This is a Sequel to the "Tales From Blackrock Depths"

Author Disclaimer: For this and all subsequent chapters - I do not own the rights to Blizzard or World of Warcraft. This is simply a fan work made by a fan for fans borrowing settings and characters that Blizzard has created.

Chapter 1 - The Blind Date

The fact that he was face down in a puddle of his own vomit shouldn't have surprised anyone. That he was still alive - now that was something of a shock. Dough could think of worse gutters to puke in. His current gutter du jour happened to be directly in front of a fine steakhouse. Delightful. Usually it was next to a horse or in a ditch behind someone's farm. Things were definitely looking up for the drunken rogue.

How did I get here? His throat burned and his head spun. He remembered ordering a third bottle of Elwyn Merlot. He remembered finishing the delicious 12-ounce Yeti filet - which was, sadly, now all over the street - but beyond that, he remembered nothing.

The Merlot seemed like such a good idea at the time - especially given his inadequate dinner companionship. Unfortunately, "gutter puking" outside fancy restaurants had become commonplace in the past few weeks. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost the keen ability to distinguish between "Satisfying Buzz" and "Painful Hammering." (If he ever had it in the first place).

Dough was spending gold faster than a stranglekelp whore. The rogue had recently come into a great deal of money. Sadly, his spending habits were just that - habits - and he was nearly broke.

Tonight's dinner was to be the last hurrah. With only a few gold coins remaining in his pocket, he didn't have enough to even pay for the wine. Dough suspected that somewhere between bottle number three and waking up in the gutter, the owner of the establishment had figured this out. Given his current condition and location, he deduced that the transaction had gone poorly. Or about as well as he expected it to.

Oh well. At least he'd gotten rid of the b-

"Dough?"

Damn. Wishful thinking. At the mention of his name, uttered by such distinctly unattractive lips, the rogue grunted.

She whispered. "Finished?"

He coughed and dry heaved. Nothing left to expunge. Yep. Guess he was finished.

She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head up. "Is that everything?"

Dough tried to nod. She let go and his face splashed right back into the vomit. Yuck.

Oh, crap. What was my date's name? He stared at her, memory spinning. Loo-po? Lettuce? Loo hoo? Oh well. He decided in the grand scheme of things that it didn't really matter. It was a blind date anyway.

He'd been so anti-social all his life that he'd recently decided to shake things up a bit. With all the gold from his latest boon, he felt it necessary to have a girl on his arm. So he joined a dating service: "Duskwood Matchmakers". They weren't the most reliable in the kingdom, but his expectations weren't very high. Good thing, too.

"Why are you still here?" He asked hoarsely.

"Because I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Nice of you." He spat up. "But I'll be alright."

"Good."

"So you can go home now." Take a hint, lady. Why the hell are you still hanging around?

"I also paid for dinner."

Oh.

"When the manager brought the check over and you laughed in his face," She shook her head. "well, he didn't get the joke."

"So you paid it."

"Yes. He had a knife. It was big."

"I see." Dough just stared at her, hoping she would stand up and walk away. She didn't. He waited a few more seconds, then: "So thank you?"

"Don't thank me. Just pay me back. That meal was expensive."

"Look. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not exactly horny right now." Even when he said it, he realized it probably wasn't the best choice of words.

She grabbed the back of his head and thrust it hard into the pavement. His nose connected with the street and he felt a sharp, blinding pain.

"I want you to pay me back with gold, you idiot."

Lucite. Her name was Lucite. He remembered. Stupid name.

"So I guess that means there aren't any sparks between us, huh?"

"You're not my type, rogue."

Truth be told, he was pleased with that. Lucite was about as sexy as a Murlock in a G-string. Somehow the fact that he wasn't her "Type" didn't offend him.

"I don't have any more gold. It's gone, baby."

Calling her "baby" was like calling a Dark Iron Dwarf a midget. Obviously he needed to make better choices when it came to vocal expression. Especially with the amount of blood already pouring from his nose. Though his quick and violent death would surely have solved most of his money problems, it might prove to be a little too permanent.

"Well, I'm not leaving until you pay me back." She reiterated.

This he believed. Still, Dough didn't have anything better to do than vomit outside an expensive steakhouse. And although she had a face that would make an Undead Shrieker clam up, he could use the assistance.

That's when he heard a very low male voice say "Get up, rogue."

Since the voice was a few octaves lower than Lucite's, Dough was curious. He turned and found himself staring into the eyes of the angry restaurant manager. The man held a very menacing club in his right hand.

Damn. He thought. I'm getting soft. There was a day when nobody could sneak up behind him.

"I don't want any trouble." Dough tried to wave him off. "I just need to ride this out."

The manager half-smiled. "Get up. Move along."

"I can't."

"You're hurting my business." The manager did have a point. The sight of a customer puking in front of a restaurant wasn't exactly a staunch endorsement. "Now get up or I'll kill you and move you myself."

Lucite couldn't have been more apathetic. She sat on the curb quietly, picking at a fingernail. Dough suspected that the outcome of this conversation wouldn't impact her one way or another. Dead or alive, she'd get her money. Alive she'd harass him until he paid her. Dead she'd just grab his house key and be on her way to gather up all his possessions.

"Back off." Dough said.

"What did you say?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I can't even walk" Dough looked over at Lucite. "Little help here?"

She just shrugged those huge man-shoulders and smiled. No help coming.

Now, a rogue doesn't always think clearly when backed into a corner. When faced with decisions, sometimes they rely on their gut instincts rather than careful planning. Being a rogue, he'd been backed into a corner on many occasions and had acted - inappropriately? - in every one. The word "Ramification" has little meaning to a rogue. They don't usually care about the ramifications of their actions until they're ass-deep in them.

Bottom line: He stabbed the guy.

The manager had a look of complete shock when Dough reached into his ankle belt, pulled out the knife and thrust it into his throat. The surprised look quickly disappeared as he clutched at the blade. The man gurgled a bit, then fell over and flopped around like a flounder.

Dough yanked the knife out of his throat and began drying it on the dirt.

He stopped after seeing Lucite's reaction. It was almost disgust, but it could have been a frown or a smile. Very difficult to tell with that face. All her expressions could've been mistaken for disgust.

"What?"

Lucite shrugged again. "Wonderful." she said. "I suppose you want me to help you hide the body."

"Oh. Well, honestly I hadn't thought that far ahead." Dough lowered his head back to his puking position. "Think we should?"

"I can't believe the dating service set me up with a rogue."

"Yeah? Well, you're not exactly a siren yourself, honey."

The restaurant manager moved. Dough stabbed him again.

"And another thing," He pointed the bloody knife at her. "Would it have killed you to slap on a little peacebloom before you left the house tonight? You couldn't get up on all fours and let someone hose you off?"

"You are a disgusting man."

Dough laughed. "Only on the inside."

She looked down at the manager. "Is he dead?"

"Probably."

"Then let's get out of here before we attract a crowd."

The yelling and murdering had cleared Dough's head a bit.

Despite the fact that nobody seemed at all interested in the bloody mess and the twice stabbed corpse on the sidewalk, he still felt it best to get off his ass and flee the scene.

Fortunately, none of the passers-by seemed to care. The wonderful thing about Azeroth was that everybody had their own secrets to keep. Glass houses, and all that. So nobody dared call attention to something as trivial as a murder, lest they risk exposing their own dirty deeds.

"Where to?" he asked.

"To the money, rogue."

"Ah, yes. Back to that again. Well, as I was saying before, I'm reasonably broke."

