Chapter 8

D'eidra

D'eidra's first instinct was to run, but her mother's iron grip on her arm held her fast. She had grown up in a warrior culture, trained since childhood in the art of combat, thus no stranger to violence. But now she stared at the bloody remains of the guards in disbelief. All that was left of the best of the best was the copper smell of blood and waste.

The human had moved--then it was over. In less than the space between one heartbeat and the next, six fully blooded Sidhe warriors lay dead on the floor.

Her mind flicked back to the lessons of one of her tutors, a scarred, crippled Dökkálfar warrior. He had spoken of the shattering effect of what he called the "sudden quick of violence." She thought she had understood, but what she had just witnessed showed her how shallow her understanding had been. A glance at her mother and she could tell by the ticking of the pulse in her neck that she too was affected as well. The only being who appeared unaffected was the Queen. She sat sipping her tea, composed and calm.

Suddenly, D'eidra's stomach rolled. She gagged, desperately trying not to vomit. Her mother leaned over to her and touched her neck. The nausea subsided. Her mother whispered, "Daughter, get a grip on yourself." D'eidra realized with embarrassment she'd been moaning. She straightened up and, once again, was the perfect daughter. Her mother nodded with satisfaction.

Several servants entered and one by one picked up the bodies while others spelled the blood away. In a matter of minutes, the room was back to normal.

The human male, the one her mother had called the Shadow Walker, casually leaned against the wall, a luminous saurian shape she recalled from her studies as one of the fabled dragon symbionts curled around his shoulder and neck. Its glowing amber eyes tracked restlessly around the room.

He looked harmless enough. He stood calmly, his hands folded in front of him, but then she noticed his eyes flickering back and forth between pools of green and deep black. Now a grimace of annoyance swept across his face. She realized he was in silent communion with the three troll women.

The being can mind speak!

Her mother pulled her away to a corner. "Listen, daughter," she whispered, "this is the reason I brought you here. Mark that being well. The time will come that you will be required to end him."

She shivered. The human's eyes were on her. His fingers began furiously signing to her mother.

Sweet Mother, he was using the forge's secret finger language. How could he know that?

"To bad it wasn't your Prince, Mistress."

"All in good time, Keeper. All in good time."

The human grimaced and nodded to the three troll women.

The Seer waved her hand. He vanished.

Chapter 9

Pastor Bob

Pastor Bob's heartburn was getting worse. Sweet Mother, how he hated this realm's cuisine. He parked the school bus in front of the Fremont Library, a block from the portal into Old Town's Northmarket. The memory of the streets and byways of Oldtown was a bittersweet ache. This day marked the twentieth anniversary of his banishment. Under his elaborate disguise, Pastor Bob was a half-blood Asari thief and con artist named Half Ear.

He was feeling skittish because this leg of the trip carried the most risk. His long life had impressed on him that taking risks of any sort eventually leads to misfortune. Now, because of his mother-damned sister L'eena's whim, he was stuck driving in daylight down a major street in the middle of Van Horn Coven territory. Plus, he had to wait around to get a delivery of Fairy's Tears for the wolves from his sister in Oldtown. He'd argued and argued for a different location, but L'eena had been adamant. According to her, the plan and the people were set. He calmed himself with the thought that while the risk was great, the reward made it worthwhile. This lot of slaves had extreme value. The creole woman had assured him they were of high talent.

One in ten thousand humans had the ability to gather magic; one in a hundred thousand had high talent for working it.

Pastor Bob himself had a healthy fear of magic and beings who used magic. His half-blood father had some minor talent, but the only thing the bastard had given him was a deformed ear. He shivered again. For all he knew, even as he waited here, the children in the motor home were sending off magical vibrations to attract a legion of vengeful witches from the Van Horn Coven to come and end him.

He hated this realm, had ever since that fat bastard, the Leprechaun, had banished him here twenty-some years ago for a simple mistake. When the Leprechaun got himself topped, Pastor Bob thought he'd finally be going home, but his sister had kept putting off his return to Oldtown. Her excuses were flimsy, but he had no choice but to trust her. She was his lifeline back to civilization. His stomach clenched in resentment; she didn't have to wear this wretched, ugly human disguise day and night. This latest enchantment itched.

