Rope
smiled. It was too late to stop now.The
relief and the thrill of it made him forget where he was and what he
was doing.
“Oi! What are ye
about?”
Damn!
What was he doing here? They
were all supposed to be drinking themselves more stupid at the 'Pig
and Whistle'. He fumbled trying to put himself away. Warm drops
spilled on to his hands and down his trousers. Hell! I
can't even pee myself right!
Rope cursed and swore as his mangled hand and fingers fumbled with
the knot holding up his oversized pants.
The narrow alley and stonework intensified the guard's second rebuke
into a roar that made Rope feel that a wounded bear were charging
him.
“Oi! You runt!
This ain't no bloody privy!”
Faster kills fast.
Rope had learnt that quickly on the streets and in the gutters. Mouse
was fast, cat was faster. Fish were fast, gulls faster. Pigeons were
fast, crows were faster. Soldiers were fast too, but he was faster.
Rope made a dash
for the mouth of the alley thinking to squeeze past the startled
guard. It was his second error in judgement that night. The guardsman
was built for soldiering with a height that was almost matched by his
width. Rope got caught between the guard's stomach and the alley
wall. He felt only a moment of fuzzy panic before a mammoth hand
gripped him around the neck and lifted him off the ground.
“Where ye think
you're going, eh?”
The guard's breath
stank of onions and old brie, causing Rope to gag. But that was the
least of his troubles.The soldier's hand was so large that Rope felt
his whole neck must be within the man's grasp, and worse, the fingers
began to squeeze. The guard was laughing.
“I
know you, don't I?” The unshaven face leaned in closer and a few of
the longer whiskers stabbed Rope's cheek. “I've seen ye before, in
the 'Pig and Whistle', haven' I, taking advantage of our Elly's good
char...
burp...charity?”
It wasn't a question, it was an accusation.
The
soldier's belch brought up a stink of cheap ale.
Rope couldn't help himself. The guard's unwitting self-mockery was
just too much.
“Ye'd better
wipe that bloody smile off ye face boy, before I put ye in shackles
and throw ye in with the wolves down in the stockade!” The guard
pushed Rope roughly against the alley wall causing his head to bounce
painfully off of the stone. Rope could vaguely hear the guard still
talking and it took all his will to focus on the man's voice.
“They'd
make short work of you, runt,” the man's fingers were closing
tighter around his neck,“Then again, there's not enough meat on ye.
They'd probably just play with ye a bit and leave ye to the rats.
Unless that devil, Targorr, doesn't claim ye for himself first.”
Rope's disorientation cleared the
instant the guard spoke the Orc's name.
Rope had seen enough death to
know it was a meaningless achievement– fleeting and soon forgotten–
but he also knew first hand that this was not true of the
stockade. No, in that vile place, death was master and it took its
sordid time. Rope wasn't
going back there. Ever.
The guardsman's body– so thickset
and burly– was his curse. Rope kicked out violently with his feet
and struck the guard's nose. It popped with a
crack
that echoed sickeningly off of the pave-stones. Man and armor
toppled over like a felled tree, hitting the ground with a
teeth-jarring crash. The man's skull striking the pavement was like a
grim toll announcing his death.
The guardsman lay still.
Rope ran.
***
Curse
the light! Curse the damn guard! Curse the whole bloody city!
A
cat leapt off of a wall in front of him. How had it gone so
wrong? Rope lashed out at the
unfortunate animal, trying to kick it. Just a quick pee
into the sluiceway that feeds rainwater down into the prisoners'
water trough.The cat was faster,
dodging his foot and fleeing back over the wall. And curse
you, too!The guards
never made rounds when Elly's sister sang at the 'Pig and Whistle'.
Never.
Rope gritted his
teeth and quickened his pace. So be it, if fate were out for him this
night, it'd have to catch him first.
Once
within the walls of Old Town, Rope felt a weight lift off of him.
He hadn't realized just how much he'd held been holding his breath
until he leapt off the roof of the potions shop, the 'Five Deadly
Venoms', and sucked in
a great gulp of air.
Here Rope knew
people walked with their heads down, seldom looking up to see who was
walking–or running– the streets so late. Like him, people in Old
Town kept to their own business; it was safer that way. Nevertheless,
there were some openly despised residents whose very livelihood
depended on taking note of what others ignored. So only now, when he
was finally home– a jumble of broken and splintered crates– did
Rope allow himself the luxury of closing his eyes and letting his
muscles relax.
By
now, his head felt as though his long blond hair must surely be
rooted with nails.
Worse still, there were some nasty fumes seeping out from under the
door and through the cracks in the shutters of the potions shop. Rope
guessed that Mr. Sidney and his assistant's bickering had, yet again,
forced them to continue their brewing into the night. Better
not ask me to deliver anything tonight! I'll bloody well throw it in
his snooty face!