"Reasonably?"

"Completely."

"I'm not leaving you until you pay me back."

"Fine." He said, resigning himself to a long, ugly night. "Follow me."

------------

They walked in silence down a cobbled path - darkness punctuated by brief street candles on either side of the road. The wind blew through the trees, cold and miserable. The cobbles were uneven and did nothing to quell his nausea.

The white handkerchief he held under his nose to stop the flow of blood was now completely crimson. But at least the bleeding has stopped. The pain, however, did not.

Before long, Dough came to a stop in front of a small cottage. There was no light coming from inside. The place looked uninviting and uninhabited. But the rogue knew better. Lucite kept walking until Dough cleared his throat.

She stopped and turned around. "Why are we stopping here?" She asked.

He didn't answer. Just continued to stare at the cottage.

Her uni-brow furrowed. "Is this your house?"

"No." he said.

"Then why are we here?"

"To complete the quest."

"What quest?"

"The one where I give the plaguehound enough gold to release me from the shackles of a failed blind date so that she can find some other poor bastard to suck the life out of."

"Rude. Obnoxious. Ungentlemanly." She folded her arms.

"Whatever. Just wait here and I'll get you your gold."

He left Lucite standing on the cobbled path with her arms crossed. She looked somewhat defeated even behind the rough exterior. For a second he felt sorry for her. She'd probably taken crap like this from every guy she ever dated. But that feeling soon passed when Dough pictured a nice hot bath and some sleep. Best to get rid of the beast now.

"Wait." She said. "You're not going to rob this house...?"

"No."

"If you're going to rob this place to get me the gold..."

"I'm not stealing anything. A friend of mine lives here."

Friend. Not exactly a full truth. But it was easier than explaining how he knew the owner.

Dough made it to the front door and waited a few minutes before knocking. Did he really want to go through with this? Was this really the best idea he could come up with? Maybe he should just bolt and hope Lucite wasn't fast enough to catch his drunk ass. Hmm. Backed into another corner.

Doesn't matter. He finally decided. I'll just ask for the gold, give it to Lucite, and go home. Simple.

But his rogue instincts were telling him it wouldn't be that simple. His instincts told him to walk away from the door and run into the woods. Usually, he listened to those voices. They'd saved his ass more times than he could count. But tonight he was drunk. He didn't trust the voices when he was drunk.

So Dough chose to ignore them. And he knocked.

The door fell open. The latch had been destroyed and the wood was splintered along the handle.

The one time I don't listen to my instincts...

He wasn't at all prepared for what caught his eye. Dough had expected the owner of the house to greet him, chide him about being such a low-life loser, hand over some gold and then slam the door behind him.

Instead, the moonlight shone on a face with fair skin that had been bruised and bloodied. A fragile looking body lay crumpled on the stone floor of the cottage.

The rogue stood there for a very long time, staring at the motionless woman - unable to comprehend what he saw: Pools of blood, destroyed furniture. And adding just the right amount of flavor to an already horrific scene - the stench of death.

Dough felt the nausea sneak up on him again as the smell within the house hit him hard.

"Clobberella?" He whispered. And began vomiting all over his shoes.

Oh. Dough thought, staring at the remnants of his dinner. I guess I wasn't done yet.

Chapter 2 - Two Orcs and a Dead Girl

The rogue was no stranger to Death's macabre and dry sense of humor - a sense of humor that said "Hey, if that rogue's going to do all my work for me, then why should I break a sweat like a sucker?"

So while he wasn't necessarily friends with Death, the two of them did have a nice working relationship. Death had the better end of the deal - as she usually does - and profited nicely from their silent partnership by simply hanging out whenever Dough was in a social situation. The phrase "Meal Ticket" comes to mind.

Dough stood in the doorway, surveying the damage. The furniture in the small cottage was overturned, broken and splintered. He remembered it being quite decorative at one time. Cozy. As the moonlight cast over the inside of the cottage, the dried blood over the chairs looked black and it turned the interior of the once homey cottage into a stinking tomb.

On the floor - in the middle of the whole mess and entirely motionless - Clobberella. She stared at the ceiling with eyes as dead as the Undercroft. By the look of the murder scene, she'd been unprepared for whatever killed her - wearing casual clothing and no armor. Also, it looked like someone had dunked her body in a tub filled with red paint.

"Is something wrong?" Lucite asked.

Lucite. He'd forgotten all about the failed blind date. Dough had planned to beg Clobberella for some money, give it to Lucite and then send her on her merry way. The well-designed plan had seemed like a sure winner. Now, however...

"Did she give you the gold?" Lucite tried again in a much more irritated tone.

But the rogue still couldn't answer. His mind turned the murder scene over and over in his head. Who did this? Why was there so much blood? He tried to talk, and then closed his mouth again - unable to find the words.

Dough stepped into the cottage, and walked carefully toward Clobberella. He placed the palm of his hand over his boot strap, where the dagger was sheathed - preparing himself for anything. Out of the corner of his eye he caught something. And then...

Not something. Someone...

Orcs. Two of them.

Orcs? Two hulking behemoths - both over 8 feet tall in full armor - lay dead amongst the wreckage of downed furniture. It was beyond curious. It was downright stupefying.

This was not a race that planned anything. Least of which, breaking down a cottage door and killing the owner. They were commonly hired as muscle. If someone paid them to kill Clobberella, then there was a slight possibility that they followed directions and acted alone. But more than likely, the "Employer" tagged along to make sure they understood the orders.

Saying that orcs are unintelligent is like saying zombies have a skin condition. They were known for their sheer brutality, not their cunning - though you'd never want to say that directly to an orc or "Splat" would be the last thing you'd ever hear.

Three things to know about orcs:
a) They enjoy causing pain.
b) They brush their teeth and wipe their ass with the same brush.
c) They are strong proponents of inbreeding. In fact, they believe that breeding outside the immediate family will produce retarded orc children (an orc's definition of "Retarded" is a frightening one...try to imagine an eight foot turnip that eats people)

One seemed to die while forcing his severed head back onto his body. He sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his head slightly askew from his neck - almost like he was concentrating fiercely on getting it to click back into place.

He'd managed to attach it to his right shoulder instead.

The other orc died while attempting to stuff his spilled intestines back into his stomach - a look of confusion permanently painted on his face. His hands held the intestines up to the light like a confused child contemplating a handful of spaghetti.

Dough turned his attention to the bloody sword clutched in Clobberella's hand. He could picture her cutting these two orcs down with very little effort.

The question was: How did Clobberella die with all her innards intact? Orcs were vicious when it came to killing. They generally sliced you up and then tore you apart like a roasted chicken. They weren't usually this polite.

There were no signs of dismemberment. Other than the dried blood caked over her body, she looked unharmed - like she'd slipped on a banana peal and broken her neck.

"I'm not waiting any-" Lucite's voice broke off as she came up behind Dough and entered the cottage. She nearly fell over, grabbing on a piece of downed furniture to catch her fall. Her eyes received faster than her brain could process. Lucite scrambled back to the door, watching her feet as she did so.

"Don't worry about your shoes. The blood's dry."

She gagged. "That smell..."

"Yes. I noticed."

Clobberella's long hair was weighted down and adhered to the floor like a postage stamp. This was accomplished by the tremendous amount of dried, yet sticky blood in her hair. Clobberella's eyes looked past him, as if something of great importance was hanging above her, but there was nothing there.

"Is she dead?" Lucite asked. And then her peripheral vision caught the site of the two orc corpses near the dark fireplace. "Are those orcs?"

