotional control was slipping. Between the hormones of pregnancy and the sheer turbulence of the magical life growing inside her, Bellany was worried about surviving this pregnancy with her sanity intact.

The passions of the life inside her and the inferno of Jax’s love would consume Bellany if she allowed it. The music Jax made was often described as primal, passionate, and frenzied. Those that knew Jax privately knew that his music was restrained. Being alone in a room with Jax was like standing on a beach in a hurricane. His emotions were palpable and threatened to overcome all but the most stalwart.

 The life inside Ballany’s womb was barely more than a month old and its emotions were potent. The child inside was going to be a powerful sorcerer, she already felt its magic, she already knew she would not take the contents of the herb pouch. It meant her life in Hub was over, she’d have to run and run far. The guild reached far.

A single tear welled in the corner of Bellany’s eye, Mal was the only one that saw it and he nodded sagely as though he could possibly understand. The boat ride was over and an armed escort waited on the other side. 

The mongrelmen guardsmen would take them to the Sewer King’s court. If he demanded Bellany as a price she’d slay him, consequences be dammed. The cold logic of the kiss and the fire inside her finally agreed on something.

The Winding Road: The Despair of Pi

by Frank Gori

Lazeron Pi heard the voice of his teacher Morte Bisset, “We share the ability to do magic with many others. Applying that magic with knowledge is a wizard’s greatest weapon, and makes us stronger then sorcerers.” Master Bisset was a harsh tutor and his tastes and desires still brought bile to Lazeron's throat, but Morte was right about knowledge.

The guard with a deadman’s lever was standing in the key to a wizard’s spell trap. The design was thought to be a secret only known to a handful of wizards and its purpose was solely to contain living spells. 

 

Wizard magic was mind over matter in the extreme. Manipulating the ambient energies of creation and bending them to one’s will meant imposing order on inherently chaotic energy. The mind needed to be a little broken to achieve such a feat, though some wizards called this enlightenment. Lazeron was more honest about the situation, it was the price wizards paid for power.

 Sorcerers achieved the same effect by calling on magical energy inherent in their blood. This subjected them to magic’s chaotic rules and at anytime the bliss or despair could come. The breaking protected wizards to a limited extent.

Lazeron was both a wizard and sorcerer, though the magic in his blood alone would have made him a middling mage at best. With time Lazeron would be a very potent wizard, assuming he survived the next five minutes or so. Gifted wizards learned to combine the discipline of wizard magic with the raw fueled power of sorcery into something greater.

Lazeron stole a glance at Dab. The numbers were a little quieter in the presence of his childhood friend. Before Laz bloomed into his power he shared a summer with Dab. They faced bullies, told one another trivial secrets of childhood, and on occasion shared a quiet moment in a simple brotherly embrace. The memory of that helped Laz get through some of the less innocent affections that soiled Laz’s childhood a few years later.

The irrational power of the numbers was Pi’s secret knowledge and the foundation of his wizardly might. Pi was also a sorcerer and could call on his emotions and blood to fuel his power. Combining the two was powerful but dangerous. Laz had little choice, he watched the living spell infuse itself into the guard and it was a form of the dragon spell. It would enact a transformation that would result in a creature not quite as powerful as a normal dragon, but powerful enough.

Calling on his fear and worry for his friends was easy, channeling that into the cold reason of the perfect equation 22/7 was harder. He began by associating each digit with a face, three for Mal as Malleck struggled with three identity roles around his patron son, subject, and suitor. One was for Dab as Dab was the only friend from Laz’s childhood who had survived his mentor’s envy. Four he associated with Zool because four was a number about balance and a feminine male who was both a consummate professional and comrade at the same time took extraordinary balance. One, again for Dab, five for Bellany as she was as much a star as Lazeron ever encountered, nine for the surviving female prisoners they liberated, and two for himself a caster arcane of both wizardry and sorcery.

The wall or iron and stone were up. A wall of force was his next objective, his mind associated six with his mentor as that was the number of times… Laz lost focus a moment and felt the gut wrench of despair. He was tired. Desperate really, this prison was clearly designed by a Mage and he was outclassed. The guards were a sham, they were there to force him to use his magic, his master always said his desire to show compassion to outsiders would be his death and only now was he being proven right. They needed the wall though so six dam it. Six was for Morte Bisset as six was the number of time he… the world slipped away.