Rope
crawled into one of the larger crates that served as his bedroom and
fell atop his filthy blanket. Images of the guardsman’s still body
only fought back his sleep for a few minutes before exhaustion and
pain claimed victory.
***
Rope's
head
hadn't improved when he awoke to a sky still black.
When he'd roused himself to
consciousness, he felt something tugging at his arm. Through his mind
flashed images of diseased flesh, yellow teeth and sharp claws. He
scrambled out of the crate and screamed. Like a berserker, he stamped
and lashed out with his feet until he heard a satisfying yelp from
within the crate. At first, Rope was relieved that it was probably
just a stray dog, but following the yelp was a curse– a very human
one.
“Medivh take you! That bloody hurt!”
The
voice was unmistakably female and she was accusing
him
of wrongdoing. Rope was coming to his senses now, and he was none too
pleased to be sworn at, especially by a girl, a girl who'd invaded
his home.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“How about a ‘sorry’?” came a
smart reply.
This irritated him more.
“Sorry? You’re the one trying to
pilfer me things! I ought to carry you to Officer Brady and have him
hang you!”
Rope quickly regretted shouting, not
just because he knew better than to attract unwanted attention, but
also because his own voice rang painfully inside his aching head.
“You could try. I’ll even wait for
you to finish peeing in your pants.”
Her tone was as annoying as her
sarcasm– smug just like Mr. Sidney when he smiled and gave him food
riddled with maggots. Rope hated Mr, Sidney and he was fast becoming
to despise this girl too.
Rope's cheeks grew hot. He threw out a
shamed fist, but succeeded only in hitting the side of the crate. He
was fast, she was faster. He screamed his own curse and tried to
shake away the pain. The girl had no sympathy, though, and started on
him again.
“Your mouth is
as dirty as your clothes.”
Rope's reply was
more heated than his face. “Go away! This is my place. Go find your
own!”
“Funny, I'd have
thought you'd want to avoid attention, not invite it to breakfast.”
“Maybe I want an
audience when I show them how you tried to knife me in my sleep!”
She replied with the same infuriating
cool. “Oh? What about Lyle?
“Who?”
“The guard you just killed. Is he
going to feature in your opening act?”
The surprise was obvious on his face
and she smiled in triumph, provoking him yet again.
“You're daft! I've been 'ere all
night, till you attacked me!”
The girl inspected a nail and said,
“Don't bother. I saw the whole thing. And do you think they'll need
another excuse to hang you after hearing it from me– whether they
believe it or not? Hmm?”
Rope's mind
began to race, thinking of how he was going to get out of his
predicament. But there wasn't time. The
girl strode up to him and poked him hard in the chest. Just as
she did, the curtain of grey clouds parted and the moon revealed the
girl's features. Rope had a vague notion she was talking to him, but
he wasn't hearing the words.
At first it'd
been her full, bow-shaped lips, followed by her hair, so pale that it
didn't appear to reflect the moonlight, but rather to absorb it. But
it was her face that had reduced him to a speechless dolt. He'd seen
and dreamt of women he'd thought were pretty, like Elly, the barmaid
at 'The Pig and Whistle'. But
this girl was more than pretty, she was beautiful.
Immediately Rope felt ashamed, ashamed
of his stained clothes, of his disfigured hand, and of his destitute
life.
The girl smacked him on the arm.
“Oi! Are you listening to me?”
“Wha...what?”
“I reckon that lout must have hit
you something awful.” She held up three fingers. “How many do you
see?'
Rope's reply reflected his current
state of brainlessness.“Hmm...?”
The girl's voice softened a little.
“Come on, sit down.”
He started to do as he was told—she
was so beautiful– but when the girl went to take his hand, he
sobered immediately and pulled it away roughly. His denial didn't
appear to hurt her, she just shrugged and sat down. Rope sat opposite
her.
Again, it was the girl who spoke first.
“Look, I need a partner, someone I can trust. And seeing as how I
know something you’re not wanting others to know, you’re just
about the most trustworthy person in this rotten city.”
It was a battle, infatuation versus
suspicion.
“Sure, you can trust me. But first
you gotta tell me how you managed to follow me back here.”
She ignored his demand. “Tell me
your name.”
The girl had just about ordered him to
give it to her. To Rope, her beauty lost a little of its charm.
“Why should I?”
She moved nearer to him. He could feel
her hot breath on his cheek. It smelt sweetly of apples.“You know,
you ought to be nicer to me. We're soon to be very close friends, you
and I.”
The spell was cast again.
“Rope.”