"Shut up." He glared at her coldly. Then brought his attention back to Clobberella.

That old nagging instinct came back to the rogue. He felt unsettled. As if he was missing a very large piece of information.

Dough examined Clobberella's face, pulling the matted hair off of her cheeks and forehead and moving in closer. Then he placed his hand over her stomach, pressing down against the shirt. Moving his attention to her legs. Something...

Lucite cleared her throat. "You want me to leave you two alone?"

"Very funny." Dough said dryly. Then, "Do you see anything strange about this?"

She gave him a look. "Other than a rogue copping a feel off a dead girl?"

"No," Dough shook his head. "I mean really strange. Look at her. If this is her blood, then where did it come from? She doesn't have a mark on her. And if all this blood belonged to the orcs, then how did she die?"

Lucite just shook her head. "Maybe she slipped?"

Wait... Something he hadn't thought of before.

"Quick. Help me flip her over."

Lucite crossed her arms, shook her head and made a "Tsk" noise of disapproval.

Dough gritted his teeth and sighed loudly. "No, little aborted goblin. Though it's true that if given the choice to have sex with you or a rotting corpse..."

"Rude. Totally rude and uncalled for."

"Just help me flip her over. I need to look at something on her back."

He grabbed her shoulders and Lucite took the legs. Clobberella's hair and clothes fought to stay stuck in place. They literally had to peal her off the floor. The once long hair tore out in clumps and remained in the dried blood. But in the end they managed the job, burying her face in the blood and hair.

"Sorry, Clob." He whispered. "Truly sorry."

Dough placed his open palm on the small of her back and moved it firmly up toward her shoulders.

"What are you looking for?"

"Shh."

He kept going, like a masseusse searching for a tough knot. In a few seconds, his palm dragged over something very gooey. Something unnatural - an indentation directly between her shoulder blades.

Dough pulled the dagger from his boot and cut the shirt fabric around the indentation, careful not to make contact with her skin. He pulled the loose flap of fabric away from the wound. It did not go quietly, and pulled off a bit of flesh with it. When he realized what he was staring at, he nearly dropped the dagger.

Lucite's eyes widened. "What is that?"

They were peering into a knife wound approximately one inch wide. A trace amount of blood peppered the area, but that wasn't the alarming part. The wound was oozing a green viscuous goo. It looked like puss, or a bad salving job.

Dough swallowed hard. "Poison."

"Poison? I don't understand."

"Someone stabbed her in the back with a poisoned blade."

"I still don't get it."

"Well," He paused, thinking that it might be unwise to explain how he was able to identify the specific wound.

"What?" she noticed his hesitation.

"Well, I suspect it was a dagger like this one." He held up his dagger to illustrate the point. "And it was probably dipped in poison, like this one" He pulled a vial of poison from his belt and held it up to the light. "And he probably stabbed her in the back, like...well..."

"Like a rogue."

"Exactly."

"So you're saying a rogue did this?"

"I'm saying it was either a rogue, or someone that wanted to make it look like a rogue."

"He killed her by stabbing her in the back with poison?"

Dough was about to say yes, but then something else occurred to him. Killed her....

He knelt down again and dipped his own dagger in the green ooze, picked up a trace amount on the sharp tip, brought it up to his nose and sniffed it.

"Shit."

"Do you have to keep swearing like that?"

"No. But...shit."

Lucite crossed her arms again, but stared at him curiously. "What?"

"It's poison. But it's not meant to kill."

"She looks pretty dead to me."

"Um, yeah. That's the whole idea with 'Poison of Paralysis', isn't it?"

"Oh." Then she moved toward Clobberella. "If she's not dead, then perhaps we should get her face out of the blood."

Dough agreed, and together they turned her over. Her right cheek came up with a clump of hair - as if she'd been interrupted while shaving off a beard.

Then the question that had bugged him since opening the door finally came up.

"How long ago did this happen?" Lucite asked.

"Hard to say. The blood's mostly dried. It stinks. And the poison looks at least three to four days old."

"Three to four days?"

"Yes." Dough cleared his throat, once again reminded of the smell in the small cottage. "It doesn't start oozing like that until day three. Days one and two, the poison just sort of... coagulates?"

"You say that like you don't even know what the word 'coagulates' means."

"You know, there's not enough blinding powder in the world to make you attractive. But if you'd lighten up for two seconds, maybe you'd get some poor sap to look past your physical failings and fall in love with your sparkling personality. You ever think about that?"

"No."

"Well, obviously." Then he let out a deep breath. "So she's been here a while."

"And nobody came to check on her?"

"Listen, if you knew Clobberella like I did, you'd know it was risky just to knock on the door. She's about as good with visitors as you are with cosmetics."

"So what now?"

"Now? We need to get the poison out of her system before it kills her."

"How long do we have?"

"How the hell would I know? Chances are, the poison's too advanced already. If it isn't out of her system soon, she'll die."

"So do you know anyone that can do that? Get the poison out of her system?"

Dough hesitated.

"Do you?" She asked again.

Dough rubbed the bridge of his nose hard. Of course he knew a person. Mercenaries always had a list of contacts handy in case things turned sour.

"I know a druid." Dough mumbled. "But he's a pain in the ass."

"So?"

"So, you two should hit it off nicely."

Chapter 3 - Sam the Fence

The rogue and his companion - a failed blind date that even Satan would take one look at and say "Damn" - approached the druid's doorstep in the wee hours of the morning. With them, they brought a woman in dire need of medical attention. Dawn was setting in, and the sunlight trickled over the grassy fields. The morning dew glistened, sparkled and smelled like piss.

He was exhausted. Dough wanted nothing more than a hot bath and some red wine to go along with his terrible hangover. But he wasn't going to get those luxury items - at least not until he figured out who broke into Clobberella's home and nearly killed her.

Clobberella, paralyzed from a very toxic poison, lay slung over the horse's saddle, tied down to prevent her unresponsive body from falling off. While this arrangement had worked out well, it had been a point of great contention between the rogue and his unattractive companion.

As Dough tied the horse to a tree, he remembered the heated discussion with Lucite just hours ago...

----

"How do you propose we transport this woman to your druid friend?" Lucite had asked.

"He's not my friend. He just happens to be the only person that can save her life. I don't know. Maybe she has a horse around here somewhere. Everybody owns a horse, right?"

Lucite shrugged.

After a quick solo search, Dough found one of Clobberella's horses tied to a post behind the cottage.

"Here." He said and brought the stallion around to the front. "Problem solved. Now help me carry Clobberella."

Lucite and Dough dragged the paralyzed body out of the small cottage and to the waiting horse.

"We'll need to sling her over the saddle on her stomach and tie her down so she doesn't fall off." He said.

"We're not hauling wild game, rogue." Lucite snapped. "She's still alive. Tying her down is inhumane."

"We'll be walking for at least two hours. There's a chance she'll survive the poison if the druid can remove it in time, but I'll be damned if she's gonna survive a broken neck after falling off this horse."

Dough folded the body over the saddle. The horse whinnied, rocked backwards and then adjusted to Clobberella's weight.

Lucite found a wool blanket amongst the wreckage in Clobberella's home and draped it over the paralyzed woman so that it covered her completely. Once she had finished the task, she shoved Dough out of the way. He was not amused.

"Listen, sweetheart. Unless you want to carry her, I suggest we find some rope."

Lucite just stared at him.

"Look, I've done this before. Okay?"