Twenty years in this cursed realm. Twenty years of listening to his sister brag about her upscale apartment--in Southmarket, for Mother's sake. Just a few more days, he told himself. This latest shipment was going to put him over the top. She wouldn't be able to stop him. He'd be the one swanning down the broad avenues of Central Market in a fine black carriage drawn by two white horses.

He warned the children in the back with beatings if they weren't quiet, then walked down to the portal behind the statue, took a chair at one of the outdoor tables. Life would be so much easier if he could just cross over into Oldtown and pick up his merchandise himself. He couldn't, of course, not without permission. With a sigh, he relaxed and passed the time imagining how wonderful his new life was going to be.

That's when he spotted something that made his blood run cold. His anxiety went away to be replaced by terror so blinding that he literally froze in place. He panted, desperately trying to get enough oxygen in his system.

Shadow Walker.

The being he feared most in this or any other realm was walking toward him. And him with a load of child slaves in the bus.

I knew I should have ignored Mother and drowned him years ago instead of selling him.

He ducked down. Scuttled between two parked cars. Crouched, making himself as small as he could.

Where to go.

The now compelling safety of the bus was between him and the approach of Death himself.

He watched as the Shadow Walker stopped and glanced around as if to sniff the air for some trace of prey.

Had the being detected him?

Felt urine trickling down his leg.

The human shook his head and casually entered the portal and disappeared.

He remained crouched between the two parked cars for a long while afterward, not trusting his luck at being undetected. The terror-induced adrenaline spike left him shaken and pale.

His sister's minion, a small human child, stepped out of the portal, a canvas backpack in hand. The being looked around curiously.

Pastor Bob whispered thanks to the Mother for his deliverance. He stood and made his way over to the human, sang the secret phrase, grabbed the pack, and ran to the bus as if death himself was chasing him.

Chapter 10

Niamh

Niamh Harpe awoke to total darkness with a splitting headache and a terrible thirst. She put a hand up and gently touched the side of her head. Felt around the wound, noting the slickness of drying blood. She had been lucky. Shifters were tough. Her helmet had deflected the bullet just enough to graze instead of kill. A normal human would be dead. She briefly wondered why she was still alive. Then dismissed the thought. Escape was the pressing need--thinking could come later.

She tried to move, but realized that a thin steel cable tightly encircled her neck. She started to shift and stopped just in time. There would be no shifting to escape. Her panther form's neck was much thicker than her human neck. She would effectively decapitate herself if she shifted.

She checked the environment. Given the symphony of smells: saddle soap, neatsfoot oil, and the sharp tang of liniment, she was locked in a tack room of a stable or barn.

Her keen ears picked up someone outside the room. The door opened, revealing a woman dressed in a shapeless sweatshirt and tan canvas Carhartts.

"Ah, Mistress, you're finally awake."

"Yes, after a fashion. Who are you and where am I?"

"We've met before, Mistress. My name is Aiyana Chelan. We are in the milking barn in the Chelan compound. You must be thirsty, Mistress."

She held up a bottle of water for her to drink. After a casual comment on the friendship bracelets Charlie and Kat had made for her, the wolf-kin left, closing the door and plunging the room into darkness once more.

Niamh composed herself in patience. Her chance would come. Meanwhile, she tried to figure out which one of her bosses had betrayed her to the Alpha.

Her day had started well, then went bad. She had come back from an excellent early morning run to find four hungry children looking at her with pleading eyes, begging for some waffles just like Uncle Lan made.

"Okay, I'll try my best, you little scamps. Are your beds made and rooms cleaned?"

They scampered off to do her bidding. She went into Elisabeth's kitchen to try her best. It was her turn to cook. She and her sept-sisters had worked out a kitchen schedule. Elisabeth was by far the better cook, but they kept things fair and took turns--with the understanding that there would be no complaining. Teasing was okay; complaining was not.

Wraith was in the kitchen with a towel spread out on the table, sharpening her knives. She had an astonishing number, which she kept concealed on her person. Wraith was an assassin. The blades were the tools of her trade.

"Waffles again?"

