Letter Twelve

Dear Sneffles,
I died today, twice, or so Finarfin says. I don’t know. I don’t remember that much. All I know is that I’m sick to my stomach and I’ve got a headache. Things had been going so well …

I knew that we were shit without a ladder when Glorio decided to kick our collective ass. He didn’t like us allying with his wife/sister and he especially didn’t like that she had told us the terrible secret about the two of them being rakshasa. Can’t blame him for that, I guess. We certainly came to regret knowing it as well.

So he brought down his heavy hitters to kill us—they made no bones about that. PJ tried to sea-lawyer them but they were having none of it being a law unto themselves, don’t you know?

The battle was hard-fought and Vimana wasn’t much help, nor was poor Master Orisini. I was beaten senseless despite everything PJ and Driar could do to keep me alive. I used my bag of tricks and then Glorio basically squeezed the life from me. It was my own fault. Driar tried to warn me. When Finarfin reached the end of his rope he had the good sense to disappear, but good old Cordobles had to fight the good fight and get himself killed. I don’t know what got into me, Mama always taught me, “When in doubt, run.” It was good advice but like most things she said, I didn’t listen.

I woke in a village outside Korvosa. There were children playing a game of hoops. Several Barbarians lounged in front of a beer hall. I recognized them as some of Redcullin’s ghost-pals. “Hey, Big Arckle!” I called but he only looked at me silently. A younger one, called Yakko, asked my why I was there. I wasn’t wanted. This kind of made me mad because they’d spent weeks haunting my apartment after Redcullin left without complaint one from me.

I decided to ask them about that. “Hey, have any of you seen Redcullin around?”

“Nay, wee laddie,” one of them, called Snarglepuss, answered. “He would have to be dead to be amongst us and he naught am that I swear by all the gods of violence and thunder.”

“Well, there’s good news at least. I may collect that debt he owes me after all. How about Szechuan?”

“We’ll have to ask the scrying ball,” a one-eyed fellow called Gabloon said, leading me to a cave where our old friend Zollara sat obviously expecting me.

“Ah, young Cordobles,” she purred. "How is your quest working out?”

“You tell me.”

She chuckled like a low-rent freebooter spending his last copper betting on a rigged game of quoits. “You wouldn’t be here if it was going at all well.”

“You’ve been reading my mail.”

“He wants to find a hero called Szechuan,” Gabloon interceded.

She sniffed, then mumbled a few words to her crystal ball. Suddenly she exhaled sharply, uttering an obscene oath while motioning me over.

In the ball a miniature Szechuen was copulating fiercely with six or seven wenches (one was the crone who cooks for the Keep and never washes her hands) and at least three yeomen. “Ah, I see he’s recovered from his hangover,” I said thanking her.

I found myself in a comfortable lounge. I seemed to recognize the furnishings—plush carpets of intricate design, overstuffed velvet sofas and chairs, silk curtains covering huge expanses of glass, exquisite paintings, some by … Salvatore Scream. That’s when I noticed the occupants: greenish skin, vacant eyes, rigid movements—it was the walking dead from the upper-class party we’d investigated looking for young Ruan.

The smell was disgusting but worse was seeing those moldering corpses engaged in the most depraved activities. Their flesh had the consistency of warm cheese, rending due to their lustful exertions. It was worse than your senior class prom. I had to turn away and when I did I beheld a man on a tall pillar of fire—it was King Eodred sitting upon his throne, his thrall surrounded him, men and women who had disappeared after the Queen took power. He looked very sad.

I approached him, the ghosts tried to intercede but I walked right through them. He was inert, as if … well, he was dead, I guess. I bowed respectfully (I hear you giggling as you lie on your bed while reading this). Silently he gazed at me, his rheumy eyes seeking mine, surveying the harried lad there. “She didn’t surprise me, you know.”

“What a guy won’t do for pussy, eh, sir?” I don’t know why I decided to pimp the old goat. He reminded me of those sailors who wake up stripped of everything they own down by the waterfront. They have no complaint because it's their own fault. “I hope it was worth it.”