Lucite cocked a suspicious eyebrow. "I imagine so. I imagine you would have done the same thing to me a few hours ago, had I passed out. Tie me to a horse and...and..." she fished for the word "...deflower me."

"Deflower you? Honey, the bloom fell off that rose ..."

"Just stop right there. I've taken enough abuse from you for one night. You're rude and -"

He interrupted her by spitting into the bushes.

"Fine." She continued, stifling a gag. "Do it your way. But you don't have to be so callous."

"Thank you." He said curtly.

The next few hours were agonizingly slow and miserable. They walked alongside the horse, Lucite next to Clobberella's head and Dough next to her feet, trying to avoid each other as much as possible.

At one point, Dough attempted to spark up conversation. In all honesty, he could spark up conversation with a wet rock as long as it gave him someone to talk to.

"Can I ask you a question, Lucite?"

"You don't need my permission. Just ask it."

"Okay. Why are you still here? I can't figure out why you're helping me. This isn't your problem."

"I guess I don't think of it that way. The girl needs help and you obviously can't be trusted alone with her."

"Back to that again. Why do you automatically assume that just because she's paralyzed and helpless, I would...well..."

"Rape her?"

"Whatever. You don't know anything about me. And there you go passing judgement."

"You're a rogue." She replied, as if the word "Rogue" explained everything.

"Well, let me tell you something. I know exactly why you're helping me." He said. "Oh yeah. Without a doubt."

"Why?"

"You're hoping you'll get some gold out of it."

Lucite stopped walking then, abruptly. "Is that what you think? Is that what you truly think?"

"Well...yes."

"Why, because that's the only reason you'd be helping?"

Dough didn't answer.

"It is, isn't it?" Lucite proceeded to walk again, with more cockiness. "You don't help anyone unless gold is involved. Some of us aren't like you, rogue."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. That's so."

"I strongly doubt it. In my travels you'd be the first one I've encountered that didn't think gold first, moral fortitude second."

"Nice. See, that's the problem with the world today. A pedestrian sees a girl dying in the street and he either walks away or picks her pockets."

"Or rapes her." He said sarcastically.

"Or rapes her." She confirmed.

"That's the way of things, Lucite. You get used to those realities or they kill you."

"I don't want to get used to them. Look, I see a human being on the brink of death and my instincts tell me to help out. What do your instincts tell you to do?"

And with that, the conversation died quickly.

------

Dough untied Clobberella from the horse's saddle and slung her over his shoulder. Together the three of them approached the front porch of the druid's house.

It was a modest home in a neighborhood of new development. Lakeshire Glen had billboards all over Azeroth displaying photos of happy families inhabiting luxuriously happy units. One billboard had daddy mowing the front lawn with a pipe hanging from his mouth while waving to his wife behind a paned glass window. Lakeshire Glen offered an escape from the cutthroat reality of life. The billboards promised a dream where mommy, daddy and baby could live and prosper unaffected by the monsters surrounding them.

For the first year, the Lakeshire Glen Home Owners Association hired a private security force to patrol the neighborhoods and keep the monsters out. Unfortunately, the neighboring ghouls took great joy in decapitating anyone wearing a "Lakeshire Glen" police uniform - and stuck their decapitated heads on pikes outside of each humble abode (but not before defiling the head in such blatantly unholy and inconceivable ways that I dare not detail them here for fear of being called a liar or worse...)

Obviously, private security was no longer provided by management.

As they approached the front door, Dough felt that familiar "tickle" he counted on to warn him of impending danger. Once again, the rogue's instincts were screaming at him to back away from the house and leave - just as they had at the doorstep of Clobberella's cottage. The instincts said to drop the body and run. Just run. And - once again - the rogue shut out the sage instinctual advice and knocked on the...

Oh no...

...the door swung open a few inches with the pressure of his knocking. Dough noticed that the handle had been broken and the wood was splintered around it.

Strike two, stupid rogue...

"Lucite." He turned to her, his bottom lip trembling. The trembling had more to do with being angry at his own dumb luck than anything else. "Get back."

She could see the door's condition and didn't need to be prodded. Lucite stepped off the porch.

Dough knelt and placed Clobberella down carefully. Her body fell limply on the concrete, still wrapped tightly in the blanket like a mummy. The medical attention she so desperately needed was going to have to wait.

"I'm sorry, Clob." He whispered. "Need to take care of something first."

He didn't just place his hand near the dagger - this time he lifted it from his bootstrap and held it tightly in front of him. Then he crouched low and kicked the door as hard as he could. The bottom hinges broke and the door blasted high in the air before coming to rest askew from the entryway. That feeling of Deja Vu was overwhelming. Something wasn't right. He gripped the dagger tightly.

"Help." A man's voice - weak - coming from somewhere inside the house. A trap? Maybe...

Dough swung his head back to Lucite. "Stay here. Watch Clobberella."

She stared back at him.

"Please." He added gruffly.

Dough didn't wait for a reply and quickly entered the house. Chaos, complete disarray. He'd seen this level of damage only hours ago at the cottage. Too familiar.

Familiar. He thought. But not the same...

"Help" came the voice again.

Dough moved as stealthily as he could, running the course of downed furniture and trying to maintain his balance. That's when he noticed it - the difference between this house and Clobberella's home.

No blood.

He called out "Where are you?"

There was a long pause. Long enough to frustrate the rogue. He was set to repeat the question when a feeble answer came back.

"Dough?"

"Yes yes. It's me. Where the hell are you?"

Another pause. Then "Um. I'm okay, really. Just slipped is all. You can let yourself out."

"Come on, Sam. It's me. I'm here to help."

"Seriously. All better now. You can go. Please?"

But Dough had keyed in on the voice. He rounded a corner and found himself in a large bedroom. When he heard water sloshing, he dashed through to the master bath.

There he found the druid in a tub full of water, his head sticking out of the grey murkiness. The water looked disgusting - like it hadn't been drained in over a week. But if the water looked disgusting, that was nothing compared to the occupant. The druid's face was unshaven and dirty, the skin above the water was wrinkled, pale blue and blemished. He sported a bruise on his cheek.

"I know what you're thinking." The wet man said. "But it's mana water. Supposed to be good for releasing toxins."

The rogue just stared at the bathing druid.

"Yes. I know you don't believe in alternative healing methods, but they do work." The druid rolled his eyes condescendingly. "And I know you're confused. Just stop the staring, please? Say something, you roguish bastard."

The rogue exhaled loudly. "Can you tell me what the hell happened here?"

"Oh, nothing much. I was just ATTACKED in my own HOME." He left his mouth gaping to emphasize the point of being so inconvenienced.

"When?"

"I don't know. I've seen the sun set and rise quite a few times...through the window. I guess I've been in this tub for over a week."

"Who did this?"

"What do you care? You probably hired them anyway."

Dough's face changed quickly and he bore his eyes into the druid. "Who?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

The druid closed his eyes, unable to meet Dough's. He drew in a deep breath then submerged his head into the murky water.

The rogue leaned up against the wall. Waiting. As the bubbles rose to the uneven surface he coughed once, admired the contemporary bathroom and began counting floor tile to pass the time. He'd seen the druid do this before and there was nothing much you could do but ride it out.

Sam the Druid was a hypochondriac in every sense of the word. Once, he'd visited the emergency room claiming that his right arm had suddenly grown longer than his left. Turned out he just needed glasses.

Dough visited a few times a year. Most of his visits involved the druid regaling him with detailed descriptions of his imaginary ailments. It got so bad that Sam could no longer find a doctor to see him. It was as if his face was plastered on every doctor's wall (and in fact, it was - bearing the words "Treat at your own risk" under his photograph).