"Yes, that damn man spoiled those kids for a healthy breakfast. At this rate, my ass is going to be ten times bigger than it is."

Between the three of them, Lan was always that damn man.

Wraith laughed and went back to her knives.

Niamh, in the meantime, reached up and adjusted the placement of the crystal kitty. Charlie was fascinated with the thing and kept touching it like it was real. Every time she did, she never put it back where it belonged.

"Thanks for that. That shelf's been driving me crazy, and I couldn't tell why."

Niamh nodded. The deirfiúracha m'fhuil binding that had created their Cyfamod had created some interesting side effects. Their strengths were now partially shared. Both she and Wraith, as well as Katrinka, now had a touch of Elisabeth's harmonizer magic. Wraith and Elisabeth now had a sense of smell many times more sensitive than ever before. They all shared Wraith's nature magic. Plants all over the house were joyously growing. The gardenia that Elisabeth despaired of ever flowering was in full bloom now, spreading its perfume all over the house.

Charlie, Katrinka, Jeffery, and Elron wandered in. The girls were chattering about the Taylor Swift concert they had all attended and the friendship bracelets they were making. Seeing Wraith sharpening her blades instantly diverted Charlie. The irrepressible nine-year-old watched with fascination.

"Auntie Wraith, will you show me how you do that knife-throwing thing?"

"You'll have to ask your mother, Charlie," Wraith said calmly. "If she gives permission, I will. It's never too soon for a girl to know how to take care of herself."

Elisabeth came in just in time to hear the discussion. Her expression of dismay made Niamh laugh out loud. Wraith was a practical kind of girl.

Jeffery and Elron were busy setting the table while discussing some tactic to use on one of the computer games Gus's friend had sent down for them to test.

Niamh was not at all sure she approved of gaming, but the former slave boy was coming out of his shell, and she didn't want to mess with all that progress.

Her phone chirped. She had a message.

And just like that, her pleasant day went wrong.

Get on Zoom.

"Elisabeth, would you take over here? Work is calling."

She went into the library, fetched her laptop, and booted Zoom up. When she logged on, she found both of her superiors, Mina and Harlan, looking back at her from a headquarters conference room in Bellingham.

"Singer and song bless you, Niamh," Mina said.

Mina Albright was Ursa-kin--were-grizzly. A big woman with iron-gray hair and a determined mouth, she had a mind like a steel trap and little patience for fools. She was Niamh's boss's boss on the Council, the organization that governed all were-kin.

If Mina was the hammer, Harlan Hanks was the velvet glove that concealed it. He was a were-coyote known to his subordinates as The Trickster. He looked like an absent-minded uncle; the one who sent you odd Christmas presents, until you noticed how pitiless his winter gray eyes were. He was committed to the council's goals and would sacrifice anything or anyone to reach them.

Mina was blunt. "This morning, there was an attempted assassination on your grandfather outside of the Firehouse Cafe in Fairhaven. The police think it was a random drive-by. We suspect the Alpha over in Chelan is finally making his move."

"But," Harlan continued, "we have no proof. He is politically connected, and as you know, your grandfather has plenty of enemies, both in the Kin community and in the covens."

"We want you to go nose around Wenatchee. Your cover is missing children. There has been an uptick lately in runaways in the last year or so. Mostly among the mundanes but also with the Kin. Missing children among our kind are always a powder keg waiting to go off."

Niamh was unemotional. "If I find the Alpha is behind this, what do you want me to do?"

Mina and Harlan looked at each other in silent debate.

"Use your best judgment," Harlan said finally.

"In other words, if this blows up, it's my ass, not yours."

Harlan ignored her bitching. "You have your orders."

They signed off.

Niamh ground her teeth.

I'm a cop, not an assassin.

She punched the number for her grandfather into her phone. It went straight to voicemail.

Fuck.

She slid her phone into the pocket of her jeans and told the others she had to go to work. An hour later, clad in black leather, she was on the road atop her Ducati street fighter, her wrists adorned in friendship bracelets courtesy of Charlie and Katrinka. For luck and protection, Katrinka had whispered as she was leaving.

Three hours later, ten miles outside of Chelan. Someone shot her.

