Run Like Hell Read online

  WANDERING MONSTERS

  BOOK ONE:

  RUN LIKE HELL

  BY

  ELLIOTT KAY

  © Copyright 2018 Elliott Kay

  Cover Illustration Copyright 2018 Lee Moyer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination and are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Also by Elliott Kay:

  Poor Man’s Fight

  Rich Man’s War

  Dead Man’s Debt

  No Medals for Secrets

  Last Man Out

  Good Intentions

  Natural Consequences

  Life In Shadows

  Personal Demons

  Days of High Adventure

  To the kid in the hobby store who told my mom the game in the red box with the dragon on it would be a great gift for her son.

  Thank you, whoever you are.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  He awoke face-down on the floor. The stench of burnt flesh filled his nose. Nothing made a sound other than the sharp rush of his own breath. His body ached from head to toe.

  Getting paid today seemed unlikely.

  Scars of No-Clan stayed on the floor as his wits returned, wary of anything that might jump out and stab him before he rose. He no longer held a weapon, which seemed like the worst news of all so far.

  Hearing nothing to signal danger, Scars pushed himself up and opened his eyes to a room much dimmer now than before he’d blacked out. He filled his hands with the nearest broken chair leg. Vertigo from the blow that had put him on his face caught up with him before he made it halfway upright. Sinking back down to one hip, he fought to take in his surroundings despite the way they spun in his vision.

  Orcs and goblins practically carpeted the floor. The hall stood intact, as he expected. Ancient dwarven construction held up to just about anything, even under hostile ownership. Not all of the furnishings fared as well. One table lay caved in on itself under the weight of a dead ogre and the chandelier that had fallen on his head. Even a brute like Gorefang couldn’t survive a hit like that. The other chandelier sat in a pile of broken crystal on the other end of the room, too, because of course it did. Why cut down only one?

  The shelves stood bare. Not a book remained along the walls, or the freestanding shelves, or on top of the remaining tables.

  He realized then his feet were cold. He felt the stone under his heels. His boots were gone.

  “Damn. Not again,” grunted Scars. “Fucking adventurers.”

  He closed his eyes to chase off the vertigo. One hand covered his face, resting against a thick brow over a broad nose. Small tusks jutted from his lips. None of the hits in the fight had marred his face. It remained too smooth to be a good orc and too rough to be human. Too rough and too proud, even if he didn’t feel that pride just now.

  “Scars?” hissed a voice.

  “Huh?” answered another in a low groan.

  Beside him, amid a clutch of bodies covered in soot, another figure stirred. Muscular shoulders under leather pads and chain mail turned on the floor. His thin coat of brown fur had been blackened by the fire, but he still lived. Red eyes opened over a sturdy hyena-like snout. “We’re alive?” asked the gnoll. “How long have I been out?”

  “Minutes,” answered the other voice. It came from under a table, shrouded in shadow pierced only by the faint glow of mismatched eyes, one yellow and the other red. “No more than a few minutes. The enemy moved fast. They thought you all dead.”

  “War Cloud.” Scars steadied the gnoll with a hand on his shoulder. “You aren’t burned like the rest.”

  “I protected you both with my magic,” came the voice from under the table.

  “Us?” asked Scars.

  “I could only protect two. You are the least stupid.”

  “Least…?” His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t protect yourself?”

  “I was smart enough to hide.”

  Scars couldn’t argue with that. He looked to War Cloud. “You’re alright?”

  “Yes.” The gnoll put one arm around his gut. “No.”

  “You’re not bleeding. Not burned.”

  “The fucking dwarf had a hammer,” said War Cloud. “I feel smashed up inside.”

  “You probably are. What of your magic?” Scars asked.

  War Cloud shook his head. “I used up all my power keeping us both alive.”

  “At least it worked.” Scars looked to the eyes under the table. “Yargol? What of you?”

  “I might manage the weakest of spells. Most of my strength is spent, like his.”

  “Spent on what?” asked War Cloud.

  “Magic.”

  “Yeah, what magic?”

  “…Icefire Daggers,” came the reluctant response. “Phantom Lightning Bats. Exploding Doom Balls. Spectral Acid Fang Hounds.”

  “I didn’t see any of that stuff,” said Scars.

  “No, because it was all stealthed. It’s how I learned it. Gods, what I wouldn’t give to learn to cast a normal fucking spell,” Yargol muttered. “Anyway, I stuck with what I knew. Their wizard countered most of my magic with her own until I wore myself down to exhaustion.”

  “Did that happen before or after you hid under the table?” asked War Cloud.

  “You saw what happened. What more good might I have done?” Yargol asked.

  “It’s not a complaint.” The gnoll winced with pain. “I only wonder how much smarter you are than everyone else.”

  The eyes flicked from War Cloud to Scars before disappearing with a shuffle. A hooded form crawled out from under the table, no larger than a goblin. The hands emerging from the sleeves of Yargol’s black robe didn’t match. The right bore the strong, leathery texture of a hobgoblin’s skin; the left was under short, dark brown fur with the nails of a bugbear. Yargol’s hood hung low, with enough shadow to hide his face, but Scars had seen enough in the past to know it was much the same: a patchwork of features from every different breed of goblin kind, all fitted together with stitches and magic. No one rightly knew what the hell Yargol was.