Six… six was something.

Lazeron felt strong arms embracing him, lifting him up. Then they went away, six.

A maze was before him there were six paths. All seemed wrong, he knelt for some time there and wept. Then he felt the eyes of something malevolent and angry on his back, it was a lion and a serpent at the same time, and Laz had to run down a path or be consumed. Instinctually he took the fifth path a path that made him want to dance. The path was beautiful and vibrant and he smiled a moment despite the danger. He had to find Dab, Dab would be in the labyrinth and Dab would keep him safe.

The fifth path ended at another juncture of six branches but he could hear Mal giving orders down the third so the third path he took. He sensed Bellani in Mals path which meant they’d probably be lovers but there was an infinite amount of potential within Bellani if she chose to let it flourish. Laz had a brief moment where he could almost hear her discussing the death path with one of the nine. It made him scream.

Was that his scream? No, it was not.

Death came in the form of a boatman, he had but seven fingers and the life of one of the nine would be his toll. Mal didn’t know that so he accepted the bargain. 

“Don’t bargain with Death, Mal,” Laz tried to call magic to fight it but couldn’t latch onto the number enough to do so.

Ballany’s unborn baby giggled and Laz returned to the maze. This was confusing but then it all became confusing after his apprenticeship as a wizard. 

Zool was there at the maze; he raised his hand and smacked Laz six times. Once again Laz’s mind drifted to Morte, his debased love sometimes involved striking. In tribunal his defense was that he needed to break Laz’s mind and abuse was the fastest way. Something stopped another round of smacks from Zool, Mal, the unborn infinity and Pi would dance forever in the maze but something stopped it.

Something was important…

The arms were still there. Had they always been there? Propping him up and keeping him from being eaten by the serpent? Only in the moment of their absence did he notice they were gone.

“DAB,” Lazeron screamed it and the world came rushing back.

They were in the court of the self proclaimed sewer king, the boatman suddenly made sense. Lazeron briefly missed the comforting insanity of Despair. The sewer king was a potent Mage and would exact a heavy toll for passage.

Lazeron opened the sight and glanced toward Bellany confirming his fear, the life within her was strongly magical. He wondered if she knew. The Sewer King would surely notice.

The Winding Road: Desperate Measures

by Frank Gori

Mal ordered everyone to retreat down a floor, and anyone who was foolish enough to stick around to listen to the guard-turned-dragon hammering away at the palisade deserved to die. In Zool’s assessment, the best current option was to run, hide, and try to sneak around this thing when it came for them.

Dab had to carry Laz down, meaning the team’s magical heavy hitter was tapped. The glazed , confused look to Laz’s eyes indicated Despair had taken hold. As a magus, Zool had pushed that envelope before and reality bended itself in a confusing array that was just too much to handle. Only time and rest would bring Laz back, assuming they survived.

Against a dragon a number advantage meant very little. It couldn’t be a true dragon, the walls and gates wouldn’t even slow a true dragon that size. It was a trick of magic perhaps, though if it was as fierce as it looked the difference was perhaps merely cosmetic. The numbers would only matter if they could get the dragon in a tight space and swarm it from all sides. Considering that roughly half the prisoners were useless in a fight, running was the best call.

“We need another option,” Mal mused aloud. That was bad, Zool had worked with Mal almost five years the man always kept the veneer of being in control of a situation. If he let a comment like that slip, he was close to losing his composure and without real leadership the group would be fucked.

Zool put a hand on Mal’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. It was a quick silent conversation, amounting to “You are not alone. I have your back.” It was enough. Mal took a deep breath before turning away and signaling everyone to gather round.  

“Listen up. I’ve learned something today and that is that we’re dealing with competent professionals here,” Mal seemed to meet each eye, Zool smirked a little as a few of the prisoners muttered. “That means they didn’t leave something as dangerous as that dragon-thing without a plan if it got out.” Mal looked to the prisoners, “one of you knows something… One of you has heard something we can use.”