“What?”
“My name. Rope.”
The girl giggled. “What kind of name
is that?”
“The other orphans gave it to me.”
“Why? Cause you're as thin as rope?”
The jest and her accompanying laugh was the first bit of genuine
warmth she'd granted him, but Rope's answer sucked all the levity
from the air.
“No. Cause they hanged my dad in
Trade's Square. Family's allowed to cut 'em down when they’re dead,
but it was just me, and I was too small. Couldn't reach. They only
took him down when the smell got too bad. That's why they call me
Rope.” He spoke about the whole experience nonchalantly, as though
he were talking about what he ate for dinner. Nevertheless, the girl
waited a while before replying.
“But you have a name, right? What's
your real name?”
“Don't remember. The matrons called
me Rope, too.”
“And you don't mind?”
He shrugged. “Don't care. Ol'Beasley
says it doesn't matter what people call you, so long as they pay
you.”
The girl crossed her arms defiantly.
“I don't want to call you Rope. It's daft.”
Rope looked into the girl’s eyes. They were amber and complemented
her golden hair perfectly. The longer he stared into them, the
tighter his body became. While the guard may have grasped him around
the neck, this girl was squeezing him from the inside out. Humor
seemed his only release.
“Alright, your high and mightiness,” he half laughed, “you
going to favor me with a new name, then? Rope ain't such a good name
to have when their dragging you to the gallows, is it?”
The girl hummed and put a finger to
her lip and then looked Rope up and down, appraising him as if he
were some livestock on sale at the market.
“What are you good at?” The girl
asked.
“What?” Rope was oddly distracted
by her attention.
“What are you good at?” She sighed. “You know, have you got
any skills? Can you throw a knife, pick a pocket, trick a turkey,
skin a squirrel, climb a tree...skills?”
Rope wasn't sure what advantage skinning squirrels or climbing trees
would be to anyone, but decided to keep his smart retort to himself.
Why bother? He'd probably get more of a rise out of the statues
lining the entrance of the city. She was certainly pretty enough to
pose as one.
“I've got work, you know,” he gestured towards the potions shop,
“I ain't so slow that I can't get a better dinner than a squirrel.”
“Why would anyone eat a squirrel?” For a moment the girl's
features were distorted by a foul look that seemed so wrong on
someone so beautiful.
“Why
would
you
want to skin one?” That time Rope couldn't help himself. The desire
to one-up her trumped his wish not to see her scowl again.
She smiled and said, “Actually, you'd be surprised how much
clearer things look from the inside out.”
Is she joking?
Rope wasn't sure. “Yeah, well I don't need to turn you inside-out
to know you're hiding something.”
The girl leaned back and pulled an apple from the small pouch she
wore. After she had taken a bite, chewed and swallowed, she bestowed
upon Rope his new name.
“I like you Padfoot, you're even quicker than I thought.”
“What's a
Padfoot?”Rope
asked, too curious to register the compliment.
“You are, silly.”
The
blow to his ego hurt even more because he assumed she didn't like
him. At least, not the way he liked her.
“
Padfoot?
That's better than 'Rope'? Makes me sound like someone's dog!”
The girl shuffled over and sat on her knees facing him. She leaned
in so close to Rope's ear that he could feel her lips brush his skin.
“It's perfect, actually, seeing as I've got you on a very tight
leash.”
Rope
felt as though lightning were bouncing around inside of him. He
wanted more.
The girl withdrew, her lips brushing
Rope's cheek as she stood. Her voice recovered its commanding tone.
“OK,
Padfoot, meet me outside
the city tomorrow night. The orchard near Mirror Lake.”
“Why there?”
She smiled and threw the half-eaten apple at him. “I like apples.”
The girl started to leave. The thunder
pealed again. Desperation and ache made Rope's appeal sound like the
whining dog she'd just likened him to.
“Wait! What about the growers? Their
hounds'll tear me to pieces!”
She called back over her shoulder.
“Don't worry. There's a new owner. I helped him get rid of them.”
“What's your name?” Rope cried
out.
She
stopped and turned her head. After a moment, she gave him what he
wanted.
“Marisa.”
Then she was gone.
Rope turned the apple around to where Marisa's mouth had been. He
took a bite out of it and wondered how she had known the guard's
name.
***
Rope went to Ol'Beasley first. The crazy old man knew more than
everyone thought.
“A few coppers today, a silver tomo...oh, it's you lad. Don't
suppose you got a copper for Ol'Beasley, do you?”
“Might have. Depends on.” Rope put a hand in his pocket feigning
the presence of a coin.
“Depends on what, lad?” The old man couldn't take his eyes off
of the promise of Rope's pocket. “You know, Ol'Beasley's good for
it.”