He smiled his sad smile. “I suppose it’ll have to do, at least until she joins me here.”

I lost track of him after that, ending up on a side street behind a steaming manure pile. There, sitting on a stool, I found a sinister old man who was all too familiar—my daddy Gaedrun Lamm!

“Pa!” I cried, but he stared at me coldly.

“Don’t you know me? My mother was Wild Cilly McGill.”

That reached him. “Dobles? Why are you here, lad?”

“Glorio Arkona kinda … killed me.”

“Ah. Well I suppose he does that.” After a pause he leaned forward, eyes glittering like a piece of him wasn’t yet dead. “How goes it with that Sneffles girl?”

An icicle stabbed me along the spine. “What do you mean?”

“I was the first to recognize that she was special. I had her trained. I sold her to only the best. Then they took her away. Why would she go? I gave her everything, even the big-dicked sailor boy.”

“They paid you plenty for her.”

“Never enough,” he looked down upon me bitterly. “She is worth so much more.”

I found myself walking along a street leaving town. Sunken-eyed women stood in doorways suckling mummies with their withered paps. The village was merely a waystation for those waiting to move on to the hallowed land. 

I kept on walking when I reached the last house, far out into the countryside. It was peaceful in a way I’ve never found anywhere in Korvosa. Quiet, except for the distant sound of falling water.

The waterfall dropped splashing into a crystal pool of water. I removed my bloodied leather armor and bathed in the pure, refreshing liquid. Suddenly I realized I was not alone. Turning I beheld a lithe young woman, an elf, Laori Vauss, naked and alone, hair long and dark, body studded grotesquely with sharp metal studs embedded in her flesh.

“Desna’s teeth!” I cried. “Are you dead, too?”

Shaking her head she replied, “No one is dead. When you arrived here they asked me to come get you. You don’t belong here, Cordobles. She took my hand, leading me to a quiet bower where we lay down together. Her kisses were warm and intemperate, dangerous, yet needful. Her studs pierced me all along my body, blood coursing down my belly and thighs. I entered her gratefully, as you taught me, and she whinnied like a mare in heat, but before I could find my release I felt a strong force lifting me away, separating us. She smiled evilly up at me as I soared away, eyes never leaving mine. “I’m saving your death for myself,” she promised.

“Sweet,” I thought as I woke in PJ’s arms while he poured life into me. Driar stood concerned nearby, Finarfin grinning at his side. “I’d heard that some men orgasm when they die but I never expected to actually see one do it,” he chortled.

“Welcome back, squirt,” Driar grinned. Marvel of marvels his face didn’t crack from the exertion. If that was the afterlife I think I’ll remain here.

The rest of the adventure passed in a fog for me. I think we got Neolandus back and Vimana gave us a good breakfast in the morning before sending us on our way. I'm not sure where we're going but apparently it's out of town.

Missing your safe and cordial embrace,
Cordobles

Followed by Finarfin's Fourteenth Report

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Letter Eleven

Dear Sneffles,
I was preparing to hit the sack when Szechuan raided the Keep’s spirits room and proceeded to tie one on. Preferring to stay alert I took some ale and climbed back up the top of the tower, watching the evening dusk accumulate. Outside the wall life went on as normal, albeit carefully. I watched the children playing hide and seek in the street, and fight mock-battles using the helmets and regalia of the men we’d slaughtered. I suppose they’d had dreams of glory, too, when they were children. Now they were fit only to feed the hogs.

Down below Szechuan was singing lustily and grabbing at the wenches who slipped away with practiced ease. One or two offered to pleasure him but he was too drunk to comply, so he roared instead, like a toothless old bear in a circus.

I woke at dawn, my Cloak of Resistance protecting me from the morning’s damp chill, and watched the sun rising, wondering as always if I would see the end of the day or glimpse your shining face.

When I finally climbed down I found that Szechuan could not be budged. Quite honestly, I was glad because nothing is worse than entering battle with a hung-over barbarian (even though they usually are). Finarfin was staring into space, eating a radish. After wishing me good morrow, he asked if I was ready to leave for House Arkona. “Why not,” I shrugged, watching PJ going through his bag of tricks in preparation and Driar nearby practicing prayerful breathing while stretching his hamstrings.