The elderly blacksmith cleared his throat and every eye turned toward him as he spoke, “well, there was a rumor.” His tone was reluctant and almost betrayed a hint of embarrassment; “ they used to say that there was a secret sixth basement and it has access to the sewers.”

Mal straightened, “we’re going to find out. I want everyone to the fifth basement looking, on the way down grab bunks tables anything we can use to barricade the way behind us. Anyone with enough magic to provide light, pair with the humans. Everyone else knock on the floor, listen for a hollow spot, check torch sconces for latches… get moving… Zool you’re with me. There’s something I want you to try.”

Zool followed Mal off to a private corner. 

“I know you don’t like to discuss your abilities but I know you can manipulate metal. I’m betting the way into that sixth basement is reinforced just like the other floors so I want you to try and sense it,” Mal said this in a hushed tone.

Guild secrets are guild secrets. The abilities of the Lodestone Blades weren’t to be shared. Zool gave Mal the tiniest hint of a nod before walking away. He’d try it.

Even from the fifth basement Zool heard the dragon’s triumphant roar as it tore through the palisade. Soon the sound of hammering was back as it reached the wall of iron conjured by Laz.

It took only a few seconds for Zool to compartmentalize that distressing clamor away to a different part of his mind. He stopped moving and closed his eyes. The familiar feel of the steel at his side and pressed into the rings of chain he wore as a shirt came first. They were as familiar as any part of his body, the weapons carried by his companions was next, then the locks and reinforced portions of the doors, then he felt the floor. He felt the door in the floor and far above the shattering of iron.

Moments later they were in the sixth basement, an armory with a sewer exit.

The Winding Road: A Compentent Guardsman

by Frank Gori

From the moment Lazeron opened Dab’s door and an alarm filled the building, Malleck had been scrambling. He gave orders while his mind wrestled with the situation. The group needed him to give orders, to keep the illusion of control. Panic was something they could ill afford.

Mal rattled orders instinctually: “Free every prisoner on the floor and gather any weapons and uniforms you can find. Capture any guardsmen that look like officers and kill the grunts.” The prison was the kind of trap you didn’t see coming until it was too late. Extra prisoners were extra bodies. Bodies that could provide the group with more force and bodies that in all honesty were expendable.

Dab was in the lowermost basement of the five in the facility. Access to each basement was secured with an iron-barred, reinforced door with stout braces. The ground floor had a portcullis, and the whole facility had about double the expected guardsmen.

The new guards proved to be a double edged sword to Mal’s plans.  The extra bodies employed by the enemy made getting in without opposition possible. New faces weren’t suspicious, and the honeypot trap set by Bellani the night before procured the team uniforms. Now however, those new faces were going to be trouble on the way out.

The liberated prisoners proved to be both a help and a hindrance in getting out. Several of the prisoners were prominent members of other guilds, or foreign visitors. There came a point where Malleck expected a scandal in every cell.

Malleck found and freed an elderly Orc Blacksmith who had been imprisoned for over a decade, a Kristog bard who had once filled taverns and concert halls in the city, a lizardwoman cleric, and they were even insane enough to have another Mage. Malleck had found at least half a dozen possible sparks for a guild war, which told him something else as he captured level by level: this was too easy.

Even the trap on the third basement which released over a hundred zombies and skeletons in relatively tight quarters wasn’t quite deadly enough. Of the seventy souls he liberated, about two dozen fell to that trap. Without Lazeron’s magic there would have been many more dead, but it was still too easy.

The guardsmen fell back too quickly and orderly. The men must have had orders to merely delay the escape. Aside from the trap the guards only seemed to commit to stopping the prison break at a couple bottleneck choke points. Zool and Bellany made those encounters costly to the guards, the design of the prison made those choke points costly to Mal.

When they reached the portcullis at the top Mal understood.

Perfect spot to set up archers or a magic user, or they could have rigged a deadfall to bury everyone. Instead Mal found a lone guardsmen with  resolved look on his face and his hand on a lever contained in an opened lock box.

“Listen, you don’t need to die today. Just let us out and you’re free to go or you can join us, but I warn you: Try to pull that lever or act against us, and I’m going to order Laz here to immolate you,” Mal stated in a calm voice.

