Blood and Honor

“Forget it, Mordan.” The warforged fixed him with an unblinking stare. “I’m still in trouble from your last little escapade. I suppose you know Ikar’s put a price on your head?”

“You worry too much,” Mordan said with a grin. “I already took care of Slarn and his boys. If Ikar were really upset he’d have sent someone better.”

“Wonderful,” said Decker. “If he wasn’t upset before, he will be now. He can’t let people get away with killing his messengers—you know that.”

“Well, then,” said Mordan, “supposing Ikar does send some more trouble to Karrlakton, wouldn’t you rather be somewhere else?”

“I’d rather be wherever you’re not,” said Decker. “Whatever you’re planning, I don’t want to know.”

Mordan reached into his jerkin and pulled out the paper Tarrel had given him. Unfolding it carefully, he put it on the table in front of the warforged. Decker’s eyes swiveled toward it briefly—then he turned his whole head and leaned closer. A pair of lenses flipped down from beneath his metal eyebrows.

“Is that real?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mordan replied. “It’s a genuine House Kundarak bearer bond, and it’s all yours for a couple of days’ work.”

The lenses flipped back into their housings, and Decker pushed the paper away.

“Not a chance,” he said firmly. “Nothing pays that well unless it’s suicide. I’m not letting you drag me back into the Mournland, and that’s final.”

“Who said anything about the Mournland?”

Decker looked at Mordan, then at the paper, then back at Mordan.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“A Medani inquisitive with a rich client.”

“And he hired you?”

“Not exactly,” Mordan replied. “Let’s just say we have a common interest.”

Decker made a grinding noise deep in his chest.

“That welds it,” he said. “If he’s as crazy as you are, I definitely don’t want to know.” He pushed the paper back across the table to Mordan and folded his arms across his massive chest. The greenish light in his eyes faded to black.

“Look, Decker,” Mordan pleaded, “it’s for a good cause.”

“I’m not listening,” the warforged replied, swiveling his head in the opposite direction.

“Someone is stealing military undead and selling them into slavery.”

Decker’s eyes brightened, almost imperceptibly. He swiveled his head slowly back. “Slavery?” he repeated. Mordan nodded. Decker’s eyes lit fully. “Where?” he grated.

“So far, we’ve traced one shipment to a construction site in the old town,” said Mordan, “but we don’t know how many others there are. All we know is, they’re coming from Fort Zombie.”

“And that’s where you want to go?”

“Right.”

“Not the Mournland?”

“You can hug the near bank all the way.”

The light in Decker’s eyes flickered briefly.

“Let me see that paper again,” he said.

Groping through the darkness, Mordan hit his head on a low beam and sat down with a curse.

“Can’t we have some light in here?” he asked.

“You’re the only one who needs it,” Tarrel responded, and chuckled.

“That’s right,” said Brey. “Why don’t you just sit there for now? Just be careful getting up.”

“Well,” said Mordan. “I’ve got a boat to take us to Fort Zombie. Are you two ready to go?”

The others made noises of assent.

“Just one thing,” said Brey. “It’s getting near dawn, so I’m going to have to take to my coffin for the day. Can I trust you two to carry me?”

“We’re definitely going to need some light, then,” said Mordan. “If I can’t get in here without knocking myself out. I’ll never make it outside carrying a coffin.”

Tarrel laughed. “Pathetic,” he said. There was a brief pause, and he tossed a glowing pebble on the floor. It cast a dim light over the attic. “I’ve got a hand-cart outside for the luggage,” he went on. “There should be room for the coffin. As long as you don’t mind a few things stacked on top?” He raised an eyebrow at Brey.

“Do what you need to,” she replied. “Just as long as you keep the thing shut.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a heavy thump on the roof. Before they had time to react, a pale fist punched through the rotting shingles, and as it withdrew, something dropped through the opening, hitting the floor with a soft thump.

The thump was followed by a high-pitched buzzing, and Mordan saw the object was a sack. It was moving as though something alive were inside.

“Don’t touch it!” warned Tarrel. As he did so, the sack sagged to one side, its mouth falling open. Out poured a dense cloud of insects, almost completely filling the room. The air filled with a carrion stench.

Mordan slapped at his skin and found a pale mosquito crushed on his palm in a smear of blood. Others were swarming around him, getting into his nose and mouth. Hurriedly he threw his cloak over his shoulder, so that it covered his lower face.

The attic filled with reddish light as flames jetted from Tarrel’s outstretched fingers. He moved his hands in a circle, burning the insects around him. Mordan dodged with a muffled curse as the magical fire swung his way, setting light to the edge of his cloak. He stamped it out.