Collecting King Piltsy (who didn’t seem to recognize me, BTW) we put a sack over his head and walked him through the untypical quiet streets of Bridgefront. Aye, the times we had there! I was eleven and it was the happiest bit of my life for maybe three months. Then Lamm took my mother away and I learned the opposite lesson.

Castle Arkona, of course, sat brooding on the hill atop Old Korvosa, as a fat man sits on the chest of his withered old Pap—not wanting to smother him completely, of course, just to make him more tractable.

The Arkonans there were definitely interested in what we were trading. One-eyed Carnochan greeted us at the door, showing us to the public room where we sat on plush red couches among the giant ferns waiting for an audience with one of the family. Driar sat whispering prayers by the fireplace while PJ stared with mouth agape at the luminescent paintings on the walls. Nothing by Salvatore Scream here, I noticed. Finarfin, nervous as a cat, rudely cast a spell of invisibility on himself. The halfling must think the perfect way to begin negotiations is to insult your host.

That’s when Glorio Arkona swept into the room, wearing silk robes and smoking a stogie. You may remember him as one of those dangerous characters you never wanted to work for because so many of his mistresses end up in the canal. He noticed immediately that Finarfin was gone, of course, and waited until his spell wore off and he reappeared with a “pop.” If Halflings could blush, he would have, especially as his fly was unbuttoned.

Arkona smiled unctuously, thanking us for our little gift of King Piltsy and offering in return the “opportunity to find your friend” by searching for him in the labyrinth beneath the Castle. Yeah, it’s never easy. Glorio Arkona, as you remember, was always a twist, who loved to pull the wings off flies and teach cats to swim. He’s a big boy now and big boys have bigger concerns. Oh, he was going to enjoy toying with us and there was nothing we could do if we hoped to see Master Orisini alive.

In the garden was a jade oliphant. Underneath, a small switch allowed entrance to the cellars as one chanted the incantation “shamadu is blind,” which seems unnecessary, but you know how rich men love their toys.

I took my sweet time searching for traps as the statue's base slid shut above us. For once even Finarfin was subdued. At the bottom was an outlet to the river where, I suppose, the Arkonans could smuggle anything in or out. It was dark but I was beginning to get a sense of the place when three trolls shambled out of a nearby tunnel below the mansion. Their smell was sharper than their weaponry. I performed a trifecta by landing the killing blow on all three of them.

I wondered what Burns would have said of my performance that morning as we painstakingly inched through the corridors and rooms of that elaborate puzzle. He wasn’t the kind of guy to hand out compliments cheaply but I think even he would have appreciated the methodical way I dealt with traps and kept my more volatile compatriots from ripping down doors and farting acid spray at every wavering shadow. But I really owe it all to Driar’s sage counsel and PJ’s steadying presence.

It was weird but somehow we made all the right choices. We ran a gauntlet of tigers, restrained only by a magical trap that I left unsprung! We found Orisini, who had the "good" news for us that Arkona was not a man, but a rakshasa called Bahor. (The statue of Arkona wearing a cat’s head that we’d found suddenly made sense.) As goes the song:

“Rakshasa are tough mother …”
“Hush your mouth!”
“Just talkin’ ’bout Bahor!”

The more the Master talked the less sense he made. He argued with PJ for awhile as I watched him closely. His face seemed liquid somehow, and his movements where not that of a fighter, even one as injured as himself. Finally, with a snort of frustration, the shapeshifter emerged from what had seemed the Master, unfolding as a beautiful origami reveals its hidden shape. You guessed it, it was sister Vimana Arkona, the woman with a thousand faces. She carried even better news, that to find Squarehead and the Master we’d have to go through a Dark Sphinx, which was lurking nearby. Attacking with a guttural roar the creature charged towards us, brutally slavering over Finarfin's new shoes. Surprised, Finarfin sort of annihilated it. I felt for both of them but it turns out these sphinxes are overrated.

