“Ditch digger, eh?” snorted Drak. “We got just the job fer you.”
He glowered at me. “Next!”
“Bork. Cobbler,” said I.
One by one he took our names and professions. “Fiz, house sprite”; “Rafferty, bartender”; “Tynvyr and Rufous, ratters.”
I spent all day repairing shoes and racking my brains for a way to escape. But every time I came up with a plan, either it called for skills we didn’t have, or it wouldn’t work, or it would take years to accomplish, or it would get one or more of us killed. Hey, what can I say? Not all of us are escape artists.
Late, when I got back to the cell, Tynvyr and scratching Rufous were already there. There’s one good thing to say about the vermin: at least they kept Rufous’s mind off me. Even so, still I felt sorry for the fox, who, to my eye, was beginning to look a bit mangy.
Before Tynvyr and I had said more than a word or two, a guard rattled the door open and Fiz flew in, winging directly to me and giving me a peck on the cheek even before landing.
As soon as the door closed, Fiz said, “I’ve been upstairs, talking to the rugs, getting ready to carry out your plan.”
My plan? Talking to the rugs? Clearly this Pixie has cracked under the strain. I glanced over to Tynvyr and she merely shrugged and gave one of those looks which says, How should I know?
“How was your day, dear?” Fiz asked domestically, looking up at me.
I sighed. “In the escape department, not very productive, though I did manage to steal this.” I took a leather-working awl out from under my apron.
Fiz squealed, snatching it from me. “Oh, you are so very clever”—she gave me another peck on the cheek—“this is just perfect for unravelling the bindings on the rugs.”
Again the door rattled open, and as Fiz hid the awl, the Goblinoid guards threw Rafferty into the cell. Damn! He was falling down drunk and singing about the Fairies Who Dance, again.
The Goblinoids started to shut the door, but someone yelled, and in came Marley, whimpering, covered from head to toe in Human feces. They’d put him to work shovelling out privies.
“What a Hèl hole,” I growled, dragging Rafferty into the corner and onto some softer straw.
“Worse than you think,” said Tynvyr. “Rufous and I did our ratting upstairs, on the first floor, and it’s filled with row upon row of bunks, double-decker and triple. Humans lie in them, smoking dope, snorting powder up their noses, sticking needles in their veins, swallowing pills.
“They collapse on their beds and smile their meaningless smiles, their unfocused eyes staring inward, their abandoned souls lost within unremembered dreams of paradise, while stoic attendants wander silently among the wretches, bringing them even more opiates to feed their unslaked desires.
“And all the while, other lost souls shuffle in, seeking only an empty bunk for themselves. It’s as if they don’t see or don’t want to see the others who shake and tremble and beg for more, the ones who offer to do anything for it, the ones who are wasting away, choosing narcotics instead of food, as if they’d rather have drug-driven dreams than a healthy body and mind.
“What fools they are to have ever begun, and what a hideous place is this Yellow Poppy.”
Upon hearing Tynvyr’s tale, Fiz shuddered. “Oh, how awful. But where I was, was awful, too:
“I worked on the second floor, as an attendant in the Rooms of Forbidden Illusions.
“There’s five rooms up there, each with its lush carpet strewn with silken pillows. One by one, Humans come in and strip off all their clothes, be they male or female. My job was to give them small satin sheets, and they lie on these.
“As each new Human comes in and lies down, slowly he begins to lose consciousness as he falls under the web of the spell; his eyes lose focus, and then close, the lids flutter as his eyes shudder and whip side to side beneath; spittle begins to drool from his mouth, and his breathing becomes heavy and gasping; perspiration begins to bead until his whole body becomes wet and slick; then a look of intense rapture crosses his face, and his entire being tenses and spasms, only to fall completely slack, unconscious. Oh Bork, some of them totally lost control of their bodily functions, and I and the other attendants had to clean up the messes.
“The long-time attendants say that all those who seek the forbidden illusions are affected the same: slowly they lose interest in real life, and they become listless and completely unmotivated; the only reality and joy for them is found among silken pillows on satin sheets on a lush carpet within those rooms on the second floor of the Yellow Poppy.
“And you know what? They don’t even know what’s truly happening up there. I suppose it’s because they don’t have Fairy Sight. But you see, their very souls are slowly being eaten away, a bit at a time with each visit, traded for illusion. Bit by bit, each loses fragments of his soul, until he doesn’t have any left. You see, the Demon trapped in whichever rug the victim is addicted to ultimately will have eaten it all. And—”
Rafferty began throwing up. And whimpering, Marley crawled over, dragging one of the buckets after, intending to clean up the vomit with his bare hands. Tynvyr and I stopped him, and led him back to his corner, and he looked at us with unfocused eyes, weeping all the while. What the masters of the Yellow Poppy had done to this poor Gnome was beyond forgiveness.
Too, I could not but help reflect upon what Tynvyr and Fiz had seen in the den above, and I knew that Khassan and his henchmen must somehow be made to pay for their crimes.
And I raged at the sheer stupidity of anyone who would get addicted to anything, whether it be narcotics or illusion or drink or pipeweed or anything. And that not only included Humans being addicted, but anyone —Halflings, Hobbits, Warrows, and Wee Folk included … even Leprechauns.
I glanced at Marley, the Gnome shivering and shuddering and weeping in his corner. Damn! We just had to get out of this Helhole!
We made our big break the next day, Fiz executing my plan to perfection, even though it nearly got all of us killed forever. What’s that, you say? You didn’t know I had a plan? Well, join the club, friend, ’cause neither did I.
It happened this way.
The door rattled open again and there was Drak, as usual. “Out, slime!” he snarled. “Time to sew leather, catch rats, tend the rugheads, and shovel shit. And you, Rafferty, no more bartending; you’re gonna shovel shit, too.”
We all groaned to our feet—Marley somewhat recovered, Rafferty holding his head—and began to file out, Fiz flying.
“Oi, Cap’n,” shouted one of the Goblinoid guards, pointing up at Fiz, “she’s got some kinda weapon!”
I looked. Fiz was carrying the awl.
All Hèl broke loose.
Fiz, darting and dodging swatting hands, flew toward the open secret door. Snarling, Rufous attacked Drak, the fox’s slashing teeth hamstringing the shrieking Goblinoid Human to come crashing down, clutching his leg, blood flying wide. Tynvyr darted out and leapt astride the raging fox, and Marley smashed a bucket down on Drak’s head, cracking his skull open like a rotten egg.
Rafferty and I ran to the adjacent cell, and I scrambled up onto his shoulders, heaving the bar out from the hooks to come crashing down. And together, we flung open the wooden door.
Gaping at us were two Warrows, Tip and Perry, though which was which, I knew not.
“Rafferty!” they shouted together in unison.