The rogue waited a few more minutes - impatient for the druid to resurface. When he didn't, Dough sauntered over to the tub and grabbed Sam's hair, pulling him out of the ice cold water.

The druid sobbed loudly. "Just let me die. I've been trying to drown myself for five days now. I can't do it."

"Gee. I wonder why." Dough relaxed his grip on the hair. "It couldn't be the fact that you breathe underwater, could it?"

"I know that. Don't you think I know that?!."

"Then can it, Sam. Who attacked you?"

"A couple orcs. A rogue too. I knew it was a rogue because he was all shifty and he smelled funny."

"Smelled funny?"

"Not 'Ha Ha' funny. You know how rogues smell. Funny like sweaty feet."

"Gee thanks."

"No offense." Then he switched gears and tried to make himself cry.

"Knock it off, Sam."

But he didn't. He squeezed his eyes together and made a quick choking sound.

"I said knock it off."

He choked louder and rubbed his eyes vigorously.

Dough brought his face down to the druid's. "It's not going to work."

The druid sighed and then looked at the rogue angrily. "It's your fault anyway."

Dough nodded. All ears.

"You're not going to like this." The druid said weakly. "Really. You're not."

"Try me."

"The guy that beat me up - if it was a rogue - well, he kept asking me where the amulet was."

Uh-oh...

"The..." Dough's head spun three times.

In life there are few great surprises - the moments where your heart physically stops, then remembers to beat. In a rogue's life this happens even less frequently. But in the space of approximately three seconds, Dough's heart not only stopped; it seemed to be listening as if wondering whether to resume beating or stop entirely. In the end, it chose to continue, but at a much quicker pace.

He collected himself, coughed and said "The amulet that I..."

"Yes. That amulet."

No. He steadied himself against the bathroom tile.

Dough remembered visiting Sam a few weeks ago on business. He'd sold him an attractive lavender amulet in exchange for a large sum of gold - gold that the rogue had been living on nicely. Gold that he'd so carelessly pissed away in its entirety.

Whenever Dough took a contract, he inevitably came away with added bonuses - sometimes given to him by the employer or taken as...gestures. Either way, these weren't items that he could simply sell to a street vendor. So he needed a fence. Thus his relationship with Sam the Druid - also known as Sam the Fence - was established and had flourished nicely throughout the years. Sam the Fence was a reliable buyer and had become Dough's go-to-guy whenever he returned home with "bonuses."

This particular item was an amulet that he "Procured" from Blackrock Depths a few months ago on a very complicated contract. It was an amulet with tremendous power and ability that, in hindsight, Dough probably had no business selling to a fence.

"Did you..." He realized the weight of the question he was about to ask. "Did you give them the amulet?"

"Oh, heavens no. I'm not stupid. That amulet is worth at least 500,000."

"Interesting. Since you paid me a thousand for it."

"Oh. Maybe I should've kept that detail to myself."

"So they came here looking for the..the..Amulet of Control?"

"Yes."

"What did you tell them?"

"Well, after they punched me a few times and tore apart the house looking for it. I told them that -" But he stopped.

And tried to submerge himself in the water again.

"Oh no." Dough grabbed him by the neck this time. "What did you tell them, Sam? How did you get them to leave?"

"I -" He winced. "I told them that I already sold it."

"Did you?"

"No. But I had to tell them something. They would have killed me. Don't you understand that? So I told them I sold it."

"To who?" But the rogue knew the answer before Sam even blurted it out. The answer was obvious.

"Clobberella."

"You -" His head threatened to spin again. He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. "You sent two orcs and a rogue to Clobberella's house?"

"Yes?"

"To retrieve an amulet that she didn't have?"

"Well, yes. But only because -"

"And where is the amulet now?"

"Um...Safe?"

The dagger appeared much too quickly for the druid's eyes to catch it in time. The tip of the blade dug into the hairy flesh of his neck.

Dough whispered, nearly spitting the words. "People say 'safe' when they don't want others to know where something is. You do want me to know where the amulet is, don't you druid?"

"More than anything in the world. Honest. But -"

"Where?" Dough repeated.

"Not here. Put the dagger down. I swear I'll take you to it. But it's not like I can just walk in and grab it for you."

"That's exactly what you're going to do. Now, get out of the tub, Sam."

"Certainly."

"I'll be waiting for you in the living room." Then, as an afterthought. "Oh and I brought you another surprise."

"What? Another item to fence? You're either going to make me very rich or very dead, Dough."

"Oh, I have no doubt that this item will make you very dead. It depends on her mood after you heal her and tell her that you're the man responsible for her current condition."

"Clob-" He stammered. "You brought Clobberella here? To my house?"

"Oh yeah. Get a move on Druid. And I don't want to pressure you too much, but keep one thing in mind: If she dies, you die. Got it?"

On this point the druid understood perfectly.

Chapter 4 - We're Being Watched

The druid's bedroom smelled like rotting cheese. Dough held his nose while he looked around for the source of the overpowering aroma.

Oh. He spotted a chunk of gouda on the pillow of the queen sized bed.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dough asked. "Cheese?"

Sam the druid wiped his body down with a large towel. His skin had pruned badly - as is the case when flesh is exposed to water for more than a week. The rogue didn't want to imagine how the druid had survived that long in such disgusting water, much less how he'd dealt with "nature's callings". The stench coming from the bath tub gave him a pretty ugly idea.

"Cheese is good for the lungs," he said, throwing the towel on the floor. "gouda especially. I wouldn't expect you to understand. It clears out the -"

"Holy shit." Dough interrupted, "Put some god damned clothes on."

"What? You're not serious. We're both heterosexual men."

"That doesn't mean I want to see your penis, Sam."

"I happen to be very comfortable with my sexuality."

"Good. Now make it go away."

"You are a mystery," he said, admiring himself in the mirror. "You've probably seen more displays of death and violence than I'll ever be privy to. But this...this delicious display of cerulean nakedness...this is what rattles the great Dough?"

"What's your point?"

"You have issues."

"Whatever. I'll put Clobberella on the bed so you can start the operation. Just...just put a fig leaf or something over that thing."

"You're bringing Clobberella in here?"

"Yes. Unless you have a better place in mind?"

"I suppose I don't."

"And get rid of the fucking cheese."

Dough left Sam in the bedroom and walked into the hall. The wreckage in the house was brutal, and moving the dead weight of a paralyzed body through the mess was not going to be easy. He picked up a few scattered items and began to move furniture out of the way - clearing a path in which to transport the patient.

As he worked his way to the front door, he spotted Lucite sitting on the porch. Clobberella's head was rested on Lucite's lap. She brushed back Clobberella's hair in soothing strokes while singing some quiet song under her breath.

Dough stopped working for a moment and watched the display. Once again, he caught himself wondering what Lucite's true motives were. If he didn't know better, he'd think that she actually cared about Clobberella - that she was genuinely concerned for her well-being. As if she was...what?

What was the word? Oh, come on. There had to be a word for it...

Altruistic? Other than a bad joke's punchline, he couldn't remember ever hearing that word in conversation. Mainly because the word was just plain silly. It was impossible for a person to be truly altruistic. Impossible. You didn't get past puberty without thinking of yourself first. Altruism was just another way of saying "Easy Prey." and "Here, please cut off my head and take my gold."

So if he didn't know better, he'd think she was altruistic. But he did know better. He would have to be more careful around Lucite until he could figure out what her true intentions were.

