Solver of problems
Part 7
Niffy venues
What could be the longest, and perhaps the sneakiest way was through the edge of the Worker's Quarter.
There were trash-filled wynds, abandoned creepy alleys and blood-soaked streets nigh impossible to traverse... for anyone, but the Hoods. They knew not only every nook and cranny, most of these people grew up there and had knowledge of all dilapidated areas. Dark, smelly places where a pampered, dressed in expensive magical gear assassin would never even dream about setting foot. This route was also an opportune place for the Hoods of another fight broke out.
If push came to shove, they could fire a warning rocket and call for local reinforcements.
His decision made, Rem covered himself with the tarp, but not before saying:
“Bortom, we be goin the niffy way.”
This one didn't reply since all Hoods, be they from outlying villages or Krart herself, knew what that meant. The twelve well-outfitted street fighters split in two sixes, and those with arcane muskets took to the roofs. TriGuns were ideally used in close range, just like the snub automatic crossbows Hoods usually carried on their person. Aware of what magics their assassin opponents were protected with, they'd trigger these with crossbow bolts.
Their marksmen would then unleash hell in the shape of enchanted musket balls... of the exploding variety.
The night's silence was slain and on multiple occasions, either by the incessant weeping of Doomers or the chants of marching Irohans. Lights danced in the sky, such that every child would remember fondly, like fireworks or magical pictures depicting various heroes and villains from Krart's endless history. The giant metropolis was alive with people of all walks of life, some of whom celebrated their last hours of life.
Once Rem's party entered a barely noticeable wynd, his nose was assailed by a whole host of marvelous, and not so much, aromas. To pick up the whiff of rotting food was nigh unheard or unknown of, but the solver of problems could discern all of the usual suspects. The rancid stench of underwear and socks of the “sticking-at-any-surface” variety clashed in a desperate battle for supremacy against the alliance of fresh vomit, piss, and poop.
The Hoods guarding Rem's wagon could be barely heard, let alone seen, and quite impossible to whiff in this environment. Tenaros and Miverna could make themselves scarce if need be, courtesy of Bortom's wife and her supply of scrolls. Lorianne was known to perforate the heads, hearts, other organs and appendages of her enemies with pointy, nail-like throwing daggers. Her stocky husband had his round shield up and hand on a high caliber revolver of unique design.
While Lorianne favored her small shield and a bag overflowing with all kinds of potions and scrolls to help her in a bind, Bortom liked to shoot his enemies dead. His long-barreled eight shooter was probably loaded with special ammunition, best used against fancy assassin folk. Being one of the best brawlers among the Hoods in these parts, the dwarf rarely carried anything bigger than a smallish blade.
Bortom was widely known to be a short sword enjoyer, at least among Rem's solver of problems circles. Proficient and swift on his feet, he could carve up even accomplished, finesse-loving duelists. Oft, many assumed that their longer blades would give them a definite advantage and the brutal dwarf was always there to prove their assumptions dead wrong.
“Are we there... yet?” - The Stitch whispered with her childish voice, and Rem nearly jumped, shaken from his stupor.
“Mmmrnhm... no.” - He mumbled back, fighting days of tire, numerous wounds, and hunger.
The plea of his rumbling belly was so pronounced that it overpowered even the screech of cartwheels and the clink of Tenaros's armor. For a short while, there was silence outside of Rem's protective tarp “bubble.” He heard some snicker and others chuckle, but there was no significant commotion except hands rummaging through packed luggage.
Solvers of problems were not known to reach ripe old age, not all of them that is. Gods were his witness – Rem was no longer a Warmth chicken and he could feel the coming cold in his bones. Suddenly the prospect of a long, restful Frost didn't sound all too bad in his head.
“We are three streets away from the 'Busty Elf'.” - Whispered Miverna, and shoved a well-wrapped sammich under the tarp with her free hand.
“Yeah, hold yer' bellied in there.” - sniggered Tenaros with his powerful baritone.
Rem devoured the sammich in record time, even though eating on these streets was never a good experience. So concentrated was the aroma of baked pork, so juicy the sauce made with stewed veggies, and crisp the long, generously buttered rye bread, that his nose blocked all other smells. Neatly folding the paper wrap, the solver of problems sniffed the air and winced. The Stitch's sweet aroma somehow blended with the malodorous choir performing its suffocating dance out on the wynd.
“Tenarous,” - Rem whispered his orkish knight arcanum closer - “can you sniff out our extra passenger?”
“I do and certainly, those who had something to do with it being here, they might be able to track it.”
With a soft rumble, Felk rolled out of his resting place; a towel laden bucket.
“I have recovered a wee bit of my mana, master Rem. Wish it, and I shall weave my best anti-scrying spell...”
“No such spell exists that can shield you from my arcane sight, lich!”
A man dressed in bright yellow hooded robe stated with contempt, yet his voice emanated such power and confidence, that one might forgive his attitude. Moreover, the fact that someone not of the Hood or for that matter, any of the locals who lived here dared tread these wynds, put even more weight behind this statement.
