Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga by Regina Watts (red queen ebook .TXT) 📕

“There you are,” he groused, sitting on the edge of the tangled bed while beard-deep in a mug of some ale that was no doubt sixteen times the price one could expect to pay at a more straightforward establishment. “Now, what the hell was all that about?” Not very professional.”

“You’re a fine one to speak of professionalism,” I told him. As his back and shoulders sharply tensed (somewhat difficult to discern beneath the coating of red hair almost comically dispersed over the dwarf’s back), I shut the door behind me. “When most do not feel they are being paid enough by their employers, Grimalkin, they lodge a personal complaint or find a new job. They don’t betray them at the very task that they were hired for.”

“So you came for your money? That’s just fine…I’ve plenty here, it’s no trouble to give you what you’re owed.”

“Don’t play games with me, Grimalkin.” While I spoke, he set the mug upon the nightstand. All the time, Grimalkin was still facing the wall. I took a step toward him and found the room so small that a mere four strides would find me at the foot of the bed. “I came for the Scepter, and I won’t leave you to your own devices until it’s in my hand.”

“Then you’d best be looking elsewhere,” the dwarf told me, slowly rising from the edge of the bed and stooping to pull his trousers up. “I don’t have the bloody thing.”

I completed my approach. “Lying again, Grimalkin? Don’t you think I deserve better than that after you left me for—”

His motions were quick, but the act of pulling the axe from under the bed was too involved for him to arm himself and face me before Strife was in my hand. The sword’s blade rang sharply against the axe: the power of dwarven steel was a reasonable match against the enchanted metal of Strife. Both weapons bounced sharply apart and Grimalkin, owing to his stature, backpedaled a few steps and slammed into the nightstand. The mug’s contents upended over him, leaving the surly dwarf sputtering with outrage. He took a wild swing with the axe and missed—but, stepping back as I was, I unfortunately gave Grimalkin room enough to leap upon the bed and spring off from the other side.

The chase was on. I was surprised to find the dwarf so fast, considering how short his legs were But, between the encumbering weight of my armor and his desperation to escape retribution, Grimalkin might as well have been a racehorse. He tore through the hall and leapt down the stairs while I trundled along behind him, human height soon to prove a disadvantage in more ways than one.

Rather than taking the anticipated route through the alley entrance I had used, Grimalkin made a sharp left and cut through the parlor.

While women shrieked and scattered like birds, the dwarf led with his axe and used his speed to propel the blade straight through the single window of the room. The old glass shattered so thoroughly that few shards remained. After briskly clearing the pane with the blade of his weapon, Grimalkin launched through the opening and out upon the street.

Gritting my teeth, clearly unable to fit through the window, I looked wildly about to find my way through the hallways to the tavern entrance.

“Hojotoho! Hojotoho!”

The warrior’s call, raised in a woman’s voice, caught my attention. I lumbered in its direction and recognized the prostitute who had guided me up to Grimalkin’s room and was now vigorously indicating, “This way, Burningsoul!”

I dashed down the hall toward the sound of her voice. Two rooms from the parlor, she held the kitchen door for me. My heart throbbed with such relief to see this exit that I would not realize I had not given this strange woman my surname until much later.

Just then, I had no room in my consciousness for such details. As was the plains-king for its unlucky prey, I was driven toward my goal—toward the capture of Grimalkin. Dodging past a baffled and bored looking cook, I hurried through the kitchen and out into the alley around whose corner Grimalkin disappeared right away. In hot pursuit, I swept down the alley and around the same corner past which his hairy shoulder had just disappeared. The dwarf was ducking between people and generally using his short height in ways I couldn’t…but he did not know Skythorn as well as I knew Skythorn, nor did he have a god on his side. Not one as powerful as Weltyr, at any rate—nor one so well-regarded in the city.

Seeing how crowded the district was at that time of evening, I ran in the street rather than on the walkway and sometimes darted along the gutter. This was not easy either, as tired men and women alike sat upon the curbs to have a few minutes of whatever counted for peace in their exhausting lives. To my left rolled the tires of carts and mule-driven taxis. I kept an eye out for something helpful—and, praise Weltyr, I struck gold just as Grimalkin turned the corner to make his fast way down a somewhat less central street.

A tired-looking man had guided his horse to the curb and seemed about to unload the contents of his covered cart into a nearby building. I placed my hand upon his shoulder and, when he stiffly turned to see whomever it was Weltyr had sent to challenge him now, I gestured toward my neck. The fellow’s eyes, taking in the tattoo of the Order, widened with disbelief. While he looked me in the face, I told him, “I need to borrow your horse, please, friend—I’ll see to it that he’s returned to you within the hour, or my service to Weltyr means nothing.”

Exhaling heavily, then nodding, the man turned and hurriedly freed his stallion from the cart. I sat astride the beast in a heartbeat, my heels