And now she was in this mess. She was finally getting more alert when a man she recognized as one of the Alpha's crew opened the door. He noticed she was awake, reached into a pocket, grabbed a tranquilizer gun, and shot her.

Blackness.

Chapter 11

Quinn

The troll woman sending dumped Quinn in front of the Fremont Library. A cold, drizzling rain misted him as he walked back to his truck to retrieve his pack and the medical supplies he always assembled for Edie's Clinic. While he yearned to go back to the warm atmosphere of the girls singing. He regretfully had to dismiss the impulse.

He sighed and turned to go do his job. Three blocks later, his mind now busy with plans, he casually stepped out of Seattle's fall rain and into the sweltering summer heat of Oldtown's Northmarket district.

As always, there was a momentary disorientation as a new environment overwhelmed the senses. The mélange of smells and sounds--coal smoke, horse manure, unwashed hominids. The noise--a dwarf blacksmith hammering on a huge black anvil across the lane, backlit by the yellow glow of his forge--the back-and-forth cacophony of beings from squat dwarves to tall half-blood Asrai elves to glaring trolls bargaining at the market stalls and shops. Two massive orcs patrolled the street, keeping suspicious eyes on the mass of half-starved children of all species who darted underfoot of the shouting, haggling beings.

He caught a finger-flashed greeting from two young demi-goblins munching on sweet rolls, no doubt stolen from some baker's stall.

Quinn grinned and signed back, "Greetings, my friends. I see some coin in your future if you would find the bear-kin Kurt and send him here."

They nodded eagerly and dashed away.

He walked down the street and as usual dropped off a pack stuffed with medical supplies at Edie's. Her aides a cheerful pair dwarf sister's who were busy discussing some scandal. They barely noticed the old human making a delivery for their mistress.

Quinn slipped into a dark, ramshackle pub with a crudely drawn raven on the door. The tavern stank of sweat, stale beer, and fried food. Low ceilings held a sulfurous fog of tobacco smoke from the pipes of a group of ancient dwarves.

"A table, my handsome one?" a four-foot dryad shot him a saucy grin.

"Bless you, Melia. I'll take the one in the corner," he replied with a smile. "I will bide a while, so be kind to an old man and send over some stew and a mug of ale. I'm expecting Kurt the Bear-kin."

"Yes, my master." She scurried away.

Two tall half-blood Asrai males strutted by his table on the way to the jakes in the back. They eyed him and quickly averted their gaze. His disguise was that of an elderly human woodworker, but they had somehow picked up on his menace.

Quinn chided himself to get his shit together.

"Holy crap, it's the social worker hisself." A were-grizzly with a full black beard stood looking at Quinn with a broad smile on his face. The chair creaked alarmingly as he sat down.

"Hey, Kurt. You're looking good. You got my message, I see."

"Yeah, the little bastards charged me three pennies for it, too. Greedy little thieves."

A dwarf woman clad in a leather apron came up to their table. She leaned in and whispered in dvergrish.

"The Vampire wants you to visit."

"Thank you, Mistress," Quinn muttered in the same language. He pressed some coppers into her hand.

"Holy shit, you speak dvergrish. How many skills do you have?"

"Misspent youth. How is your mother and them?"

"Hale, hearty, and cunning. Her three sisters from Kodiak are visiting. Trying to marry me off."

"Thus the reason you're spending time in Oldtown," Quinn laughed. "You have your ear to the ground. What is the talk of the marketplaces?"

"Not good. Times are very hard here after the old Dragon's raging. Northmarket is doing better than most, but even it is still down. Food is short, prices are high; many, many beings are starving. They have been selling their children."

Kurt looked around and leaned in close. "The slavers are flourishing again. With the Leprechaun gone, I thought we'd seen the last of them. My mother sent me here to see if I can pick up the scent of the Kin that have gone missing."

"That's why I'm here. What do you know about Southmarket?"

"Not much. I know that Larissa the Romani runs the place. It's her private fiefdom."

"I know of her," Quinn said.

****

The human boy, known as Highpockets, rubbed his neck where the slave torc had scraped an open sore.