I freed the Master, who was chained behind the monster with a leather plug stuck up his ass and down his throat. They’d worked him over pretty well. I found him changed by his abasement, and not for the better. For the first time he was merely human to me, old—a great man still, don’t get me wrong—but a man nonetheless. Of course, you took his measure when you were just thirteen, but it was a revelation to me.

He looked sad when Finarfin pulled the “Black Jack” outfit from his bag of holding, fingering the scuffed leather tiredly. “I guess now you know the truth.”

I laughed, “Yes, Master, you fight for what you believe despite the consequences. I knew you were a good man before; I think you’re a great man now. I wish you were my real father.”

“I might be,” he winked, a sad tear rolling down his cheek.

“Oh, please,” snorted Finarfin as the clerics tried not to laugh. “This crap is more lethal than the sphinx!”

Much love,
Your ’Dobles

Finarfin's Thirteenth Report be next.

Letter Ten

Dear Sneffles,
I think I’m finally getting the hang of adventuring, although stabbing guys to death is still kinda gross. It’s even worse when they’re fungus creatures like we recently encountered. They smelled like the ripe, dead wino you and I found that time behind the arcade, the one whose eye you popped out with your stick.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Amin was the name of Master Orisini’s student who led us to his nearby hovel. It reminded me of the squats where we used to hide out with our little-kid gang—the Band of Gypsies. He told us that the same Red Mantis assassins who had been laying for us had also attacked the Master. The most amazing thing he said was that this part of town was being run by old limp-dick himself, Pilts Swastel! Piltsy styles himself the “King of Old Korvosa.” What a laugh. He’s more weasel than man, at least by habit.

Amin’s place was clean enough and as poorly furnished as you would expect of a student. He had only one moldering old couch that looked like it had been stuffed with rat fur, and a rickety stool made of bamboo that Szechuan immediately sat on and crushed. For his sin we let him sleep on the couch.

In the morning Amin served us groats on which he placed a spell to make them taste like the sweetest ambrosia—three-day-old ambrosia, but ambrosia nonetheless. Finarfin spiked his with zong oil. Anything to keep the little twerp happy, I say. I left munching an apple.

Scream was living in a dump in Laird’s Divide, below the swine pens. The boys decided to bust in the front while I watched the back door. It opened freely on its own, inviting me inside. Expecting to find punk kids or a tramp passed out, I stepped into the dark, musty room, which smelled papery, like a vampire’s armpit after a decade’s sleep. Paintings and drawings were crammed everywhere. I looked a few over trying to appraise their value. He’s a skilled artist for sure with subject so vile that’s it’s bound to be worth a fortune in the decadent circles you favor. I took a few small ones as keepsakes.

In the next room I found that I was not alone. An elf-wench lounged insouciantly against the table, a self-assured smirk on her pretty face. She held a very graceful, very sharp weapon in her hand. Lethal devices hung from her outfit like overripe fruit. Her henna-dyed hair was cut short as a boy’s, hard to get a hand on in a fight. Her tattoos shouted allegiance to Zon-Kuthon, god of pain, torture, and murder. God’s balls she was hot! I paused as she languidly regarded me from my toe to my temple, taking in my snakeskin Boots of Striding, the Starknife at my side, the Keen and Human-bane rapiers framing my package. Her eyes caressed me, gauging my size, my strength, my quickness; seeing past my foppish ways, lingering at my eyes, her knife ramrod straight, pointed towards my liver. All the while she was smiling an invitation and a warning. I dipped like a dowser’s wand, cautiously approaching her.

A loud noise from the front room interrupted our affair. Her smirk widened as the door broke open to reveal a sweating, swearing barbarian, meekly followed by two clerics and a halfling cynic.

Finarfin, of course, immediately started drooling on her ass. For her part she considered him frankly, her tongue flickering meditatively against the blade of her knife, as a butcher contemplates the boar she’s about to slaughter. Finarfin got the message clear enough, scuttling back to his side of the room with a “hidey-ho.” She winked at me as if to say, “I’ll let the minnow go.” Oh, Sneffles, let’s adopt her!