The guard looked at Mal and smiled a half-hearted smile, “I pulled the short straw.”

Mal calculated the situation a little differently in the moment the guard spoke. Based on his posture, the man was holding the lever up. This was a mechanical trap of some sort, already triggered. Killing the guard would set it off.

The guard was also standing inside a circle half inscribed on the floor half up the wall. A simple act of will revealed strong warding magic.

“Whatever that is, I can tell that you will die as well. That doesn’t need to happen. I can prop that lever up,” said Mal, adding a touch of magic to his words. Alas, the guard’s eyes remained clear, and he seemed to shake off Mal’s words.

“I pulled the short straw: Make peace with your favorite god. We’re all going to die soon,” the guard replied.

Mal pressed forward, “I can tell you don’t want to die.”

The guard replied, “Of course I don’t! But I believe in something… I pulled the short straw so I’m going to do it.”

Mal queried, “Then why haven’t you?”

 Another alarm went off and the guard smiled as he replied, “I was waiting for my friends to get out.” He let go of the lever as a purple fire enveloped him. The mechanical noise of shifting gears strained and plates in the floor shifted breaking the circle.

A dagger darted through the air, jamming the lever, but the dagger snapped right out almost immediately. Magical missiles of force energy slammed into the guard to seemingly no effect.

“Run,” Mal shouted as he turned away and followed his own order.

The guard screamed, as his features began to rapidly shift. Bones cracked and flesh was torn, revealing scales the color of polished iron. The man’s body contorted grossly as he gained size and mass. Within a matter of seconds, the man was twisted into a rather large dragon.

Mal had spent those few moments running, as did his immediate companions. Some of his liberated prisoners had not, and were subsequently caught in the first blast of fire. A blast of cold soon followed, and then a hammering sound.

A quick surveying glance told Mal he had lost another seven or so men, but none of the folk he had come in with.

“Laz, tell me you can do something here,” Mal said in a pleading tone.

“I can buy us time,” Laz said, and began casting.

A wall of iron, a wall of stone and a wall of force followed.

Laz made the motions of casting something else, but twice seemed to fall into a violent and confused haze. Mal knew despair when he saw it; Laz had been pushed too far.

Laz bought them time, it was going to have to be enough. They’d have to find another way out.

Roughly forty pairs of eyes were on Mal. The dragon guard’s hammer-shaped tail was smashing away at the portcullis in a steady rhythm.

“I’m open to suggestions…”

The Winding Road: Honeypot

by Frank Gori

Ballany paused in front of a conjured mirror for a moment. She was still adjusting to being a brunette. Men sometimes missed noticing her as a brunette which was never a problem as a blonde. Her normal high quality cosmetics wouldn’t do tonight so she simply applied a very inexpensive khol and some cheap red lipwax.

The shirt Bellany wore was a slightly too small men’s button up strategically buttoned and torn. The belt she wore above her wrinkled and somewhat worn skirt was about two weeks from being retired. If the brutes even bothered to consider things, she’d look the part of a pretty half elf girl out of work who was about to wash out of the Workman’s Guild because she hadn’t paid her dues in nearly a year. That kind of girl turned to tricks commonly enough.

The tavern she picked was close to the jailhouse and had a few rooms for rent upstairs. Today three of the dozen or so human guards came into some lucky money. Malleck proved to be talented at disguise work and shockingly adept at the sleight of hand needed to properly deck stack. A hummingbird would be hard pressed to catch the caravanner’s work!

It was roughly a five minute walk to the tavern from the jailhouse. B- Shift ended about five minutes ago. Meaning one of her three possible targets was extremely likely to walk into the bar soon with a pocket full of easy coin and hopefully a taste for brunettes.

Being half elf always added a little spice to this routine. Some men just wanted to hurt anyone with elf blood even if she was born long after the empire crumbled. For other men it was a turn on, they had a fascination with the idea of melting a heart made of ice, or they got turned on by pointed ears. Whatever it was she could always see a perverted gleam in the eyes of that sort.

Bellany was no stranger to the honeypot routine. Being with Jax earned her no special privileges when it came to using all her assets to complete an assignment. She was an excellent actress and she had a pretty enough face to bolster or tone down. Without any of her arts she was the type of girl next door pretty that men convinced themselves they had a chance with regardless of their looks.