  “Your war god wouldn’t expect me to die fighting?” Yargol asked.

  War Cloud shook his head. “Not mine, no. My god wants us to win. That means surviving.”

  “We can either be ashamed of losing or proud of surviving,” grumbled Scars. “One choice is useful. The other isn’t. I’ll go with pride.”

  Yargol looked to War Cloud again. “I can help if you’ll let me.”

  “Will it cost?”

  “No. You have no coin, anyway. The adventurers rolled everyone before they left.” Yargol crept forward, reaching for War Cloud’s gut with his craggy right hand. He murmured something in a language Scars could not understand. The hand glowed with a soft white light before he touched War Cloud’s wounds. The gnoll straightened and relaxed. “I’m not as good at this as you are, but it’s better than nothing,” said Yargol.

  “Not many can do it at all. Thank you,” said War Cloud.

  Scars patted his tunic at his gut to verify Yargol’s news. Sure enough, the little pouch of coin tucked into an inner pocket was gone. He’d hung onto his last few coins all the way to payday for this. “Fucking maggot shits,” he grunted.

  Looking over the room again, he r
eminded himself he shouldn’t be surprised. Not with the bookshelves empty. Now that he thought about it, the cabinet against the far wall no longer held any wine goblets, either. The wall sconces were emptied of those perpetually glowing rocks that lit up the room. If it wasn’t for the fire in the hearth and the reflections from the broken mirrors along the walls, they’d be in complete darkness. Even that stupid marble bust of Olen Zuck was gone, leaving behind only the bare pillar on which it had sat.

  Not a weapon lay in sight, either. Arrows stuck out from more than a few corpses, but not one of the bodies held a sword or an axe.

  “Scars. Hold still.” Yargol touched the back of his head, reciting much the same words as before. Scars felt his pain diminish, both in his skull and his back. He needed a good night’s sleep—or maybe a week—but he could move and think better already.

  “Thought you were the wizard’s apprentice, Yargol,” said War Cloud. “I didn’t think he could heal with magic.”

  “Olen Zuck did not teach me everything I know,” Yargol replied. “Much, but not all. Let’s just say I’m uniquely talented.”

  “So it’s the three of us?” asked Scars.

  “I’ve been under the table since the fight ended,” said Yargol. He turned his head down and hid his hands in his robe again. “I assume the burnt and the dismembered are dead. Black Blood only took an arrow…” Yargol knelt by an orc lying on his side to tug him over onto his back, revealing the true extent of his injuries. “…or five. Never mind. It appears his blood isn’t black after all.”

  “You never punched him to find out?” asked War Cloud.

  “Do I look like the punching type?” replied Yargol.

  The gnoll shrugged. “Everybody has to sleep sometime.”

  “Focus,” said Scars. “They tore through us. They looted. Now they’re gone. What else? Yargol, what else happened?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” said Yargol. “My eyes were still spotty from the fight. I thought the one in plate armor had brought the sun down to crack through the ceiling at the end of it.”

  “Fucking paladins,” grumbled War Cloud.

  “You see how much they took,” Yargol continued. “Books, coin, weapons from the fallen. They took the underchief’s enchanted sword and his earring. They looted even faster than they fought. Magic bags. Every one of them had magic bags.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Scars. “What else? What did they say?”

  “Not much. They made jokes about the fight. The elf and dwarf bickered a little. One of them said something about making a ‘clean sweep’ and moving on before their ‘buffs’ wore off. I don’t know what a buff is.”

  “It doesn’t sound good,” said War Cloud.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Scars agreed. He looked around one last time. Nothing in here seemed of use. “We need to go. Yargol, your magic—you say you’re drained?”

  “I can manage a few spells without effort, but little of it is battle magic. Illumination, a little sensory aid…. Icefire Daggers,” he added, grumbling. “Not much.”

  “You’re better armed than we are. War Cloud?”

  The gnoll already matched Scars for armament, having taken up a chair leg of his own. He stripped one corpse of its belt and wrapped the leather around his knuckles. “We will have the blessing of Dastia.”

  “You still cling to your heretical goddess after a defeat like this?” asked Yargol.

  “We’re alive, aren’t we?” War Cloud pointed out. “The heretic and the two outcasts. What does that tell you?”

  “It tells me of a thing called survivor’s bias.”

  War Cloud’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

  “It’s from books. Never mind.”

  “I’ll take whatever help I can get, heretical or not,” said Scars. “Let’s go.”

  They didn’t worry about an ambush at the exit. The doorway stood open to a hall running left and right. The former ended in a spiral stairway going upward—and the pile of rubble that remained of the formerly living statue that guarded the way. In the other direction, the hallway ended in a straighter staircase leading downward, with every doorway in between sitting wide open.

  The hallway was even darker than the library. If not for their natural lowlight vision, the three would see nothing at all. “Did they take every single glowstone from the wall sconces?” asked War Cloud.

  “This is bad,” said Scars.

  They turned left. A loud boom from the stairwell halted them at their third step.