Her name is Laori Vaus. She has also been looking for Scream but has some deeper reasons (although I don’t buy her as an art lover). Finarfin quietly drew my attention to the torn rag of cloth bearing the seal of the Korvosan seneschal that she was carrying. “WTF?” I thought. Since our interests neatly coincided PJ invited her to accompany us on our visit to the new king of Old Korvosa and she readily agreed.

I lagged back as we were leaving to be nearer her and tried to steal a kiss but she was having none of it—although she didn’t seem to mind me trying. Your receiving this letter proves that fact.

I stealthily followed my companions and Laori did the same from her end. (I couldn’t make her out and I was looking for her.) As we approached the “Kastle” we encountered a small squadron of toughs and roustabouts. Szechuan quickly sent more than a few of them to hell while I plucked easy victims from around the edges. Laori proved to be an artist of mayhem, when not blasting huge swaths through our enemies she clearly enjoyed a little one-on-one, inserting her knife slowly, painfully, into her victim, laughing as she watched his reeking bowels falling into the mud. Her violence was unsullied by fear or pride or anger. It was purely a sexual need, although a bit extreme for my taste. We saved a couple of the poor (but lucky) bastards to question.

It soon became obvious that the two were mere patsies, probably signing with King Piltsy for a meal and dry place to sleep. That’s when more of the “king’s” emissaries arrived to palaver a truce and take us right to the heart of the keep, or barn, or whatever it is. (Which was a dumb thing for Piltsy to do but he’s always been a mark.)

The Castle turned out to be a weary little warehouse waiting for the proper time to fall down. King Pilts the first (and last) sat on his improvised throne towering above his gangbangers. A rusted guillotine sat in one corner where a worn-looking gnome was picking over what appeared to be a well-gnawed human forearm.

We let Szechuan handle the negotiations so, of course, things went quickly awry. I sneaked over behind the king’s throne and started climbing. I really wanted to see Piltsy’s face when his droogie from the old neighborhood came crawling over the transom with a razor-keen blade for his throat, but Laori and the boys dispatched the flunkies so quickly that by the time I arrived PJ was bitch-slapping Piltsy like a red-headed stepchild. Where do clerics learn to do such things?

Looking down on the piles of dead I felt sick to my stomach, although I’d certainly done my share of killing. Finarfin was rolling around in the gore like a dog rolls in carrion. I’ve never known anyone who lusted more—for women, for battle, for peeing on his conquered opponents. Where does he get that from?

Laori was trifling with one the few who was still alive, like a well-fed cat with some hapless chipmunk. If I ever make love to this woman it will have to be in an empty room with her clothes outside, after a full cavity search. Even then I’d have only half a chance of making it out alive.

Piltsy was rightly quivering in fear as PJ sat him down too-near a growling Sczechuan, still high with the blood-lust. His royal purple robes were stained shit-brown and smelled as sorry. It took us a few moments to calm him down enough to tell us where he’d stashed the artist, Salvatore Scream.

Scream was less than helpful until he saw Vaus regarding him coolly from the shadows. They know each other. He told us that Orisini had been seeking the seneschal, Neolandus (Squarehead), who had information against the Queen and had gone to the House of Arkona to find him. (Remembering the scrap of cloth she'd been carrying I wondered what Laori knew of his fate.)

The King of Spiders was mentioned but I admit I wasn’t paying much attention at this point for I saw that Laori was preparing to depart. She had what she wanted—Salvatore Scream. For once her voice grew reverent as she described his work as inspired representation of the transcendence found in giving—and taking—pain. Looking at one of his paintings is like seeing through the eyes of god, she said—the badass god, Zon-Kuthon!

We bid her adieu but I followed them out and tried again to steal her kiss. This time she wacked me with the knob-end of her mankiller, smiling the while. Stars whirled brightly through my vision as I felt the earth move. “I’ll see you in hell,” she promised sweetly as Scream leered at me until she brutally yanked his leash tight, pulling him whimpering along behind her.

I watching all the while.

Pray for me loved one,
Cordobles

Paintings from Paradise and Hell, Haywain by Hieronymus Bosch
Finarfin's Twelfth Report is next.