"You grab her ankles and I'll take her arms," he said. Dough had managed to clear a nice path between the porch and the bedroom. "Just be careful, we'll need to -"

"Shh!" Lucite brought a finger to her lips and shushed him quickly.

The rogue gripped his dagger and crouched low. He strained to listen - even though he had no idea what he was supposed to be listening for.

Lucite stared into a patch of bushes on the other side of the residential neighborhood.

"We're being watched," she said.

Dough's grip loosened. "Oh."

Lucite stood up angrily. "I said we're being watched."

"Lady, unless someone runs out of those bushes waving a stick of dynamite, I'm not interested. Now help me get Clobberella into the house."

"You're not the least bit concerned that someone is spying on us?"

"Yes. I'm the least bit concerned." He clucked his tongue. "Now grab her legs."

----

As they brought Clobberella into the bedroom, they found the druid dressed in his "Ceremonial Healing Robe." The Ceremonial Healing Robe amounted to a moo-moo with long sleeves, cheap sequins and a V-neck showing off way too much chest.

"Holy God, Sam. Did that dress come with a bottle of wine and a box of condoms?"

"Rogue, you are in MY house and it's MY ass on the line. So for once in your miserable life, can you please shut up?"

"Just answer me this...Does the robe actually improve your chance of healing her?"

The druid stared at the rogue for a few seconds. "Well, sort of. The Ceremonial Healing Robe is supposed to give me a seven percent boost in casting power with a five minute cooldown."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"How should I know? Druid scripture is tough to translate. But I'm superstitious and it sounds powerful. Now shut it."

"Seven percent of what -?"

"Shut it, rogue. I suspect you still intend to kill me if I fail to get the poison out of Clobberella. So please shut it and let me concentrate."

The rogue did and so he shut it.

They surrounded her in a semi-circle. Dough to the left, Lucite to the right and Sam the Druid at the foot of the bed. Candles flamed all around the room. With plenty of light coming through the bedroom window, Dough asked if they could snuff the candles. Sam told him to go do something anatomically impossible to himself. Candles stayed.

Clobberella was lying on her stomach, her feet dangling off the end of the bed. Though it was going to make the operation even more difficult, Lucite had insisted that the woman's clothes stay on. Something about "lack of trust in a mentally deranged druid and a morally retarded rogue." So the clothing remained. Instead, a nearly perfect six inch square had been removed from the cloth, exposing the poisoned wound.

In silence, the druid concentrated on Clobberella's back. Lucite, looking uneasy with the whole situation, broke the quiet with a question.

"How do you two know each other again?"

"He's my fence," said the rogue.

"Oh." Pause. Then: "Wait."

"What?"

"You brought a dying girl to a fence?"

"Look, he's the only one that can help her."

"He's a fence."

"And I'm a rogue and you're a pain in the ass. So what? He's a druid. Do you have a better idea?"

"He's a fence."

Dough turned to Sam: "Do you mind if I bury her in the backyard?"

"No. Whatever keeps her quiet."

The druid squeezed something out of a tube and onto his palm. Then he rubbed his hands together vigorously. The smell hit Dough even harder than the gouda.

Sam rolled his eyes dramatically: "Oily Blackmouth fish oil. It protects -"

"It stinks."

"It protects against contagion. Now..." He stopped talking and halted the vigorous rubbing. Then he glanced quizzically at Lucite and crossed his arms.

Dough tapped his shoulder. "Why are you stopping?"

"So what if I'm a fence?" the druid asked.

"Crap." Dough muttered under his breath. "Here we go."

The druid shushed him and continued. "What do you have against my chosen profession?"

"You're a fence," Lucite stated matter-of-factly.

"I see." He pursed his lips. "I don't think I like you very much."

Lucite looked at the rogue. "So you two have a working relationship?"

"Yes."

"And your 'working relationship' wouldn't have anything to do with Clobberella's current condition now, would it?" She gave them each a contemptible glare. "Not that I'm questioning your morality or anything."

The two men exchanged quick glances.

Sam whispered to Dough: "Um, does Poison of Paralysis shut off the hearing, too?"

Dough shook his head with a smile.

They brought their gaze down to Clobberella.

Sam whispered again: "Um...if she finds out what I did..."

"She'll kill you."

Sam smiled politely at Lucite and cleared his throat. "We're fishing buddies."

Dough put his hand up. "That's enough. Sam. Fix the girl."

"Whatever."

The druid pulled up the moo-moo's sleeves. Then he reached his index finger toward the green oozing puss on Clobberella's back.

A small flicker of light came from the tip of his finger. The green ooze began to steam and bubble. The skin around the wound opened and a steady stream of blackened blood poured over the skin and onto the sheets. Clobberella convulsed once, sending a glob of green paste flying upward. Lucite had to duck out of the way to avoid it.

Sam fell backwards, tripped over his own feet and landed hard on the carpet.

"Did you get it?" Dough asked.

"I think so," Sam said. "Cover up the wound quickly before it gets infected. Use that gauze on the bedside table. Make sure you rub the gouda cheese over it first to clear out all the toxins."

"Sure, Sam," Dough said, throwing the cheese on the floor. "We'll do that."

Lucite placed the gauze over the bloody wound.

And they waited.

It was no more than an hour before they heard a faint whimpering come from Clobberella's lips.

Sam beamed. "Looks like I got the poison out of her system."

"She's not out of this yet," Dough said.

"Hey, I did my part. You said I just needed to remove the poison and you wouldn't kill me."

"Hmm. Let me clarify once more. If she dies, you die. I didn't realize I left that statement open to interpretation."

"But i got the poison out. I can't do anymore than that."

Dough whispered: "Listen to me, Druid. I don't want to see any 'malpractice' on your part. We both know you have a vested interest in making Clobberella go bye-bye. And I'd hate to see that happen. Because if she does wakes up, she might kill you. But if she doesn't wake up, I will kill you. Do we have an understanding?"

The druid rubbed his eyes and nodded. Sheepishly he whispered "Then, um...hmm."

"Yes?"

"Well," Sam looked at his own feet. "It's just that you might want to remove the gauze from her back. I might have...accidentally, of course...given you the gauze that I dipped in...um...something bad."

"I knew I could trust you to do the right thing, Sam." Then, to Lucite: "Go ahead and pull off the gauze."

"But-"

Sam tilted his head. "Please?"

Lucite removed it. The wound had gotten worse and now the puss oozed and red lines dashed in all directions like a scarlet spider web.

"Oh my god." Lucite whispered.

The druid scowled at the rogue: "I always hated you, Dough."

"I'm shocked. Now heal her."

The druid touched the wound again, producing a yellow light from his index finger, and the spider webs quickly disappeared.

This time, Clobberella screamed. The hairs on the back of Dough's neck sprang up. He pushed Lucite aside and knelt down beside her.

"Clob. It's me. It's Dough," he whispered.

"I...know," she said with some effort.

"You should be getting better soon. Sam got the poison out."

"I...know."

"Just rest a little. You'll be okay."

"Dough...not a rogue."

"Yes. Dough a rogue."

"Shut up...trying to tell you something."

"Oh."

"I killed two orcs...but it wasn't... a rogue...that poisoned me."

"It looks like a rogue's handiwork, Clob. You sure it wasn't?"

"Not a rogue..." And her eyes shut.

He looked up at Sam. "Wake her up."

"She needs to sleep."

"Don't fuck with me, Sam. Wake her up."

"She needs to rest."

"Do you have any idea what she was talking about?"

