Book 2: Chapter 3 - Abattoir [Part 1]

  "Tragedy springs from the mortal struggle against the inevitable—sickness, strife, and the certainty of death. Comedy, however, arises from the absurdity of our own pursuits, as we are blinded by love, consumed by greed, ruled by lust, and deceived by the illusion of power."

  - Attributed to the playwright Vlan di Panoli.

  Well before they reached the base of the winding stairs, Seraphina and Frest quietly stowed their Zajasite stones in Frest’s satchel. The faint, ghostly glow of the stones vanished with a soft, plunging them into near-total darkness. The moss on the walls glowed a sickly green, barely able to illuminate their path. Their hearts thrummed in time with each cautious footfall as they picked their way down the last set of rough-hewn steps.

  The moss would be called once “Beron’s Dream” once it was “discovered”, she thought to herself. In itself, the herb was worth a pretty penny.

  As they drew closer to the bottom, the low murmur of voices grew clearer: a medley of complaints, foul curses, and grousing gossip in clearly masculine tones. The pair halted at the last few steps, exchanging a tense glance in the shadows. Seraphina withdrew a chainmail coif from her belt, careful not to rattle its metal links, and pulled it over her head. She had no intention of wearing a full helm that would overly dull her senses.

  Moving with painstaking caution, she edged forward and peered around the corner. In the glow of a battered copper lantern—its cracked glass distorting the flickering light—she spotted two men. They sat on crude wooden stools around a makeshift table fashioned from an old barrel. Cards were splayed between them, each tattered and stained, and their faces reflected all the desperation and frustration of gamblers down on their Luck.

  A thick stench of sweat and stale ale hung in the subterranean chamber, testifying to how long these thieves had lingered there. Their chafed voices ricocheted off the clammy stone walls, lamenting lost wagers and accusing one another of cheating as they burped and cursed. Seraphina paused, scanning the room for additional threats. Satisfied that these were the only guards present, she signaled to Frest with a pointed finger toward the thief on the left.

  Frest acknowledged the gesture with a single, resolute nod. Kneeling on the cold stone floor, he quietly drew his crossbow and took aim. Seraphina raised three fingers and began counting down. Three…two…one…

  On the final count, Seraphina launched herself forward with all of her Strength and speed. She felt raw power surge through her legs, as though some unseen force had granted her plea for swiftness. Her sword carved a gleaming silver arc in the lantern light, slashing cleanly through the first thief from collarbone to navel. Warm blood sprayed against the barrel, and the man’s face froze in a final mask of shock.

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  Even as Seraphina’s blade found its mark, Frest’s crossbow bolt whistled through the air. The second thief jerked upright, clutching at the dark-fletched bolt suddenly protruding from his throat. A wet, choking gurgle escaped his lips before he collapsed beside his fallen companion.

  Seraphina kicked off the remains of her foe from her sword, and the chamber now fell into silence. Almost at once, a familiar set of glowing notifications appeared in her vision:

  She took a moment to acknowledge the messages, then dismissed them. Her eyes swept over the carnage, settling on the two crumpled bodies and the sputtering lantern.

  Well, that was a promising start, she thought, throwing a glance at Frest as he retrieved his bolt from the thief’s cooling corpse. He examined it for damage before sliding it back into his crossbow.

  “Lars, you there, you dolt? You owe me two gold, you do!” a voice called from behind a door deeper in the hideout. “Don’t you be losing it gambling on me before I beat it out of you!”

  Though the confrontation had been swift and bloody, it was clear there would be no time to rest—an arrangement that suited the young woman perfectly. She and Frest pressed themselves against the wall on either side of the door, waiting for whoever was on the other side to step through.

  “Lars, stop playing silly buggers and answer me! Get over here!” The voice grew closer.

  Frest took the initiative. “Lars be down drunk, deep in his cups. Might be you can take your coin back while he’s out of it. I ain’t tellin’ no one nothin’,” he called, slipping into an accent that mirrored the thief’s.

  “Guess I’ll be doin’ just that, then!”

  A burly man stepped into the room, his face was so ugly that Seraphina almost mistook him for an Orc. He halted in confusion when he noticed the beautiful girl standing by the door.

  The girl lashed out with the pommel of her sword, forcing him to raise his hands to shield his head. That did nothing for his midsection, however, and she drove a knee into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. As he doubled over, she cracked him across the skull with a swift punch—just as Frest fired his crossbow from nearly point-blank range.

  “Be careful with that thing,” the young noblewoman hissed. She was irritated that Frest had effectively stolen some of her experience points, though the skill upgrade mollified her somewhat.

  Frest answered with an irreverent salute, and that small gesture finally pushed Seraphina over the edge. All this sneaking around wasted time and grated on her nerves. She’d had enough.

  Abandoning Stealth, she strode forward without regard for the clamor of her footsteps. Frest had the impression she knew exactly where she was heading—and in a sense, she did.