The girls were murmuring to him, unfastening his pants and tugging at them. It wasn’t dark enough, he registered. There was faint light spilling in through the window, and someone had lit a candle, probably one of Maldred’s companions. It should be dark, he told himself, but the alcohol and the perfume were heady, his tongue was too thick to protest and his fingers were too busy entwining themselves in the women’s hair.
He heard a loud thump and a groan, a rustling of sheets, and he knew this was coming from Maldred’s side of the room. No doubt the big man had fallen out of bed. Dhamon opened his eyes and canted his head, and through a gap in Elsbeth’s curls, he saw Maldred laying on his stomach on the floor, the ale jug just beyond his limp fingers.
Dhamon would have chuckled, had his mouth not been alternately covered by Satin and then Elsbeth’s lips, and then his mouth opened for another long swallow of the cheap ale. He would have clapped his hands in amusement had it not been for the fact he noticed the three women struggling to pull Maldred back on the bed, face down, and one of them tying the big man’s hands to the bedpost.
“Hey!” Dhamon craned his neck. They were tying Maldred’s feet, too, and now the big man’s three companions were getting dressed.
“Somethin’s not right.” Dhamon tried to say more, but the words were lost somewhere between his mind and his tongue. He tried to push Elsbeth off him, but she felt terribly heavy. His fingers were thick and clumsy and difficult to untangle from her hair. He felt like a rock, unable to budge, riveted in place by the hefty blonde.
“You just lay back, honey,” Elsbeth cooed.
“Have some more to drink,” Satin said. She tipped his head back and poured more ale down his throat. The ale was strong, too strong, and the more he imbibed the more he tasted something not right about it.
“N-no,” Dhamon sputtered, trying to spit it out.
“Honey, you should’ve been asleep sortie time ago. We put enough powder in these jugs to knock out a small army. One jug o’ that spiced rum should’ve been more than enough for the both o’ you. Seems like the two of you’ve got the constitutions o’ bull elephants. Satin…”
The slender Ergothian upended the jug again, but Dhamon managed to grind his teeth together, and most of the ale splashed outside his mouth. His head alternately felt heavy, then light. He tried again to shove Elsbeth and Satin away, this time with some success. He rolled with Elsbeth, falling to the floor on top of her and becoming entangled in the sheet and his pants. He tried to rise, but his arms and legs felt numb.
Elsbeth managed to crawl out from under him and push him onto his back. Satin peered over the edge of the bed.
“Satin, look at his leg! There’s a…”
“I see it, Els. A very strange scar it is. We’ll take a closer look at it later. Here grab the jug. Do it!”
His eyes closed, Dhamon concentrated. Move! he told himself. Move, you sorry excuse for a man!
He finally struggled to get free of the sheet and to tug his pants up, rolling farther away from Elsbeth. The drugged alcohol had so dulled his senses, however, that he forgot about the three wenches on the other side of the room. Several pairs of hands now grabbed at him, keeping him down. A moment later he heard someone shuffling toward him. With considerable effort he cocked his head and spied Elsbeth towering over him, empty jug in her hand. The jug was coming down fast and hard, soundly striking his forehead and sending him into oblivion. He awoke minutes later—or at least he thought it was minutes later. Little time must have passed because the room appeared to be no darker than before, and his head hurt terribly from where Elsbeth had hit him. Satin was wearing his tunic, belted with the curtain cord to keep it from falling off her slight frame. Elsbeth was dressed, too, and busy pawing through his satchel, oohing and ahhing at the gems and jewelry. He could see that the three other women had already gathered up Maldred’s possessions. Each had a long-bladed knife strapped to her waist. Satin padded over and pulled Dhamon’s sword off the bedpost. “Worthless, huh?” She unsheathed it and ran a thumb over the edge, jerking when she cut herself slightly, thrusting the thumb into her mouth and greedily sucking at it. “Might be worthless to you, but I’ll wager it’ll fetch a pretty steel piece somewhere. You see, we’re headed out of Blöde, too—now that we have more than enough wealth to do it. All thanks to you.”
Elsbeth had fastened her backpack and was leaning over Dhamon. She had a long-bladed knife on her waist, too. The knives were all the same, the handles wrapped with brown snakeskin and a symbol sewn on them, marking them members of some thieves’ guild.
“You’re not the only thieves in this pitiful town,” Elsbeth said, “and we’re obviously far better at stealing than you are. Than you were.” She turned the knife and brought the handle down hard on his breastbone. She hit him a few more times, then drew the blade across his stomach until a thin line of red formed. “Since the drug hasn’t completely taken you out,” she said, “I’ll bet you can feel that. At least I hope so.” She slapped him hard across the face, then took a step back to admire her work before she slapped him again and again and again.
Dhamon tried to struggle with the ropes that held him to the bed, but all he managed to do was feebly move his arms. The ropes were tight, knotted as well as any sailor could have done. He was certain he could’ve gotten out of them if he had all his strength and wits—the drugged alcohol had sapped him of both. He lolled his head to the side, watching Satin move over to inspect Maldred, who was on his back, out cold.
She glanced back at Dhamon. “When you mentioned you’ve a price on your head, I considered finding a way to collect it, but I’m a thief, not a bounty hunter.”
“So what’re we gonna do with them?” one of the others asked her.
“No witnesses, girls,” Satin told them. “You know that we never leave witnesses.”
Elsbeth made a tsk-tsking sound. “Too bad, Mister Dhamon Evran Grimwulf, I kind o’ fancied you. I would’ve liked to play a bit longer. But Satin’s right. Leaving witnesses is an unhealthy thing to do.” She reached behind Dhamon’s neck and unfastened his gold chain, then hung it around her own neck. His gold bracelet quickly followed. “We just can’t afford to leave anyone behind to tell o’ our deeds. You understand, don’t you?”
Two of the women had strapped on Dhamon and Maldred’s backpacks and were climbing out the window.
Another was hefting Maldred’s greatsword, trying to figure out how best to carry it. Satin was wearing the Sorrow of Lahue and had purposely turned so Dhamon could see it hanging low on her, almost to her waist, the platinum chain catching the candlelight and sparkling like miniature stars. She tucked the rose-colored diamond beneath the tunic and smiled slyly.
“This large fellow here… Maldred, you called him. He’s mine,” Satin said. She held Wyrmsbane high over the big man’s back, angling the tip down over the center of his spine, still watching Dhamon. “I’ll kill him with your worthless sword. It’ll be quick. Maybe he won’t even feel anything.”
“Then I guess you’re left to me, Dhamon Grimwulf.” Elsbeth drew her long knife and stepped closer.