"I think I might." Sam checked to make sure that Clobberella was truly asleep, then continued in a soft voice. "The day those monsters came here looking for the amulet...well... I'm positive that two of them were orcs. But the rogue...Like I said before, I couldn't tell if he was a rogue or something else."

"You told me he smelled funny," Dough said. "What else did you notice?"

"Let me think." The druid put his index finger to his chin. "Four feet tall, grey skinned and...well...not that I noticed, but -"

"Well endowed?" Dough asked.

"Oh yes. Like he was carrying a Blunderbuss in his pants."

"Interesting." Dough said.

Lucite cleared her throat. "Someone tell me what's going on."

Dough responded. "Dark Iron Dwarves."

It was Sam's turn to look surprised: "But they live in Blackrock Depths. They never leave the depths. That's what I heard anyway."

"Well, I guess you heard wrong. Something brought them out. And where there's one, there's a hundred."

"You never told me where that amulet came from, rogue. I think you'd better start talking."

"Oh. Yeah. I never told you, did I? Funny story..."

----------

A hundred yards away from the house in a patch of bushes, a single Dark Iron Dwarf giggled as he watched the events unfold through the bedroom window. There was glee in seeing the rogue argue with the druid. Satisfaction in watching the one called "Clobberella" writhe in pain. He bit his tongue hard with his razor-sharp teeth - trying to keep his "excitement" from manifesting itself in his pants. The dwarf had work to do. No time for his third leg to start twitching.

Satisfied with his observations, he staked a large torch into the ground. A blue ribbon and a fine pink powder decorated the top of the torch. The dwarf struck a match, lit the ribbon and waited as the pink powder ignited. There was a loud poof and then billowing red smoke lifted high into the air.

---------

Miles away, another Dark Iron Dwarf saw the smoke, giggled excitedly and then lit his own torch to signal his receipt of the message. The communication had been sent, which meant Phase One was complete. Now it was his turn to implement Phase Two.

The Dark Iron Dwarf left the torch staked into the ground and turned his attention to the next objective: A towering building with the words "Lucky Aces Casino and Resort" printed in large red letters over the doors. Phase Two happened to be inside the glitzy gambling establishment.

And Phase Two was losing his ass in Blackjack.

Chapter 5 - In Steps or Phases at the Lucky Aces

The Lucky Aces Casino and Resort was the pinnacle of Azerothian luxury and entertainment. It wasn't the most popular gambling destination - Willy's Craps and Cutlery held that prestigious honor - but it did have the distinction of being the most glamorous.

While Lucky Aces maintained the policy: "Bring the whole family down for some good ol' fashioned family fun," they didn't exactly do much to encourage you to bring the kids - unless you wanted to trade them in for a rack of chips, in which case they were more than welcome.

In recent years, the casino had become so packed with children bearing the tattoo "Property of Lucky Aces" that management was forced to convert the Daycare Center into a makeshift holding pen. The little tikes were chained and fattened up in a darkened room. You might find this disturbing, but some high-rollers demanded human cuisine - and I'm not talking about burgers and fries. More like veal without the bovine. Some folks are Vegetarians and others are Humanitarians. Different strokes...

As such, the casino was not without its scandals. Since grand opening, the casino had been forced to shut down thirty times - all for the same offense: Patron Death. Customers died from various ailments and abnormalities (usually following a prolonged winning streak). Causes of death ranged from sudden heart attack and seizure to "Slipping on the wet bathroom floor." Twenty five of the deaths were due to slippage, causing the local authorities to place a sign over the bathroom door that read "Slippery. Mind your feet." Legally, this absolved the casino from liability - even if it did nothing to quell the rising death toll of "lucky, yet clumsy patrons."

Eventually, a law passed stating "Death will no longer be tolerated in or around the premises of the Lucky Aces Casino, but will no longer be cause for complete shutdown or criminal investigation." The law passed on the heels of a generous contribution to City Hall from the owner of Lucky Aces Casino.

Some called this an incredible coincidence, but didn't want to get involved. Some remained blissfully ignorant. And some mysteriously died in their sleep after asking too many questions.

On this particular day, the Dark Iron Dwarf crossed the threshold of the casino as inconspicuously as possible. He was dressed in a full tunic with a scarf to hide his face. To all neutral observers, he was simply a gnome or an inconspicuous dwarf. Nobody would recognize him for what he was. At least not yet.

-----

"The gentleman shows nineteen," the dealer said, turning over his card. "Dealer shows ten."

"Hit me," said the priest.

"But -"

"Hit me."

The dealer flipped the card. Eight.

"The gentleman busts. Perhaps the gentleman would like the dealer to explain the rules of Blackjack to him again?"

"No," he said with a frown. "The 'gentleman' wouldn't. I've almost decyphered the object of this demeaning little game. Soon, your money shall be mine. For instance, I have come to the conclusion that I am not allowed to exceed the alloted twenty seven."

"Twenty one."

"Right. Correct. Please deal again."

"As sir wishes."

A crowd had formed around the table. Most onlookers were laughing at the man in the extravagent robe and brightly colored boots. They were transfixed as he continued to lose hand after hand and with it, a veritable fortune. Blackjack table number three had become a highly entertaining floor show.

Amid all the attention, there came a strong and startling tug at the priest's robe.

"Lord Glick." a voice whispered at his ankles.

"Go away." He kicked the annoying runt with the heel of his boot.

"But, Lord Glick..."

The dealer finished shuffling the cards and dealt the next hand. Two tens for Lord Glick.

"Now that's more like it," he said. "About time you dealt me a winning hand."

The tugging on his robe continued.

"I told you to go away, little monster."

"But..."

The dealer began his card-call with amusement - this time playing for the crowd.

"The gentleman shows twenty," he said, turning over his card. "Dealer shows three."

Lord Glick rapped his knuckles on the table and bit hard on his tongue - deep in concentration. The tugging continued, but he paid no attention. This was important. This was his time. He was about to show the casino what a winner looked like.

"Split them," he said proudly.

The crowd erupted in reactions ranging from laughter to shock. Even the Dark Iron Dwarf stopped tugging long enough to look surprised.

"Does sir truly wish to split a twenty?" The dealer cocked his head patronizingly. "Even when the dealer has a three showing?"

"Sir does not need the dealer to ask so many damned questions. Split them. And split them well."

The dealer smirked. It was apparent that he was trying not to laugh at the stupid priest. He started to flip the card over, when Glick held up his hand. The dealer stopped in mid-motion.

"Wait."

Now he regarded the monstrosity tugging at his leg: A dark iron dwarf that he affectionately called "Blackrock Bernie."

"Stop tugging at once," he said. "What news do you bring?"

"My lord," he bowed on the cheap carpet. "Phase one is complete."

"Phase one..." he murmured. "You dwarves and your 'phases.' You know I hate that term."

"Yes, my lord."

"I asked you to call it 'Step One', but no. You little bastards do everything in phases."

"Yes, my lord."

He turned his attention back to the dealer. "Let me ask you a question. If you conducted a plan in three steps, would you call it a three step plan or a three phase plan?"

"I..um..does sir wish for his cards now?"

"Sir does not. Sir wishes for intellectual conversation because sir spends too much time with monstrosities that have brains the size of rat shit and dealers that seem to crave the cold steel of my knife."

"My lord, I said Phase One complete."

"And I heard you." His eyes widened and he leaned toward the dealer. "Damn if these little bastards aren't persistent, eh?"

The dealer cocked an eyebrow and leaned away.

"Right," the priest said. "Okay, I got it. So we're done with all this then."