Tonight Ballany’s sob story would put bad men in the mind of how they could take advantage of her and good men in the mind of how they could rescue her. Either way one of her targets would end up in her room and in a compromised position. Men were men inside no matter if they packaged themselves as kind or cruel.

Bellany was intimately aware of dozens of way to incapacitate or kill without arms or magic, not that she was ever without either. Unlike some of her peers, Bellany took no pleasure from taking lives. She enjoyed challenging assignments but not the act of killing in and of itself. Her mentor Pesh took pains to avoid killing the same way twice. He felt each death should be unique and to repeat the same circumstances would be disrespectful to the victim. She knew others that killed with a signature so that each death would add to their reputation.

When Bellany killed she did so in the fastest most effective way available. She chose detachment: a job called for dancing death or it did not. Her victims died quickly, and mostly without pain. Death was business.

It was Jax who decided to go and mix business with pleasure. The thought of what she had to do almost brought a tear to her eye but she shoved that thought deep down to her torn insides where it belonged. If she had any doubts about allowing Jax’s seed to take further root he quashed those doubts by setting her up to get killed. Such thoughts were… unprofessional at the moment.

Two of her three possible marks arrived together with a third guardsmen, a thickly muscled ogre.  It took all of Bellany’s art to sway her hips as inexpertly a she did while she approached the trio. The humans smiled: the ogre didn’t. Her human marks had already ordered strong drinks the ogre just a light beer. Her assessment the ogre was on duty.

At the last moment Bellany changed course and fluttered her eyelashes at a half orc mason instead. From the corner of her eye she saw the two human’s body language shift. Playing hard to get was the right play since the boys apparently had a chaperone. For once the Workman’s Guild was being competent. Sending an extra guard to make sure the off duty guys didn’t lose their heads at a bar was a smart move.

“Well what can I do for you little lady” said the half orc with a gruff voice.

Well aware she was dressed like a cheap harlot, Bellany played at demure. She began to relay her story, knowing full well the humans were listening in.

The price on her belt renewal was of course out of the mason’s pay range as his belt identified him as a mere third year apprentice, and she knew the guards had it. The mason surprised her by politely offering her some coin but did not press the advantage, said he wished he could do more and carried on. Bellany didn’t expect such a reaction. She expected a fight and to the victor she would have gone, the odds being in favor of her targets three to one.

Bellany felt a brief moment of shame, some folk were simply good people. Her work had made her jaded and she’d return the mason’s money later if she could.

When the half orc walked away, another took his place dropping a goodly portion of the money she mentioned. “Let’s go upstairs whore,” even looking for it Bellany almost missed the subtle toss as Malleck sloppily lurched forward and cupped her breast. “Ya got some fine teats, let ME take you upstairs,” he slurred. Her brave brutes rose to their feet at last, the ogre downed the remains of his ale in one long pull.

“Unhand her at once you oaf,” the darker prettier one said as his hands reflexively slipped down to his baton. “Get out of here before we have to teach you a lesson in manners.”

The ogre then rose to his feet presumably to support his brothers-in-arms. Instead he lurched forward a bit and vomited. Were he not in such a revolting disguise Bellany would have been tempted to kiss Malleck in that moment, but as it were he was about to get “bounced” out of the bar.

With the exception that both men escorted her upstairs the rest of the night went predictably. With just two of them mostly in their cups the odds were very much in Bellany’s favor. Two prisoners to tell them the layout and two guardsmen belts, three if Malleck managed to sneak back in and take the ogre who was passed out on the floor. All in all a good night’s haul indeed!

The Winding Road: New Boots

By Frank Gori

Zool heard the crackle and crash of lightning, which conveniently masked the sound of him kicking in the backdoor. The door crashed hard into whoever was on the other side, which was fine by Zool.

He rushed in buckler forward, with his sword held in a menacing guard across his body, pistol crossbow ready in the other hand. Magic was the wrong play against mages, hitting hard and fast was better.

