pipe in action, the one she’d been forced to ban from the Flagons , and if anything was going to take the Swords’ minds off things, this was it.
Aldrededor and Dolorosa took their cue, racing through the black hallucinogenic cloud of while the Swords battled to re-open the wagon and extinguish the pipe. They met Morg half way. The mercenary made an immediate angry dash for the two of them and, while Aldrededor steeled himself for a confrontation, Dolorosa shoved him on, rolling up her own sleeves instead.
“I will ’andle thees. You do what you ’ave to do.”
“My wife,” Aldrededor protested, “this is not some errant customer you are dealing with, Morg is a dangerous man.”
“And it is a long time since I have had the pleasure of keeling one. Now, do as I say, ’usband!”
The Sarcrean was about to protest further but it was too late, battle joined.
Before Morg could make a move on him, Dolorosa pivoted on her right leg, skirt flying, and delivered a roundhouse kick that sent the mercenary staggering back, snarling at a bloodied lip. It took Morg only a moment to recover and come at her, but Dolorosa was ready once more, meeting him with a flying kick that again sent the man staggering, this time flat on his back. As his wife roared and raced in with the intention of keeping Morg down, Aldrededor made the sign of the Gods and left her to it, heading for the locked stable door. Where it had proven problematic for Morg and his men, however, it was nothing for the ex-pirate. As the sounds of confrontation continued behind him the lock fell away before a series of rapid and deft gestures. The stable door creaked open and Aldrededor span back to face Dolorosa.
“Hurry, my darling. We have –”
The Sarcrean’s words dwindled into silence as he saw Morg had proven himself the better after all. He held Dolorosa in a neck lock, her back pressed against his front. The love of his life no longer looked furious or determined, only ashamed and defeated – and somehow old. Older than she had ever looked to him before.
Time, he reflected, was indeed catching up with them.
“Dolorosa...” he breathed, and then, to Morg, hoping that his wife had been right. “You will not kill her.”
Morg smiled coldy. “Perhaps not, Sarcrean. But if you do not surrender, I can and I will do almost as much...”
“Aldrededor,” Dolorosa hissed. “You must go.”
“Not without you, my wife.”
“My ’usband,” Dolorosa insisted, eyeing the shadows beyond the stable door. “You know what is at stake – go .”
Morg’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“What exactly is at stake, old man? I warn you, don’t make a move.”
Aldrededor’s eyes flicked from Morg to Dolorosa, lingering long and hard over his wife’s distressed face. But as their eyes met and he held her gaze he knew she was right. What he should have known, after Fester’s death, what that Morg would not hesitate to act.
Morg made good on his threat. Without any further warning, he shoved Dolorosa out in front of him and, as she stood there looking confused, two sharp blades – her own sharp blades – were thrust suddenly through her. Dolorosa stiffened, her eyes widened and, as the projecting lengths of the blades glistened with blood in the light of the sun, she made a sound that was not unfamiliar to Aldrededor but was nevertheless horribly strange.
“ Heeeeeeeeeee ...”
“DOLOROSA!”
“A crone as scrawny as this,” Morg said, “she’s lucky I missed the vital organs. She will, though, bleed to death unless I grant her medical attention. Now, old man, why don’t you show me exactly what’s in that stable?”
Aldrededor was about to do exactly that, caring about nothing other than getting help for his wife, when Dolorosa vigorously shook her head. The act clearly caused her great pain.
“Aldy,” she said, in a guttural voice, “do what I said. ’E will not let me die.”
Aldrededor swallowed rapidly. “ I cannot take that
Aldrededor and Dolorosa took their cue, racing through the black hallucinogenic cloud of while the Swords battled to re-open the wagon and extinguish the pipe. They met Morg half way. The mercenary made an immediate angry dash for the two of them and, while Aldrededor steeled himself for a confrontation, Dolorosa shoved him on, rolling up her own sleeves instead.
“I will ’andle thees. You do what you ’ave to do.”
“My wife,” Aldrededor protested, “this is not some errant customer you are dealing with, Morg is a dangerous man.”
“And it is a long time since I have had the pleasure of keeling one. Now, do as I say, ’usband!”
The Sarcrean was about to protest further but it was too late, battle joined.
Before Morg could make a move on him, Dolorosa pivoted on her right leg, skirt flying, and delivered a roundhouse kick that sent the mercenary staggering back, snarling at a bloodied lip. It took Morg only a moment to recover and come at her, but Dolorosa was ready once more, meeting him with a flying kick that again sent the man staggering, this time flat on his back. As his wife roared and raced in with the intention of keeping Morg down, Aldrededor made the sign of the Gods and left her to it, heading for the locked stable door. Where it had proven problematic for Morg and his men, however, it was nothing for the ex-pirate. As the sounds of confrontation continued behind him the lock fell away before a series of rapid and deft gestures. The stable door creaked open and Aldrededor span back to face Dolorosa.
“Hurry, my darling. We have –”
The Sarcrean’s words dwindled into silence as he saw Morg had proven himself the better after all. He held Dolorosa in a neck lock, her back pressed against his front. The love of his life no longer looked furious or determined, only ashamed and defeated – and somehow old. Older than she had ever looked to him before.
Time, he reflected, was indeed catching up with them.
“Dolorosa...” he breathed, and then, to Morg, hoping that his wife had been right. “You will not kill her.”
Morg smiled coldy. “Perhaps not, Sarcrean. But if you do not surrender, I can and I will do almost as much...”
“Aldrededor,” Dolorosa hissed. “You must go.”
“Not without you, my wife.”
“My ’usband,” Dolorosa insisted, eyeing the shadows beyond the stable door. “You know what is at stake – go .”
Morg’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“What exactly is at stake, old man? I warn you, don’t make a move.”
Aldrededor’s eyes flicked from Morg to Dolorosa, lingering long and hard over his wife’s distressed face. But as their eyes met and he held her gaze he knew she was right. What he should have known, after Fester’s death, what that Morg would not hesitate to act.
Morg made good on his threat. Without any further warning, he shoved Dolorosa out in front of him and, as she stood there looking confused, two sharp blades – her own sharp blades – were thrust suddenly through her. Dolorosa stiffened, her eyes widened and, as the projecting lengths of the blades glistened with blood in the light of the sun, she made a sound that was not unfamiliar to Aldrededor but was nevertheless horribly strange.
“ Heeeeeeeeeee ...”
“DOLOROSA!”
“A crone as scrawny as this,” Morg said, “she’s lucky I missed the vital organs. She will, though, bleed to death unless I grant her medical attention. Now, old man, why don’t you show me exactly what’s in that stable?”
Aldrededor was about to do exactly that, caring about nothing other than getting help for his wife, when Dolorosa vigorously shook her head. The act clearly caused her great pain.
“Aldy,” she said, in a guttural voice, “do what I said. ’E will not let me die.”
Aldrededor swallowed rapidly. “ I cannot take that
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