Ratastrophe Catastrophe by David Lee Stone Read Free Book Online Page A

snakelike.
    The herald reined in his horse and reached out for the reins of Diek’s own beast of burden. “You can get off here ’n’ make your own way to the palace. I’ll need to check the horses back in.”
    Diek found himself practically shoved off his mount; he had to jump two rats and dodge a frying pan aimed at a third before he managed to catch up with the herald. “Aren’t you going to take me to the palace?” he asked the herald. “No,” said the man, suddenly more eager than ever to get away from his companion. “Duke’s granted an audience to all mercenaries at five o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”
    “But I don’t know my way around!” whined Diek.
    “Your way around what?” asked the herald.
    “The city, idiot!”
    The herald boggled at him. “There is no way around the city, lad. Dullitch is an absolute maze. Just find a tavern and wait till five, then head for the palace. It’s the big spiky thing in the distance.”
    Diek watched with bewildered rage as the herald urged the horses down the street, away from him. He gave a silent curse and wasn’t entirely surprised when the man fell off his steed and tumbled into a pile of garbage bins gathered to one side of the street.
    Hmm…amusing. Very amusing.
    Diek looked around for a tavern. There didn’t seem to be a great shortage of those. In fact, he could see only one building on the street that didn’t look like a tavern, and that turned out to be a brothel. He wandered up and down the street outside the less rowdy bars (the ones that didn’t keep ejecting drunks onto the cobbles) and eventually headed for a single, solitary door that sported a small wooden board proclaiming:
THE ROTTING FERRET
    est. 824 / prop: Mr. C. Firebrand
    Bring your own stool.
    Please make every effort to mop up any
    of your own blood.
    Be careful as you go down; steps are very steep
    (giants are advised to watch their heads, dwarfs their arses).
    This bar does not encourage fighting,
    but actively supports it.
    NOTHING TO SEE HERE.
    Diek sighed; unfortunately, the Ferret was clearly the best of a bad bunch. He turned the handle and made to go in. As he did so, he felt a surge of sudden confidence. The voice was ringing in his ears.
    Onward, it urged. Down into the bar. They will cower before us.
    Groan Teethgrit and Gordo Goldaxe both had a lifetime’s experience with violent taverns. If asked to pick the most acutely evil drinking pit in the entire expanse of Illmoor, they would undoubtedly have settled on the Rotting Ferret. Death wasn’t just a regular occurrence there; the business enjoyed a twenty percent discount at Domino’s Funeral Parlor (located, rather conveniently, in an alley that paralleled the street on which Ferret customers tended to land face-first).
    The place was a dive, an underground drinking pit that gave shelter to thieves, assassins, and a variety of other miscreants. It also boasted the largest mixed species clientele in Dullitch; there were elves, ogres, trolls, orcs, goblins, sprites, pixies, and woodlings. Occasionally, you even got the odd tooth fairy (though they seldom stayed until closing time).
    Groan was having a very good day; first he’d seen an attractive barmaid, and then he’d been delighted to see Grid Thungus, a rangy barbarian who’d worked for the same warlord over in Legrash. Neither of them had been paid; so, in barbarian terms, they had a great deal to talk about. The conversation went something like this:
    “Groan, wass happenin’?”
    “Nuffin’. You get paid fer that Legrash job?”
    “Nah.”
    “Me neither.”
    “See you round.
    “P’r raps.”
    Gordo was annoyed; he couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Instead, he decided to forge a path to the bar. He was halfway through the crowd when a voice rang out over the fray and the entire room fell silent.

EIGHT
    Y OU COULD HAVE HEARD a pin drop. Every eye in the house was fixed on the young stranger who had just strode into the center of the room. He