If he ever thought of "the other world," it was in dreams. At those times, a girl named Annie visited him in his dreams; each time with a kindness that made him feel guilty. He relished the memory of the dream, though, because kindness was ever in short supply in Oldtown, especially for a lone human boy with no clan to protect him.

Until he had been snatched and sold, he'd been incredibly lucky. Turned out, young Lachlan was a natural at surviving on the streets. Clever, cautious, and cheerful. Everywhere he went, he made allies. He lived his life hour by hour, always in the present moment, always with an eye open for the main chance. He was naturally gregarious and willing to learn from anybody. His time with Mr. Whisker's band of cutpurses had given him time to adapt. He had mastered the language step by step. The customs of the street had come slower, but they had come. He was too small and awkward on the snatch, but thanks to his quick mind and steady nerve, he was soon in demand as a spotter.

His big break had come as he was munching on a stolen sweet roll while hiding under a boardwalk in front of a greengrocer. He overheard two Gray Goblins talking about one of their clan-sister's plans to rob Mr. Whiskers. He quickly informed Mr. Whiskers, and the old dwarf had taken steps and foiled the plot. That piece of intelligence got him a month's worth of food and lodging. That was when he realized information was valuable, so he began to collect it and sell it. Mr. Whiskers had been so pleased that he gifted the boy with a slightly used pair of green leather britches. They were comically too big for him, but he was inordinately proud of them, as only a small boy could be. He wore them almost clinched to his armpits and was forever more gifted with the name Highpockets.

His friend Ninefingers had found his mother's clan and went off to join them in far-off Southmarket. So Highpockets and the two young half-blood Asrai girls who had rescued him that first day had formed an efficient trio. They had made a connection with a female named Oracle. Her pawn shop was a combination fence and information broker for the guilds and merchants who ran Northmarket. Soon the three were in the marketplace gossip business, earning enough coins to keep them fed and sheltered in Mr. Whisker's rambling inn.

They also made a nice bit of coin steering customers to Small Meg's bordello in the red-light neighborhood. The girls there spoiled the three of them and were also an excellent source of gossip tidbits about the comings and goings of their betters.

By the one-year mark, young Lachlan had fully mastered his environment. An impressive feat, considering he couldn't even speak the language when he arrived. His blue eyes held both the sharp calculation of a survivor. Far older than the rest of him, those eyes never stopped watching, learning, planning his next move in the endless game of urban survival.

A game he was winning until the beauty of his two female partners attracted the attention of the slaver Half-ear and his sister L'eena. Then came a night when he awoke with a knot on his head and a torc around his neck in a slave kennel in the Shambles. The girls were gone.

Six months later

The boy seethed with rebellion. Months of beatings and terrible food in the Tanners Guild Kennels had turned him utterly feral. He no longer noticed the foul smells. He was filthy, flea-bitten and lousy.

The old human who had been kind to him when he was first enslaved was now sick with kennel fever. He would die soon, the boy knew. Humankind did not survive long in this place. Lachlan had done his best to keep the old being warm and fed, but the chills still racked him. He knew the old man had given up and would soon die. He tucked his threadbare blanket around the old guy.

The man whispered, his voice rattling with the phlegm that was filling his lungs. "Listen, boy, you must escape as soon as you can. The Druid searches for you. I've made some connections for you. When the time comes, you must make the leap."

Lachlan shook his head. He'd heard of the Druid, of course; beings whispered his name, lest singing it loud would attract his attention. All he knew of him was that he was one of the god-like beings who ruled Oldtown.

The old man died in the night.

A week later, one of the troll overseers kicked him awake.

"Get you up."

He marched the boy to the gate. Two huge orc males, their faces and bodies horrifically scarred from the fighting pits in Southmarket, awaited there. They seized him up and dragged him out of the kennel and onto the lane where a shiny black carriage stood. They opened the door and casually threw him in.

He rearranged himself on the seat and looked around, trying his best to contain the terror wrought by this new circumstance.

A tiny hook-nosed human woman sat across from him.

She studied him curiously. "The Druid wants you dead, boy. Why? What did you do to him?"

Lachlan shook his head mutely.

"No matter. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I'm too busy this day for puzzles. Get the torc off of him."