Immediately, all who escorted the wagon aimed their weapons at him, yet the man's only reaction was to wave his gloved hand as he scoffed at them:
“Please, waste not your ammunition. One, because nothing you carry could harm me and two... Soon you'll need every arrow, bolt, or whatever it is that you have left in your broke-ass inventory.”
Miverna lowered her Clapper and Bortom his revolver, though his Hoods remain vigilant and constantly looked around for hidden assassins.
“You can't possibly think yourself invulnerable, mage.” - Grumbled Felk, as he floated from under the tarp eyes glowing.
“Generally no, not really. I needn't fear neither you, nor the two who cower underneath that tarp.”
The man made another sign with his hand, this time pointing at the wagon.
“Honestly, my employer thought your fist meeting with the Stitch will be your last. The loss of such item, regrettable as it was, will prove only a minor setback. We have more where it came from.”
The Stitch Rem gave a sign to remain motionless and keep quiet, while his mind raced like a mad boar, trying to outtalk his way out of this pickle.
“So... where is your second Stitch, mister magician?”
“Somewhere safe, hidden from prying magics, and definitely not needed to end one broken solver of troubles and his tiny band of street hoodlums.”
“This employer of yours, she is probably right now lamenting this, and her other losses, yes, I am quite sure of it.” - Rem sat in the wagon, flipping part of the tarp away so he could use his dagger “Sparrow.”
“I care only that said employer pays and pays well. After you so efficiently butchered my men in the forest, I really hoped you'd try to blend in the partying crowd. Grabbing a couple of bystanders, we could've taken care of your Hoods easily and then... you.” - The man snickered again, and Rem began to sweat.
“Master Rem, this one is not here!” - Hissed Felk, his eyes glowing stronger if this was even possible in his current state.
“But of course I am not here... However, I can assure you that many of my men are!”
Said men materialized from trash heaps, broken barrels, and holes in the nearby walls. It was clear that they have been concealed with powerful magics and skill, such that even the trained eyes of veteran Hoods could not detect them.
Thirty, heavily armed assassins aimed various types of weapons at Rem's companions, yet they did not immediately pounce at them or shoot. 'Twas as if the highly trained bloodhounds waited for something, or someone. However skilled and well planned their ambush, it wasn't clear that they'd noticed the six Hoods who took to the roofs.
“To ensure the success of this already way too costly for my operation job,” - the mage made a short pause murmuring some chant under his nose - “I will aid them with my magics.”
A greenish aura shrouded the blades and arrowheads of his men while at the same time, their shapes became shifty, as if even a mere shrug or twitch of theirs was made with supreme haste.
“You have a reputation to uphold, I am sure. My allies have theirs, moreover, the local Hoods usually do not take kindly to your... erm... kind. I shudder to think what will happen, inevitably, when they catch wind of your little operation. Wait, did I or did I not introduce you to my dear orkish friends?” - Said Rem and sneakily reached for the signal pistol.
“The dangerous ork duo, yes, I know their oh-so-heroic exploits. However numerous your Hood allies are, there is no way they can get here in time to save you.” - The mage canted his head to the right, and his gloved hand produced a bony hand from some container out of view, and waved with it.
“Y-you fiend, that's MY hand!” - Felk could only groan helplessly, as the man tossed his bones away.
Things definitely did not look good. At least there were no innocent civilians that these ruthless killers could use against them, and that was Bortom's turf. With a pull of a trigger, any and all capable to fight Hoods would immediately converge on this area. Rem just had to use his advantages wiser and find a way to sabotage his enemies.' Time was everything now and those who had it would emerge victorious.
The Hoods were his greatest allies and this labyrinthine place, their most infamous turf. Skilled as they were, these assassins knew not how many armed people could pounce on their backs, and at a moment's notice. Rem was tired, hurt, and done running. He reached for the signal pistol, immediately firing the warning rocket. That battle would be a bloody affair, but then again, he survived many. If this is your choice, vote 1 in the comments below.
Loyal allies were few and far in between and Rem wouldn't be the successful solver of problems that he was today if he threw lives away willy-nilly. Moreover, there was always another way to emerge victorious, he just had to think harder. He looked at all of his people, the dwarves, the humans, the orks, and the Stitch and raised an eyebrow. Throw “Sparrow” at someone and launch a warning rocket were not his only two choices of action. Since the mysterious mage used Felk's hand to divine the lich's position, Rem's librarian could do the same and more! If this is your choice, vote 2 in the comments below.
Rem could count on his people, but even with the aid of local Hoods this could end in tragedy. However fearsome this magician appeared, he did like to talk and had a flair for the dramatic. Rem had to be the most furtive he had ever been in his life! First bullshit the mage, win time, and... THEN call for reinforcements! If this is your choice, vote 3 in the comments below.
Link to Solver of problems, episode 2 part 1.
Link to Solver of problems, episode 2 part 2.
Link to Solver of Problems, episode 2 part 3.
Link to Solver of Problems, episode 2 part 4.