Rope knew of no greater lie, but held his tongue. “You ever heard
of a girl called Marisa?”
The old man put a finger to his temple. “Marisa?” He repeated
the name over and over. “What does she look like, lad?”
The question sounded so simple, yet Rope found himself floundering
for a suitable answer. “Well...ah...she's got long blonde hair and
she's just a bit shorter than me.”
Ol'Beasley's laugh became a hacking cough. When he recovered he
said, “You just described half the women in the city, boy!”
“Well..,” Rope felt his cheeks growing hot, “she's pretty,
like Elly, but she doesn't have as much...ah..,” he held his hands
across his chest.
This time the old man nearly toppled over. “Ha! Sounds like you've
been stuck with one of Peddlefeet's arrows, lad!”
Rope didn't have much luck questioning 'Fingers' McCoy either.
“Eyes like the rust on Bartleby's mail rings? Rope, did Miles make
you drink his latest concoction?”
Rope left 'Fingers' without the few coppers he'd hidden in his shoe.
But the encounter wasn't completely in the thief's favor, Rope had
helped himself to the man's knife.
By
the time despair drove him to ask Elly at the
Pig and Whistle,
Rope realized he was well and truly besotted with Marisa.
“Hair like the goldclover growing in Felicia Gump's herb garden?
Rope, dare I ask what you were doing in Felicia's garden? Does that
miser Sidney make you pinch his herbs now?”
At nightfall, Rope left the city with no dinner, no money and no
clue.
***
The city looked different from out here, almost majestic. Up close,
though, all that stone and wood was just a partition separating the
rich from the poor and the guilty from the innocent.
Rope had another reason to hate all that stone, the heat. Summer in
Stormwind was wretched. The tons and tons of masonry– whilst
protecting the people from the dangers without– made living within
the city walls unbearable. Looking back at the city from his current
vantage point, Rope imagined that it were some gargantuan reptile,
arching its stony back to the sky in an effort to catch the last rays
of the setting sun.
The Orchard in comparison was cool and comfortable, and as promised
there was no sign of the hounds. A breeze was gently conducting the
leaves of the trees in a harmonious orchestra of soft whispers and
rustles. Not to be outdone, the crickets and toads were similarly
captivating him with their own nocturnal concerto. With all of the
pleasant distractions, Rope was starting to forget the real reason he
was there. Fate soon reminded him, though.
“Beautiful place, isn't it Padfoot?” Marisa was leaning against
one of the taller trees.
Rope
had thought a lot about what he was going to say to her and he'd had
a whole day to let his frustration and humiliation fester.
“Don't know how you knew, but I do know you brought that guard
down on me. Why? I haven't done nothing to you!”
She gave him her secret smile and said, “Maybe Lyle and I were
just out for a romantic stroll by the canal.”
Rope snorted and rose his voice. “That ugly oaf and you? Yeah and
I'm really King Wyrnn's bastard son.”
“Really? Well, if I'd known I'd be cavorting with royalty, I'd
have worn a nicer dress.”
She'd
done it again.
The inside of his mouth was suddenly so wet that he was forced to
swallow. His mocking retort went down, too. Marisa
walked slowly towards him, hips swinging deliberately. When she was
sufficiently close, she wet her fingers with her tongue and wiped
some of the grime off his burning cheeks.
“Who'd have thought there was such handsomeness underneath all
that.”
He was not at all ready for her sudden flirtation. So, when she went
for the second time to take his disfigured hand, his frustration with
his own nervousness made him slap her hand away.
“Why am I here? What do you want?”
“I'll tell you everything,” Marisa said as she backed slowly
away from him, “but only if you can catch me first.” She then
gave a small giggle and ran.
Rope was surprised by how quickly his legs had started after her,
especially as his mind was still deciding if it was a good idea.
He had to admit it, Marisa was fast. Very fast. At times it was as
though she'd just vanish and reappear ten yards behind or in front of
him. At first he'd laughed in disbelief, but after ten minutes of
running around and around the orchard he was beginning to get
annoyed. He'd convinced himself that if only he could catch her, she
would be his.
The next time she vanished from his sight, instead of running, he
stopped and hid, crouching down in a thick bush. The bush's foliage
was dry and sharp and it was all he could do not to cry out when a
sharp branch dug into his leg. He waited and listened. His heart was
still drumming in his ear, so he had to strain to listen for her bare
feet. The seconds turned into minutes and his legs began to burn from
crouching so long. But just as he thought he could stand it no
longer, Marisa tip-toed passed him. Rope didn't wait and this time he
proved the faster of the two. He leapt from out of the bush and
grabbed hold of her. They both tumbled to the ground. When they
stopped rolling, Rope pinned her to the ground with his good hand.
