“If it’s just money you’re after, I’ve got gold, and I’m willing to part with it.”
He’d never been much of a fighter, preferring battles of wit and verbal skirmishes over physical confrontations. He wasn’t ashamed to run when the situation warranted it, but he did know how to use the small blade he wielded, as well as the longsword that was, unfortunately, slung over a bedpost across the hall.
One of the men, a bald brute who was missing a tooth, laughed. It was the other, smaller one Zoden was most concerned about-his was the soiled uniform, and as the man neared, it became obvious that the stain was, indeed, blood spatter. Zoden focused his attention on that one.
“You don’t really want to do this,” he said, backing away from the couch as the two men rounded it, one on each end. His tone was genial, cajoling, that of an old friend asking a favor he knew would be granted, but the words themselves reverberated with an undercurrent of power. If he could turn this one, then together they might stand a chance against the gap-toothed goon.
Baldy laughed again.
“Not gonna work, bard. We’re wise to your tricks and your little spells, and talking ain’t gonna do you no good.”
Wonderful. If he had to rely solely on swordplay to save him, he might as well leap out the window to his death now, and save both him and his assailants some time. The window … hmmm. He glanced behind him at wide pane of glass and the landscape speeding by beyond it, then back at Baldy’s falchion, and Bloody’s short sword. The jump might be survivable. A two-on-one swordfight, when he was armed only with a dagger, definitely would not be. He made his decision.
Just as he was about to wheel around and make a dash for the window, there was a loud crash from the doorway as the serving cart was overturned. Baldy turned to look, but Bloody never took his eyes off Zoden.
“Take care of it,” he said, and Baldy grinned eagerly in reply.
“Happy to.”
Zoden risked a peek at the doorway. It was the Avaroth enthusiast, hefting his silver longsword and looking none too pleased. The newcomer assessed the situation in a single glance, ascertained that his armor was in no danger, and moved into the compartment to engage Baldy. Behind him, in the hallway, Zoden could hear the shifter woman.
“Andri! What in the name of the Flame are you-?”
She halted as she entered the compartment and took in the scene before her-the spilled cart and scattered food and cutlery, Andri facing off against an opponent half again as large as he was, and Zoden, backed up against the window now and trying to parry a short sword with a dagger. With a growl, she darted past Baldy and sprang at Bloody’s back, hurtling one couch and using the other to launch herself into the air. As she leaped, she shifted, and long claws came out to rake across Bloody’s head, slicing off one ear and leaving deep gouges along his cheek. She landed in a crouch nearly at Zoden’s feet, spared him a feral grin, and spun to face Bloody, who was just bringing up one disbelieving hand to grab for an ear that was no longer there.
“You crooked bitch!” he spat, shaking the blood from his hand and swiping at her with his sword, a blow that the nimble shifter easily dodged.
Zoden circled around behind him, harrying the would-be assassin with his dagger, trying to distract him so the shifter could get in a telling blow. Bloody ignored him, focusing on the shifter woman, whom he obviously-and rightly-considered the greater threat.
The shifter woman laughed and feinted to the left, the side she’d already slashed, and when Bloody brought his sword down to block her attack, she kicked out with her right foot, her claws tearing into his thigh. He went down to one knee, and she closed in.
Deciding she had the situation well in hand without any help from him, Zoden turned to Baldy and the other man, just in time to see Andri fly back into the serving cart, landing with a clatter of silver right in front of the door. As Baldy moved in, Zoden saw his chance. While the bigger man’s attention was on his downed foe, Zoden crept up behind him, using the couches as partial cover, and raised his dagger, intending to plunge it in between two of Baldy’s oversized ribs.
“No!”
The cry came from Andri as he pulled himself to his feet. Thus warned, Baldy whirled, slapping the dumfounded Zoden to the ground with a mighty blow from the flat of his blade.
Ears ringing, Zoden crawled out of the way as Andri and Baldy went at it again.
What in the name of Aureon’s thrice-damned shadow did the man think he was doing? Zoden had been trying to help him!
Just then, he felt the telltale shudder signaling the rail had begun to decelerate. They’d be pulling into Sigilstar Station in a matter of moments.
To Dolurrh with the lot of them, he thought as the combatants’ maneuvering took them away from the door. He’d had enough, and he was getting out. Now.
He crawled around behind the food cart, and when he was sure no one had noticed him, out into the hall. When no outraged cries followed his exit, he stood. A few heads peeked out of doorways, attracted by the commotion but unwilling to venture any nearer to discover its cause. Someone called a question to him, but he ignored it, darting into his sleeping chamber to retrieve his sword and bag. Then he was out on the walkway and stepping onto the boarding platform before the rail had even come to a complete stop. Within moments, he had disappeared into the milling crowd of early morning passengers, leaving the rail and the battle far behind him.
The Court of Leaves was in the Teahouse District, and Zoden was guided there as much by the medley of aromas as he was by directions from helpful passers-by. The blended bouquets of fruits, spices, herbs, and flowers hung thick in the air like humidity, underlain everywhere by the pervading scent of wet, steamy leaves.
Only a few of the teahouses were open this early in the morning, the sun just now beginning to suffuse the cerulean sky with golden light, refracting through the multiple crystal spires that gave the city its name. A query to an aproned girl busy sweeping the patio of one of such shop led him to the eastern end of the court. The inquisitive’s office was on the second floor of the building which housed a quaint little teahouse called A Second Cup that had not yet opened for business. The stairs were at the back of the building, leading up from a narrow alleyway to a small balcony and an unadorned door. Zoden wondered if he’d gotten the directions wrong. A cursory examination revealed that some of the other shops had balconies leaning out over the alley, but none of those had signs, either.
Well, he’d knock on this door, then. If it wasn’t d’Kundarak’s office, chances were whoever lived inside would be able to point him to the right place.
As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Once on the balcony, he could hear voices, though he couldn’t quite make out the words. Curious, he moved closer.
“… dead or alive, dwarf. Your choice.”
The dwarf’s reply was deafening. A body blasted through the doorway, ripping the door from its hinges and sending both body and door crashing through the balusters to the alleyway below.
There was a clash of steel on steel, and a woman-a half-elf brandishing a warhammer-backed out onto the balcony, followed by a dwarf wielding a flaming short sword. As Zoden pressed against the wall, well out of the way, he noticed several things at once.
The warhammer was actually a bizarre fusion of a sledge and a crossbow, able, he surmised, to discharge a bolt into an opponent at point blank range whenever the head of the hammer struck home. Which it very nearly did at that precise moment, though the stronger, heavier dwarf was able to deflect the blow through brute force alone, causing the metal head to scrape shrilly along the blade of his sword, setting Zoden’s teeth on edge.