Sides weren’t hard to figure, the School’s hideout was a repurposed warehouse with a second floor addition. This meant the first floor was mostly just one huge room with columns. A Half-Elf male with a bow, an Ogre female with a shield spell and a two handed axe, a Gren girl with a wand ready standing in front of an assortment of children, and a couple elderly on one side. About half a dozen crazy eyed sorcerers, all young males, still standing on the other. Another eight or so bodies littered the ground.

Three things become clear in the seconds it took Zool to cross the ground between him and his first target. First, the old folks and kids were all counter-spelling the magic-crazed sorcerers, which is why the addicts were losing. Second, bees were enveloping a couple of his targets toward the front, and finally his enemies had no idea he was behind them.

It was over in two sword strokes and a quick crossbow bolt. Bard-songs make battles sound fancy and romantic, but in Zool’s experience battle was always like this, short, brutal and bloody. The men were barely winning against the ragtag assortment of folk to begin with; flanking surprise attacks in rapid succession were all it took to turn the tide. The fellow with the bow knew how and when to shoot, so this wasn’t his first dust up. Ogre girl had some power, just lacked some sense, and singed Zool a bit with a poorly placed fireball.

Fight being over meant the hard part. The part that Zool elected to skip when he could. Lazeron could do the talking, Laz could sort out the aftermath and count the dead. Zool muttered a few words and gestured. As he suspected, a number of the dead had items that glowed a soft blue. With a smile, Zool went to work stripping them of anything of worth.

The archer kid racked up a few kills despite the baby-face. Always was hard to tell age with elf bloods. That kid could have five decades on Zool. Deadly with a bow, but he was watching Laz talk like sons watch their fathers when the father was still a god to them. Zool made sure to retrieve his arrows as he worked.

Laz was in full speech mode, explaining that the folk that wanted to follow him could but they’d be leaving everything. In Zool’s estimation there really wasn’t a choice, from what he could see about half the gang was either dead or already left to join rival schools. This neighborhood was about to get split up by neighboring schools and there’d be blood over who got what. Laz’s strays didn’t fit neat into that, they’d come with or become fresh meat in a turf war.

Zool didn’t like to go to his kills right away. He liked to build anticipation while gauging exactly who had what that he didn’t kill. Made it more exciting when he had clues but no real evidence of what he’d find. As it stood the dead here clearly raided an arsenal of gear or Laz was an overly generous leader. Fourteen dead, counting Zool’s three and a half. He was about half through, the anticipation was really building.

Sun would be up in an hour or so and Zool really wanted to be out of the mage controlled district by then. Only a fool wouldn’t take Laz’s offer, so the question and answer session was just wasting time. But now Zool was done with the others he could make claims on his three.

The two wands were obvious enough, but the wandless mage had a silver ring with a stylized rams head that soon graced Zool’s crossbow finger. Another had a pair of emerald earrings that didn’t glow blue but would fetch a nice price. A nice silken cape and shirt on one of the wand fellows along with a belt buckle and an exquisite set of boots. Zool was pleased in particular with the boots. They glowed strong and a good sunder always had to mind their feet.

A quick riffle through the purses got Zool about 2 months pay and a tiny ebony fly. Even trying on his new gear, Zool was done in just a few minutes and people were still arguing. Fuck it, there was no time for this.

Zool closed the distance with a blur his sword clearing the scabbard silent and swift as a breath. He drew a single drop of blood from the cantankerous one’s throat as everyone gasped in shock at his speed and audacity.

“Each word you speak wastes time we don’t have. If you don’t want to come then perhaps I should do you the mercy of a swift death,” Zool spoke the words calmly and softly, his gaze was hard and met all that dared. “Lazeron is kind, he cares for your well being. I, on the other hand, can care less. I’ve been paid to get him in and out safely with or without you, so choose now. We have about forty minutes before the dawn and I do not want to be anywhere near here when that happens.”

Zool withdrew his blade and turned his back on them. “I piled the useful items from the dead over to the left, I recommend you take a moment to arm yourselves better, and then fall the fuck in,” he said as he walked out the back.

Everyone was ready about five minutes later. Zool hated the talking part.