Marisa didn't resist.
“Now that you've got me, Padfoot, what are you going to do with
me?”
Rope knew exactly what he wanted to do and her lips were so very
close to his. And he almost did, except his poor luck hadn't given up
in its effort to thwart him.
“Is that you Marisa? Looks like ye got a ruddy great rat on top of
ye!”
The voice came from behind them. Rope leapt off of Marisa and spun
to face the speaker. At the same time, he drew the knife he'd taken
from 'Fingers'. The man was not the least bit perturbed. Bending
down, he picked up a fallen apple and began tossing it casually
between his hands.
“Bet ye wish you could do this, eh?”
“Do what?” Rope spoke forcefully, letting the other know he was
serious.
“Well, from the
looks of ye, I'd imagine juggling ain't gonna be your future
calling.”
“And what do
you care about
my future? You might not have one if you
take another step.”
It was Marisa who answered, coming to stand beside him. She looked
down. Rope assumed she was looking at his marred hand.
“Listen to him, Padfoot. And you don't need the knife. He needs
you. I need you.”
He didn't mean to shout
at her, but he was embarrassed by his hand and by his seeming
inferiority in the presence of the other man. “You didn't say you'd
be bringing your friends!”
“I didn't say I
wouldn't either. Just calm down.”
“Ye ought to listen to
'er mate. Jac here reckons that knife of yours ain't big enough.”
“Besides,” a third
voice added, “as Marisa has already told you, there really is no
need to fear. We haven't any cause to do you harm.”
Rope
wasn't foolish enough to take his eyes off of the thug standing in
front of him.
“Hmph! Another one. With all that fancy talk, I reckon this
gorilla must be yours. Tell him to back off or I'll...”
Rope dropped the knife and screamed, a sound that sent night birds
fleeing from the trees. His hands were excruciatingly cold, as though
ice water were running through his veins. Losing one hand had meant
desolation. Losing the other would be his execution– slow and
torturous.
So,
he ran, or at least tried to. Before he'd even finished the thought,
the Orchard was silenced by Marisa's voice. It was her voice, only
amplified a hundred fold, as though she'd been keeping a clap of
thunder in her pouch and released it the moment she opened her mouth.
The instant her strange words rang out, Rope found his feet encased
in great chunks of ice.
He bent over and began
pounding on the ice holding his feet. In his frenzy, he felt no pain
and paid no heed to the horrible lacerations that were tearing and
bloodying his skin.
Faster kills fast. Faster kills fast. Over
and over again Rope repeated the words, striking the ice
faster and faster, harder and harder. The others watched bewildered.
Then, quick as a viper,
Rope stopped, scooped up the knife and put it to Marisa's throat.The
ice around his feet shattered instantly.
The giant exhaled. “He's
fast, ain't he, Marisa. You can pick 'em good.”
The smooth talker was
equally impressed and gave Rope a short applause. “Indeed. A most
convincing performance. You had us all fooled.”
Rope's chest was heaving
and his hand hurt terribly. In defiance of his pain and humiliation,
he closed his fingers tighter around the handle of his knife and
pressed the edge harder against Marisa's throat. The irony of having
been in a similar state of helplessness the previous night did not
escape him. Nor did it escape her.
“Feels good, doesn't
it? Now you see what drives monsters. ”
The other men both
laughed.
“Nice friends you got,
Marisa. They think it's funny that you're gonna die.”
The cultured man laughed
again, and went to sit on a stump that was in Rope’s line of sight.
“I certainly do not
find the prospect of Marisa’s death at all humorous. But then
again, I have no fear whatsoever that you will be the one to bring
about such a tragic event.”
The
man’s elegant speech could not have been more in contrast with his
choice of garb. He wore a peasant's tunic, plain and unassuming. The
only piece in keeping with the grandeur of his voice was a pristine
red bandana tied around his neck.
He sat with one leg
crossed over the other, and looked directly at Rope with eyes
he thought belonged on a snake, not a man, and they held him faster
than the ice had.
“Padfoot,
is it?”
The
man was sizing him up. Rope knew then and there that if the man
didn't like what he saw, he wouldn't be leaving this orchard. He
nodded slowly, expecting the man to uncoil at any moment and skewer
him with the rapier hanging from his belt. Rope felt his arms and
legs go tight in anticipation. Faster kills fast.
“I do believe you have
genuinely impressed our Marisa. No small feat, isn't that right, my
dear?”
Marisa pressed her body
up against Rope's. “No, Edward, not small at all.” Rope shivered.
The
man, Edward, continued, his gaze never leaving Rope.
“These days, Padfoot,
there's much to laugh about, though none of it's at all amusing.”