The orc coachman grabbed him roughly and ran a controller over his neck. The torc released and fell to the ground.

"Remember, if you survive, you owe Larissa the Romani a debt this day." She nodded to a dark-haired little girl who sat next to him. "Nessa, take him to the gate in Northmarket and push him across."

***

Quinn came back to the present time to find Kurt looking at him expectantly.

"What did you say?"

"I said what's up? Why'd you want to meet me?"

"I need a way into Southmarket. There is something going on down there that I need to deal with. I need some names. Who do you think could help?"

"I know little about Southmarket. My suggestion is either the Vampire, the Oracle, or Goldeneyes. Probably the Oracle first. Her shop is on the way to something I want to show you. I was actually hoping you had come to fix the mess in Eastmarket. It's bad over there, Lan. Real bad. The worst I've seen and I spent time with the Regiment in Africa. When the rainy season comes, many will die. No one seems to give a shit either."

Quinn knew a bit about the big man's shadowy military history. He'd served in the Regiment, the rangers were a popular choice for the Kin. They were ever patriotic.

He sighed. "All right, let's take a walk over there, and you can show me. But Kurt, I gotta warn you, I'm in a hurry."

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived outside the Oracle's pawn shop and found a blackened skeleton. The cluttered displays he remembered were reduced to heaps of twisted metal and soot-streaked glass. Shelves that once held a chaotic array of pawned treasures--antique watches, tarnished silverware, and lots and lots of tools--were now scorched and sagging. Burned wood filled the air with its thick smell, and another pungent odor--like witch-fire or dragon-fire, both hotter than the sun's surface--mixed with it.

Quinn stared at the ruins for a long time, with Kurt patiently waiting down the lane. The Oracle had been one of his first friends. He owed his survival to her.

Another mystery.

He walked over to join Kurt. "Let's go."

The pair walked along the East Dock Road, soon spotting the first of an ever-increasing number of homeless beings. Oldtown had always had an army of beggars. Most were professionals and usually set up shop near taverns and grog shops--inebriated beings are generous. Many served as lookouts for the knocker teams that infested the red-light districts and dock districts. Thieves relieved drunken victims of their coins and, if those victims were near the docks, shanghaied them onto a freighter. Ship captains paid well for additional crew.

However, these beggars were far different. Hollow-eyed fathers and mothers with frightened, tormented eyes watched over dull-eyed, starving children with distended bellies caused by severe malnutrition. Eastmarket was once a prosperous district. Not any longer. As they drew deeper into the district, beings with horrific burn scars appeared. The gaunt faces of the survivors showed shock and despair. They moved like ghosts through the ruins, occasionally stopping to sift through ash with trembling hands, scavenging for any salvageable remnant.

There were no signs of any rebuilding effort.

"Why aren't they rebuilding?"

"That's the fucking problem. Roving bands of slavers are snatching up the able-bodied. The rich merchants and the remaining guild masters don't want to get involved. They hide in their compounds, afraid to venture out. But the main reason is that there is no money to rebuild. Commerce is very slow. All of Oldtown is suffering from this disaster. There are no safety nets in place like in our world."

"That's bullshit. Oldtown has ancient wealth."

"Being hoarded would be my guess."

They passed a burned-out husk Quinn remembered was once a dress shop. The only thing remaining was a brick chimney. He noticed two young female dwarves huddled inside the chimney's firebox. Each held a baby.

He stopped to talk. They flinched when they looked into his angry eyes.

"Please, master, we will go with you. Please don't hurt the babies. We will do anything you want."

Kurt gasped, "Miri, sweet mother, how have you come here? Lan, this is Miri. Her father used to own this shop." He switched to English. "Ease up, Lan. You're scaring them."

Quinn turned angry eyes on Kurt, then softened when the realization of the truth of his statement hit.

"Please forgive me, Mistress Miri. I mean you no harm. Indeed, how may we help? Why do you linger here?"

"We hide from the slavers. They prowl the lanes every day. We have no coin for lodging."

A bantering, sing-song voice interrupted them.

"Come out, come out, Miri. All you need to do is come out and let us take you and the babes somewhere safe."