The Winding Road: Homecoming

by Frank Gori

Somewhere between his third and fourth step back onto his old block, Lazeron realized a part of his life was about to end. When the choices you have are likely death or defection, the Merchant’s Guild doesn’t seem so bad. He hated linear thinking, beginnings and endings were for boxes and Lazeron strived to never find himself in a box. Even the block that comprised his territory was round.

He hoped his school held together and picked a new leader, but he knew even in that best case there’d be casualties. Unlike other wizards Lazeron was also of sorcerer blood and had been working the school system since he was a child. He earned his students and carved out his block, and he was granted a measure of respect for his blood rights,

It was probably all Emry’s now. Emry ran an up and coming school before he tried to take Lazeron’s block and absorb his students. Lazeron played him for fool and used a simple broken wing gambit to get Emry’s boys into an ambush. Given a choice to join or die, Emry did the smart thing. Now he likely ran -Laz’s school, The Vicious Cycles, and Lazeron’s block which was really about six blocks.

That was bad news for a few of Lazeron’s strays. Most schools were fairly homogonous, all wizards or all sorcerers, heck some were even all of the same bloodline. In Laz’s thinking the comfort of that was a mistake, there was greater strength in diversity. Laz’s strays were mostly what other mages called small powers or little fish. City folk sometimes forget that one of the most effective tactics of small creatures was to swarm.

Fourteen steps later Lazeron spotted the first signs of damage. He was already annoyed the sentries weren’t tending their established circular routes and he had gotten as far unchallenged but damaging the block was too much. The scorch marks meant either an external fight with a rival or someone got sloppy with an internal matter.

That was unacceptable. The small businesses and housing in Mage’s Guild territory operated under mage protection. They didn’t have to pay in on Merchant’s Guild or Workman’s dues because they paid their school taxes. Some called the Mage’s Guild a collection of thugs but last Lazeron checked his taxes still came out better than even Workman's dues. He did loans, sold caster services, and had working girls too. No one suffered in his domain and his strays proved to their worth to his advantage.

Marta and Snook were perfect examples. Marta was a female ogre no one would take on account of her lack of wits. The girl was indeed dumb but she had power and muscle which was a rare enough combination. She’d never be the type to advance or even be sent on a mission without supervision but she was useful. Her violent abilities and tendency were only directed at threats. To her friends she was sweet as they come. Snook lacked the raw ability to throw a lightning bolt or fireball but he used what little he had smartly. Snook used his gift to enhance his abilities with bows and crossbows, he might not be able to burn you to death with a fireball but a well placed arrow will kill you all the same.

“Relax Laz, no burn shadow. Was just for show,” said the gruff voice behind Laz.

Lazeron forgot about Zool. The man walked too damn quiet… He was right though. Showy displays of power were Emry’s wheelhouse. The boy had a lot of power but was careless how he aimed it. This indicated Emry was likely in charge as Lazeron feared. Emry lacked imagination, and to him a mage was just one thing. It meant trouble for the ones that didn’t fit into his narrow view. Price on his head be dammed, Lazeron wasn’t about to leave those that were his behind. Laz was going to collect his strays and he was going to get that fool minotaur too and burn anyone who stood in his way.

“Aw hell, I remember that look Laz. Go on back thinking ‘bout your numbers we’re supposed to do this quiet,” said Zool.

Three, then one, and four, one, five nine… Lazeron lost himself in the number for a bit, trusting in Zool’s professionalism. His invisibility circle would hold for some time. He was in the maddening three, thirty six, seven, three, thirty six sequence when the sunder stopped him.

They were at the Vicious Cycle’s schoolhouse and the copper smell of blood greeted them both. The door was wide open and Emry’s corpse was pinned to it by four expertly placed arrows.

“That who we came for,” Zool asked as the roaring woosh of a fireball and pained screams came from inside the house.

“Circle round the back,”Laz instructed in a voice that seemed distant to his own ear.

The bliss roared in his blood as Lazeron called a swarm. No circle, no abjuration, nothing the numbers could claim. Gods the bliss felt good. He called another spell and held it, rewarded again by the bliss. It was like sex, truffles, and being admired all at once. With a swarm of wasps at his command and lightning ready to pour out of his hands Lazeron walked in his own front door.

He giggled at a stupid thought. Some snippet of proverb, saying you can’t go home again.