Edward pointed in the direction of the Stormwind. “You live in the
city of jokes, a veritable sanctuary for fools. It's not your fault,
of course. It is what it is. Allow me to present my case. First, I
find it priceless that the man calling himself
King lays claim
to that title because of the murder of a senile old fool and the
maniacal son who did him in!” The man's tone was rising in
intensity. “Second, groveling and scraping at the pretender King's
feet, are a pack of nobles who are just about as ignoble as
ogres at dinner. And you won't find ogres feasting on each other!”
Edward uncrossed his
legs and leaned forward. Rope flinched but did not stop listening. He
couldn't. So rare was it to hear someone speak the truth.
“Third, the very
people who built that city, toiled for it, died to rebuild it and
turn it into something magnificent and respected, those people, good
people like Marisa's father, were either thrown out, or hanged!”
As Edward spoke the last
word, Marisa put a hand up to Rope's face and caressed it gently. He
almost dropped his eyes to look at her, but Edward was reaching the
zenith of his sermon.
“Well, I fight for
those people. I will see that city become what it was supposed to be,
and I will take back in blood what those leeches owe me!”
His lecture finished,
Edward rose and approached Rope.
The man's tone was even
again, almost fatherly. “I'm offering you an opportunity, Padfoot.
Help me, help us, and help Marisa to right these wrongs and I'll not
only give you back the life those villains stole from you, I'll give
you back your hand, too.” Edward put an upturned palm out towards
Rope. He didn't wait long.
Rope placed the knife in
his master's hand.
“What
do I need to do?”
***
“But
why me?
Can't he just pay some bloody thug-for-hire to do it? That gorilla
back in the orchard would be a good choice!”
Marisa's voice rose to
match his own. “I told you. He's ready for that. It has to be you!
Zardeth
knows you. Besides,” her voice softened, “you've
got an innocent face.” She cupped it with her hands.”
Padfoot tore himself
free and threw his hands in the air. “But I've only made a few
deliveries to Zardeth. Doesn't make us the best of friends, you know.
I doubt he'll ask me in for a glass of Moonberry juice!”
Marisa changed her tact.
“You're smart. You'll think of something. Edward's counting on you.
I'm counting on you.”
Padfoot sighed in
defeat. If he had to ride a bleeding horse through the Gryphon
rookery in Stormwind to get his hand back, he would. Fortunately, he
just had to knock on the door of the only warlock lair in Stormwind,
ask to see the most powerful and vile of the lot, then order him not
to lead some band of would-be-heroes on a mission to kill Edward, and
if he refuses, kill him. Somehow, Padfoot thought the gryphon rookery
might be easier.
“Remember, this will
only work once. There's no second try.”
“You mean there's no
second death.”
She smiled. “Yes. So
don't waste what I give you.”
Marisa approached him
once more and made some strange gestures with her hands. She was also
muttering low incantations under her breath. Rope's street instincts
moved his legs away from her.
“Stay still,” she
hissed, “or they'll be finding bits of you from here to Theramore!”
The threat was enough to
bring his flight response under control. Rope felt the chill come
over him again, not as biting as it had been in the orchard, but
uncomfortable nonetheless. The sensation ended the moment Marisa
ceased her invocations.
She warned him again.
“Don't
forget, this will protect you only once. And I'm not familiar with
fel-based magic, so I can't even guarantee that. Be careful. Try not
to be in the direct line of anything he throws at you.”
Why?
Rope
thought. Because
you care or because you don't want me to fail?
He stared into the amber eyes hoping to find an answer. Does
it matter? I want you either way.
“Can't
you just turn me invisible or something?”
“Oh, no. I want to
see
your handsome face when I'm kissing you.”
Again, he looked into
her eyes and imagined making
her jest a reality.
“Besides, you've got
everything you need.” She pointed at his feet. When he didn't catch
on, she said, “
Padfoot,
be sure to live up to the name.”
Marisa
held out her hand. She was holding something, a dog's paw mounted in
silver and attached to a chain. When Rope didn't take it, she placed
it in his hand. Her fingers lingered on his skin. She smiled. Rope
began to wrap his own fingers around hers but she gently pulled her
hand away.
Disappointed
and embarrassed, he tried to make a joke.
“So, where will I meet
you, assuming I'm not blasted into small bits from here to
Theramore?”
“Eating apples.”
Rope watched her leave,
lingering even once Marisa was well out of sight. Then, after donning
the necklace he lost himself in the shadows and made for the the
Slaughtered Lamb, the location of the warlocks' guild. He could
only hope that the tavern's name wasn't a dire warning of things to
come.
***
It was well after closing time. He
knew he'd have to wait.