Quinn turned and beheld a tall half-blood Asrai with a suppurating burn on one side of his face and neck and six Bloodfist orcs. He turned back to the young dwarf female.

"Do you know this being, Mistress?"

"That being is M'ikle," she spat. "Bastard, son of Master Ustel, who owned most of the property hereabouts. His father died in the burning. Now he is a slaver. His crew has taken many in the neighborhood. He thinks he owns all around by right of inheritance."

Quinn turned to Kurt. "Finally, a bit of good news. Here is a being that can give us some insight into the whole slave trade. Whoever said that clean living doesn't bring good fortune."

Kurt pointed to the huge Bloodfists who waited behind the Asrai. The leader, a seven-foot scarred monster, tapped his mace on his armored leg.

"They don't look like good fortune."

Quinn looked at the orcs and grated out in Orkish. "Bloodfists, I give you a choice. Return to your grandmother's cave and you will live to name your children. Stay and you will die on this day. There is no honor to be had in this business. I offer you a gift of your lives."

The tall one-eyed orc, whose two black chevron tattoos on his cheek marked him as leader, looked shocked that this old human spoke Orkish. He paused, face wrinkled in thought. His one eye caught the tail of the red dragon whip tattoo that wound around Quinn's right arm.

He backed away so hurriedly that he crashed into his fellows.

"I hear you, Shadow Walker," the Orkish words tumbled out of his mouth. "We go. Thank you for your kindness. We go now."

Quinn nodded. "Remember, you Bloodfists now owe me a debt. This being," he pointed to Kurt, "will come in my name and collect."

The six backed up, turned as one, and ran.

Quinn turned his attention to the now dumbfounded being named M'ikle.

"You are going to tell me things. The only question is how quickly you talk before I lose patience and start removing your limbs."

The Asrai's peaked ears flattened, and his mouth twisted into a scowl.

"Who are you to threaten me, old man? You do not know who you deal with here. You are far out of your depth here. Go away. Miri, you and your sister stop this nonsense and come with me."

Quinn ignored his rants. "Kurt, would you escort these two to Mr. Whisker's place?" He fished out a couple of rolls of pennies from his pack and handed them to Miri. "Mistress, here is enough coin to get you a meal and shelter at the tavern. I will be by in a bit."

Kurt nodded and motioned for the pair of young females to join him.

They glanced nervously at Quinn and hurried to Kurt's side.

The Asrai grabbed Miri's arm as she passed close by.

Quick as thought, the dragon whip emerged from Quinn's arm with a shriek and neatly sliced the Asrai's hand off. Just as quickly, it snapped back into Quinn's arm.

The two dwarven females shrieked.

M'ikle's burn-scarred face contorted in shock and disbelief as he staggered backward. His knees buckled. He collapsed against the chimney, his remaining hand clutching the wound as the reality of what had happened crashed over him. A hoarse cry escaped his throat--part rage, part anguish. His eyes darted wildly between where his hand had been and Quinn, as sweat beaded on his ashen face.

"Take off, Kurt. I got this." He turned cold eyes to the wounded being. "As I said, M'ikle, the choice is yours. Tell me where you take your daily catch. Tell me who your master is. Quickly now, before I remove your other limbs."

"Sweet Mother, you cut my hand off."

Quinn waited and watched as the pain began to slice through the shock.

Fuck, he was bleeding out.

He reached into his pack and pulled out a gauze bandage and some ankle wrap, swiftly wrapping the stump of the half-blood's arm.

"Stop your whining and talk," he sang coldly. "You still may survive this day. Tell me the hand-off chain."

The half-blood showed total defeat. "L'eena's trolls give me coin for slaves delivered to the ferry dock," he gasped out. "I march the day's harvest to the dock pier at the mouth of the Twin Rivers. I don't know what happens to them after that."

The being was telling the truth. He grabbed the being's belt knife and quickly sketched a slave mark on the half-blood's forehead. M'ikle was so defeated he didn't even flinch. He sat in the ashes of the store, holding his arm and mumbling to himself.

Quinn felt a brief flash of pity, then remembered all the beings now enslaved.

He hated slavers with an endless passion.

Simple justice, asshole. Enjoy what's left of your miserable life.