The stairway opened into a large room in which a dozen ogres were sitting, drinking from massive wooden mugs and tossing brightly painted shells and rocks in the center of a pair of big round tables. All of them stopped to stare at the wounded trio, pointing and mumbling in their guttural tongue when they saw smoke seep down the stairwell.
Behind the bar was a spindly middle-aged human with a greasy shock of salt-and-pepper hair that fell over one eye. He was polishing a glass with a dirty rag and trying hard not to look toward the stairway. He hadn’t noticed the smoke.
“Did a half-elf come down here?” the young man asked the bartender. When the man didn’t answer, he stretched over the counter and laid his quarterstaff across it. “I said, did a half-elf come down here?”
The man polished faster and gave the stranger a puzzled look. “Half-elf?”
“How about a fat wench? One of the ladies who paid you to ignore what they were doin’ upstairs.”
The man shrugged and tossed the rag over his shoulder. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Haven’t seen anyone.”
Varek grabbed the bartender’s chin, and in surprise he dropped the glass. Dhamon spun to keep an eye on the ogres, half of whom were keeping their seats, intently watching the barkeep as if he were the nightly entertainment.
Varek tugged the little man’s head forward and twisted his chin until it pointed toward the stairway. Dark gray smoke was gathering at the top, thick tendrils creeping down. The scent of burning wood was beginning to overpower the other smells of the place—filth, sweat, and spilled ale.
“Fire!” the man shouted. “My place’s on fire!”
Varek held him fast. “You’ll burn with it if you don’t tell me about the half-elf.”
“I didn’t see anything!” There was fear in the man’s eyes but also the look of truth. Varek squeezed his chin hard before releasing him and rushing outside.
The barkeep ducked behind the counter, his hands a blur as he grabbed a few valuables and a coin box.
“Whole place is going to burn fast,” Dhamon observed. He was coughing, too, and making his way toward the door. He paused when he saw Maldred wasn’t moving.
The big man had his sword out, eyes locked onto the face of the largest ogre. Most of the other ogres were shuffling toward the door, grabbing up their shells and coins, a few toting their ale mugs along. All of them were cursing.
“The human women,” Maldred said in Ogrish, leveling the greatsword in front of him. “Did you see them? Did you see a half-elf?”
The largest ogre shook his head and took a step toward the door. Maldred shifted his position to put himself between the ogre and the way out.
Smoke hung like a cloud now below the ceiling of the big room. There were spots of orange here and there, hinting that the fire had spread across the floor. Over by the stairs, a plank of the ceiling groaned, blackened, and fell to the floor.
“The women,” Maldred repeated.
The ogre growled and stepped forward, dropping his shells and extending clawlike hands.
“Mal…” This came from Dhamon. “Mal, let’s get out of here. Riki’s a survivor.”
Maldred ignored his friend and released one of his hands from the sword’s pommel. He pointed an index finger at the large ogre and mumbled a string of words shot through with Ogrish. There was a musical quality to them, and when he finished, the ogre shouted in surprise. A ball of flame had appeared in the air a hair’s breadth from Maldred’s finger. It spun and crackled and followed his gesture, moving slowly toward the ogre.
The smoke cloud was growing thicker. Dhamon backed toward the door, calling for his friend to join him. The building creaked in protest around them, and the flames snapped and popped louder. There were “thunks” coming from above, signaling beams falling. From outside, came shouts:
“Fire!” “Thatcher’s place is burning!” “Riki!” The latter was frenetically repeated.
“Mal…” Dhamon urged.
Tears were running from Maldred’s eyes because of the smoke. He coughed and gestured, making the ball of flame grow larger.
“The women.” This time the words were accompanied with a snarl. “You have to know something.”
Still the ogre said nothing. Maldred pointed to the floor, and the ball of fire dropped, breaking as if it were a globe of water. Flames spread across the floor in a line between Maldred and the ogre. The ogre howled, and Dhamon cursed. “Mal! This place is going to fall down around us.”
“The half-elf!” Maldred shouted above the angry snaps and pops of the fire.
“They’d have taken her to sell!” the ogre shouted. “At the spawn village. That’s what they do with elves. Sell them in Polagnar.”
Maldred spun away, following Dhamon out the door. The large ogre was behind them, leaping over the line of fire and barreling past them.
The moon was full, making it easy to see the ramshackle town in the foothills. The place consisted of roughly two dozen buildings, all of them wooden and most of them looking as if they might topple before the year was out. A few were businesses—a stable, something that passed for a foodstore, another a seamstress and bootery, a closed-down weaponsmith and blacksmith. There was one tavern at the end of the dusty street. The tavern they’d just left was merrily burning. The remainder of the buildings were either homes and flophouses or abandoned. There was a loud groan as the building, thoroughly engulfed, collapsed in on itself. There were loud shouts as flames leaped to the adjacent bootery. The barkeep was trying to rally his former patrons to go after Maldred. Nearby, Varek called for Riki.
“He did it!” the barkeep was hollering and pointing Maldred’s way. “He set it to burning. Kill him!”
“I’ve no weapon,” Dhamon said at Maldred’s shoulder. “There’s too many of them.”
Maldred grunted. “The summer’s made this place like prime kindling. We don’t need weapons.” He pointed at a building across from the burning inn, from the looks of it something that passed for a general store. Flames licked the columns that supported a shingled overhang. Another gesture from Maldred and flames were sparking on the roof of the stable.
“He’ll burn down the town!” the barkeep shouted. The man was gasping for breath and waving his arms. “Kill him! Kill him and his friends!”
“Kill the humans!” a barrel-chested ogre shouted.
“See to your town!” Maldred shouted back, “or I will burn all of it!”
He backed up, Dhamon still at his side. Varek, still shouting for Riki, joined them.
“My wife,” the young man said. His eyes were daggers. “I’ve got to find her. She’s—”
“Not here,” Maldred finished. “But I know where she is. C’mon!”
They hurried from the town, not slowing until the crackling of flames and the shouts of the ogres were memories.
“Where is she?” Varek shot at Maldred when he stopped to catch his breath. “Where’s my Riki?”
“My Riki? Just who are you?” Dhamon interrupted.
The young man sputtered, red-faced. “Varek. Varek Lockwood. Riki’s my wife, and I mean to find her. She insisted on coming here to find you and—”
“She’s in a place called Polagnar,” Maldred said, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and pulling out a bone scroll tube. “Or, rather, she’s heading there.”
Dhamon breathed a deep sigh of relief when he saw the tube. “The thieves got our gems, but they didn’t get everything.”
Maldred grinned. “No. They didn’t get our map.” He uncurled it and addressed the parchment.
“Polagnar.” A section of the map glowed, and a green smudge brightened. Images of trees and parrots appeared and swirled around the spot, then were displaced by the visage of a broken-toothed spawn with gleaming black eyes. Maldred noted the position on the map, and traced an invisible line from it to where they were now.