Finally, he heard someone approach the
door. A small square portion of the door slid aside and a pair of
bloodshot eyes peered out at him.
“What do you want? We're closed.”
Rope prepared his most credulous face
and said wide-eyed, “Sorry, Miss. But Mr. Sidney sent me. Rope.
I've got somethin' fer Mr. Zardeth.”
“Well, don't just stand there peeing
in your britches. Leave it and I'll take it to him.”
Rope was getting tired of people,
directly or not, mentioning his accident of two nights before. He
almost gave a smart reply, but had the good sense to swallow it down
with his indignation.
“But...ah...well...Mr. Sidney said
that I ought to give it to Zardeth m'self. Somethin' terrible in 'ere
'e said.” Rope thrust the potion bottle into view, causing it to
shake and fizz angrily. “I don't want no trouble with Mr. Sidney or
Mr. Zardeth.”
“For Medivh's sake, boy, be
careful!” The eyes narrowed in anger. “Wait there!” The eyes
were hastily withdrawn and the door-slit slammed shut. A few
tormenting minutes later the eyes returned. “Alright, you can come
in, but keep your eyes down and Gul'dan's Skull, don't touch
anything!”
The tavern itself looked ordinary
enough, just a little dark. But
the air was thick and, even for summer, felt unnaturally hot. There
was a peculiar smell, too. At first, the scent reminded him of
removing rust from the mail at the back of the armorer's shop in Old
Town. Then his eyes widened and he fell out of step. It was the smell
of blood.
“I
told you not to look at anything. Hurry up!”
The woman's scolding was wasted as he
had no intention of dawdling.
They travelled down some dark-stained
stairs into a passageway that eerily evoked the Stockade. There were
no metal bars, no prisoners and no wails of suffering, but he knew
that this was another place where death prospered.
As he passed room after room, Rope
stole glances out the corners of his eyes. There were many hideous
things bottled up in jars and even more horrible things that weren't,
but that he thought ought to be. He even imagined that he'd seen a
few of the vile creatures move. But dead or alive, all had the same
wide-eyed look of terror and all seemed to be looking right at him,
pleading with him to put an end to their torment.
After descending another set of stairs
and negotiating a further series of increasingly danker and darker
corridors, they finally came to a stop. The female warlock whipped
around and turned her blood-shot eyes upon Rope once more.
“I've got better things to do than
chaperone delivery boys. Listen carefully, I won't repeat myself.
Continue down here and take the first left, then a right, a left and
two more rights. Walk down a long passageway and take another two
rights. Zardeth will be in the first room on your right.” The
warlock pointed a cautioning finger at him. “Do not enter until he
bids you. Understand?”
Rope nodded an affirmative. The
warlock stared at him and then at the bottle in his hands. It was
obvious the woman was interested in its contents. After another few
moments of silent deliberation she pushed past him and strode off
into the dark muttering something under her breath. While relieved he
no longer had to share the woman's foul company, being alone at the
bottom of a demonic sanctuary gave Rope chills. He supposed bitterly
that his honest fear would aid him with the treachery he was about to
commit.
When he was sure she'd gone, Rope
walked to the end of the tunnel and turned right. He knocked on the
first door on his left and waited.
She sure doesn't think much of
Zardeth, nor me for that matter.
“Enter.” Zardeth's voice was much
more unnerving than the woman's for it was the exact opposite,
melodious and far too merry for such sinister surroundings. “And
close the door behind you, there's a good lad.”
Rope did as instructed.
The room was illuminated by a single
candle burning on the desk the warlock was busy writing at. There was
no draft but the flame was dancing wildly. Perhaps it too, he
thought, was writhing in the warlock's presence. Rope's musings came
to an abrupt end when something smack his leg.
“Master want Ziggy to blast small
man? Give master peace and quiet?” A sharp-toothed imp was dancing
around Rope's leg in a frenzy.
Rope remembered it. On his previous
delivery to the warlock, Zardeth's nasty little pet had latched
itself to his head and demanded that the '
worthless mortal'
give him his hair. Clearly amused, Zardeth had taken his time
ordering his familiar off of Rope. By that time, the imp had uprooted
a painful quantity of his hair.
The warlock seemed similarly amused
with the imp’s current antics. He turned in his chair but did not
get up.
“Ziggy, if you were to...how did you
put it?..
blast this young man, how would master be able to
retrieve the vial he has so kindly brought me at such a late hour,
hmm..?”
The imp ceased his gyrations and
thought for a moment.
“Master is always so smart. Ziggy
bring master vial first,
then blast worthless boy.”