  “COME AT ME, OGRE!” echoed a voice.

  “Sneak attack!” shouted another amid a crash.

  “Justice!” came a third call. “More justice!”

  Along with the shouts, they heard screams and crashes, the crackle of lightning, and the roar of beasts.

  “They found Zuck,” said Yargol.

  “Yep,” said War Cloud.

  Scars looked to the gnoll, then to the magician. Not one of them said a word. They turned around and headed the other way.

  “It was a steady job while it lasted,” grumbled Scars.

  “Not that we had pleasant company,” said War Cloud. “If I’d known this was our last day, I’d have settled a score or two this morning.”

  “What difference would it make now?” asked Yargol.

  “Satisfaction.”

  “Yargol, you have no family here, right?” asked Scars.

  “None. War Cloud?” asked the hooded figure.

  “Been on my own since long before I came here,” said War Cloud.

  “Then we lose only the job and some gear,” said Scars. “And today’s payroll.”

  Yargol shook his hooded head. “My staff is gone. My journal contains some spells, but all of my other books and scrolls are all upstairs. I even had a cot and a couple other robes. This is a disaster.”

  “At least the winter is behind us,” said War Cloud.

  “Hope that’s enough,” grumbled Scars.

  War Cloud looked down. “They took your boots? Were they enchanted?”

  “No. Just new. They even fit right.”

  “Adventurer scum,” Yargol spat in sympathy.

  The cacophony of battle from the spiral stairs diminished. A rapid patter of feet echoed from the opposite stairway as they neared, along with short, shallow, rasping breath. A little metal skullcap with tiny horns emerged, sitting atop a dark green face, gaunt despite being so round, with big yellow eyes and tiny tusks. The goblin wore a mismatch of scavenged bits of armor, most of it hardened leather. He wielded neither a sword nor a spear, but instead a simple shovel.

  “Intruders,” he hissed with urgency. He didn’t slow as he saw the others. “Intruders in the stronghold! Adventurers!”

  Scars hooked one arm under the goblin’s shoulder before he passed. War Cloud did the same at his other side. The pair lifted the goblin up off his feet, leaving him kicking wildly in the air. “We know,” said Scars.

  “But the boss! Gotta warn the boss!”

  “He knows, DigDig,” said Scars. “Listen.”

  The goblin looked down the dark hallway toward the spiral stairs. Bright orange light flashed in tandem with another boom.

  “Sneak attack!” a voice shouted from the stairs. “Sneak attaaaack!”

  DigDig hung from their strong arms. “Uh-oh,” he croaked.

  “Yeah,” said Scars, letting him down with a nod to War Cloud. “Nothing to be done about it now. How did they get in?”

  “Drainpipe going to the south waterfall. Two levels down. Empties out thirty feet up from the river,” explained DigDig. His head barely came up over the elbows of the two taller warriors. “Either climbed up to it from the river or down from the cliff.”

  “Too clever by half one way or the other,” said Yargol.

  “How long ago?” asked Scars. His urgency rose. “Did they come straight up from the pipe, or did they go downward first?”

  DigDig shook his head. “Straight up this way.”

  Anoth
er boom echoed down the passage, followed by a triumphant shout: “Suck it, wizard!”

  “So everything in the lower levels might still be intact?” Scars pressed.

  “Think so,” said DigDig. “Oooh, could get help from there! Maybe if we hurry?”

  “That fight will be over in seconds,” said War Cloud. “I’m surprised it’s not finished already. They must be showing off.”

  “But the wizard—”

  “Isn’t powerful enough for this,” Yargol interrupted the goblin. “It’s over, DigDig.”

  “And they’re on a clean sweep,” Scars thought out loud. “They’ll come back down through here when they’re done upstairs.” He looked to the others. “The pipe might leave us cornered. If we make it to the main gate, we can get out that way. If not, we go out through the bottom.”

  “Dangerous,” said Yargol.

  “Very dangerous!” DigDig objected, his eyes wide again. “Lower levels bad! Real bad! You three are too noisy, too clumsy!”

  “It’s a last resort,” said Scars. “Do you have family here? Friends?”

  DigDig spat on the floor. Scars expected as much.

  “You have weapons,” said War Cloud. He looked the goblin over. “Can I use your dagger?”

  “Borrow or keep?” DigDig replied suspiciously.

  “I’ll give it back if we both live through this.”

  Though he hardly looked assured, DigDig handed it over.

  “Boom! Killshot!” echoed another voice.

  “Down the stairs. We try for the main gate first. Move,” said Scars.

  The steps spanned the full width of the tunnel, running a good forty feet and more below the library level. At the bottom, Scars found exactly what he expected: two orc sentries lying at either side of the stairwell in a bloody mess—and no weapons or shields to be claimed.

  The passage opened up to a four-way intersection near the bottom. The tunnel to the right sat in darkness, testifying to the path taken by the adventurers. Glowstones remained in their sconces at the passage ahead and to the left. No one needed to discuss which way to go from here as the entire group turned left and hustled. No one tried any of the doors they passed along the way, either, knowing full well the mess of locks and traps to be found on this level.