The imp leapt onto Rope's arm and
began prying the vial out of his hand. The potion bubbled and hiss in
protest. Finally, Zardeth rose from his seat, and face fuming,
stormed toward the imp. At the last second, Ziggy saw its master's
hand swinging towards its face, but it wasn't quick enough. The
little creature flew across the chamber and hit a shelf of jars.
Ziggy, jars and shelf all crashed to the floor.
“Fool! Make yourself useful and
clean that up.” The warlock's civility clearly did not apply to his
servant. But when the man turned his attention back to Rope, he
seemed to have found his manners again. “Now, Rope, would you be so
kind as to put that vial with the others on my desk? Careful, now,
don't trip.”
As he was doing as he was told, the
warlock said, “I am surprised that Miles was able to put this
little brew together so quickly. Pleasantly surprised, of course, but
Miles is not usually so punctual, being ever the perfectionist.
Something to be admired, mind you.”
Rope felt Zardeth's eyes on his back
as he set the vial in a rack on the desk. When he turned around, the
warlock was standing with arms folded. Zardeth was expecting him to
say something.
“Umm...not sure Mr. Zardeth. He just
tells me where to go.”
“Of course,” the warlock conceded,
“better not to know too much, isn't that right?”
Rope nodded his agreement. “Can I
leave now?”
The warlock's smile was nearly as
mischievous as Ziggy's. “Surely you're a curious young man.
Wouldn't you like to stay a little longer and explore such a
mysterious place.”
“Not really.”
“Stop being so short, it's rude.
Now, you see, since our...
unveiling,
our guild,” he swept his hand around the room, “is always the
first dish to be served up at those absurd soirees up there in that
castle! And then they have the audacity to demand that one of us
volunteer themselves for some ridiculous raid on the Deadmines!
Ha! Don't wish to get their hands dirty with affairs outside of their
precious city! Well, young Rope, I plan to get those pompous fools
very dirty.” The warlock smiled again. “And you, my boy, can help
me. You see, I am sure that drunk Wishock wants very much for our
little group of adventurers to fail. Well, Zardeth of the Black Claw
does not plan on dying down in some stank, godforsaken mine. But then
again, my revenge will be all the more sweet if the fool thinks I'm
dead. Which is why, good Rope, I have need of your soul.”
Reaching out to grab him, the
warlock's hands began to glow with a red light. Zardeth was soon
disappointed, however, when he discovered that his victim was not the
simpleton he had thought. Rope easily ducked under the clumsy attack.
In such a dark and cluttered space, he
found it easy to avoid the warlock, running behind shelves and
toppling them. Rope picked up books and jars, launching them like
missiles at the now screaming Zardeth.
The warlock yelled for his familiar to
help him. Unfortunately, Ziggy was enjoying his master's dance too
much, and was rolling on the floor in hysterics.
At last, fuming and breathing hard,
Zardeth stopped. He'd had quite enough of this young delinquent. This
time the warlock's entire body was suffused in red light. He was
preparing to unleash a spell, and from the look Rope saw on the
warlock's face, it would be a lethal one.
Thankfully, Rope's intuition saved
him. He dove behind the warlock's desk the instant a bolt of
purplish-black energy came crackling towards him. Still, he wasn't
fast enough. The bolt struck his leg and he cried out in agony.
Behind the desk, he lay gasping and clutching at the wound. Despite
his smoking skin, Rope was surprised that the pain was fast
subsiding.
Marisa is better than she lets on. For
a moment Rope was surprised by a great sense of pride toward her.
The thought didn't last long, though, for he could hear the warlock's
soft-booted feet approaching. Zardeth coming to claim his prize.
Instead of waiting, Rope leapt up,
vaulted the desk and ran. He collided with the open-mouthed warlock
and both crashed to the floor. Only Rope got up. Zardeth lifted his
head to stare at the hilt of the poisoned dagger jutting out of his
chest.
Rope gave the warlock his last words,
“Faster kills fast.”
Ziggy continued to laugh until his
master's head dropped back to the floor, mouth still frozen open,
then he too faded from existence.
Rope surprised even himself with how
quickly and quietly he could move. He slipped from the guild's lair
before any of the other warlocks knew he was ever there. He was
Padfoot.
***
“I've been waiting all
night.”
“I had something to do
before I left the city.”
“Oh?”
“I needed to pick up
something from the matrons at the orphanage.”
Marisa couldn't take her
eyes off of his bloody hands. “And what did you get?”
“My name.”
“So, Padfoot, what
shall I call you no..?”
He held and kissed her
before she could stop him. When he finished, Marisa said, “You
found more that just your name, Padfoot.”
“Garrick,” he
replied.
“Well,
Garrick
Padfoot,” she entwined her fingers in his. “I want you to
tell me all about it.”