The dwarf thought about it for a second, then said "Would appear so."

"This is wonderful news, Bernie. Wonderful news."

"Master knows I hate being called that...that name."

"Yes. I know, Bernie. Now, onto Step Two I believe."

"Phase Two is ready to begin, sir."

"Fine. Phase Two. Please allow me to finish this hand of Blackjack. In the meantime, call your brethren, grab the gold and set up the demolition charges around the casino. Be ready to barricade the doors when I leave. And remember that nobody gets out of here alive."

"Yes, Lord Glick."

He felt the need to clarify. "Um..except me, of course."

"Of course, Lord Glick."

"Good. Now," he turned his attention back to the cards. "You were about to deal me a winner."

After witnessing the exchange, the dealer's smug smile had disappeared completely.

The crowd had lost it's swagger and just looked uncomfortable. One of the patrons whispered "Why that's just plain rude."

He couldn't have agreed more. Rude, but absolutely necessary.

All in all, the patrons didn't seem to understand their fate yet. Glick had anticipated this when planning the elaborate scheme.

"Come now," the priest said soothingly to the man across from him. "We still have a few minutes before this casino is reduced to so much rubble. Deal the cards."

"But..that...that was a.."

"Dark Iron Dwarf. Yes."

The murmuring from the crowd around him had ceased. There was an uneasy silence now.

"Um...but...they never leave..."

"They never leave Blackrock Depths. No."

"Then...what...?"

"Deal the cards, son. And once again, I implore you to deal them well - as if your life depended on it."

The dealer's hands were slick with sweat and shaking so much that he could barely hold the card in question. As he prepared to flip it, he watched thirty dark iron dwarves enter the casino, leap into the Cashier Booth, maul the poor woman working there and gleefully rip her arms out at the sockets while she screamed in terror and pain. They took turns beating her silly with her own arms while the remaining twenty eight clapped their hands, cheered and danced around the victim in a circle. When the woman stopped making noises, they playfully sauntered out of the booth holding bags filled with gold.

Panicking, the crowd moved swiftly toward the exit like a stampede of wild cleft boars. They were stopped short by another group of Dark Irons standing guard with battle axes and torches. Nobody was leaving.

At the Blackjack table Lord Glick waited impatiently.

"Flip it," he said sternly.

The dealer flipped it over. A five.

"Hmm. Not good," Glick said.

"Maybe the next one will be - "

"No next one, kiddo. Sorry about this."

Using misdirection, he touched the card with his left hand. When the dealer brought his attention to the card, he produced a sharp knife from his belt with his right hand. The priest cocked it back and threw it at the dealer's eye. It struck him hard and deep. The dealer grasped at the knife and quickly collapsed, his head landing with a dull thud on the green felt of the Blackjack table. The blood seeped into the felt and around the cards, gushing like a faucet.

Lord Glick snapped his fingers and two dark iron dwarves responded to the snap by fighting their way through the panicked crowd to get to him.

"Yes, Lord Glick," one of them said, kneeling on the carpet.

"Wheel me out of this hell hole."

The dark iron dwarf called Bernie unlocked the wheels on the priest's chair.

"Listen and listen well," Glick called to the crowd in the loudest voice he could muster. "At this moment there are approximately five hundred dark iron dwarves in and around the premises. And they answer only to me."

He paused and licked his lips, savoring the situation.

"That, my friends, is true power," he continued. "Now, you will allow me to leave peacefully. At which time I will call off my dark irons and you may resume your unhealthy gambling obsessions. Sadly, the Blackjack table may be out of commission for quite some time."

As Bernie pushed the wheelchair toward the entrance, the priest watched as a group of dark irons engaged in a playful sword fight using two human legs as swords. Those that weren't being dismembered or raped watched the display in horror.

Two dark irons held the doors open for the wheelchair and Bernie pushed it through. After being in the casino for so long, the light was too much for the priest and he needed to shield his eyes against the blinding sun.

Bernie pushed the chair over the rocky terrain and when they were at a safe distance, the dwarf locked the wheels and bowed to his master.

"What are your orders, sir."

"Barricade it and burn it. Nobody leaves."

"As you command."

A swarm of dwarves emerged from the trees and surrounding countryside. They mounted explosives at all corners of the towering casino and barricaded the doors. Even from Glick's position, he could still hear the screaming. A few patrons attempted to escape from a side door. They were immediately pounced upon and disemboweled by the waiting mob.

In minutes, the charges were set, the doors were locked down and the dwarves had retreated to a safe distance. The screams were louder now and the pounding was intense. The customers were trying to break through the windows, but the windows were not made from glass and therefore did not give in to their desperate banging.

The dwarves gathered in the general direction of the priest. Lord Glick was pleased - pleased with his current position of power and lordship among the rats of Blackrock Depths. They had been rudderless and in need of direction. He had supplied that by promising to obtain the Amulet of Control and...well...Glick hadn't thought much farther than that.

He had fought so hard to get to this position. He'd endured so much. So...

Stop, he thought, staring down at the cursed wheelchair. Focus.

"Barricaded and rigged, sir."

"And the gold?"

The dwarf nodded.

"Then burn it," the priest said.

"As you command."

The dark iron dwarf, Bernie, pointed and nodded to the dwarf holding the detonator.

There was a long scraping noise - like nails on steel - then the explosions came. A synchronized popping sound split the air and sent the casino foundation crumbling into a fireball of pure heat and light. The screaming halted abruptly.

The sign reading "Lucky Aces" fell just a few feet away from him. The heat from the inferno made the sweat pour down his face. He stared at the flames, making sure there were no stragglers - no survivors.

As the dwarves continued slaughtering any potential witnesses surrounding the casino, Lord Glick smiled. He was comforted with the knowledge that the Amulet of Control would soon be his. Today was a good day - and with the inevitable death of that cursed rogue, Dough, it was only going to get better.

Chapter 6 - The Payment of Seventy-Two Gnomish Virgins

It took less than a minute to transform the Lucky Aces Casino from the height of Azerothian luxury to nothing more than a raging bonfire. Smoke filled the air, thick and acrid. The aroma of burnt flesh was overwhelming - like a thousand overcooked hams glazed with honey. Even before the authorities arrived at the scene, the death toll had already climbed into the high triple digits.

And minutes before the explosion that would wipe the Lucky Aces Casino off the Azerothian map forever, life in Sam the Druid's house was already moving at a pace one could only describe as frenetic.

The druid, accompanied by the rogue and his female companion, Lucite, moved quietly from the bedroom to what was left of the living room. Given the extreme pain and trauma of Clobberella's "surgery", the three of them wanted her to continue sleeping. Sam explained that even though the surgery had been successful, she still wasn't out of danger.

Dough let his eyes wander around the house. The home had been in pristine condition the last time he'd visited, and Sam had swelled with pride over his unique and somewhat bizarre possessions. Now... Well, now it was a total mess - as if a few dozen ogres had gangbanged a gaggle of goblins and had to leave in a hurry.

Sam surveyed the damage and rubbed his forehead.

"I'll be booted from the Home Owners Association for sure now," he said.

Dough scanned the room for someplace to sit. "Oh, I don't know, Sam. Why don't you just tell the Home Owner's association the truth? You know, that you're running a fencing operation out of your own house. In the middle of their neighborhood. I'm sure they'll understand."

"You're not making this any easier for me."

"I'm not trying to."

"They'll kick me out for sure," he sobbed. "I've already been written up for murdering the neighbor's pet murlock. It snuck into my garden and when I lit a lantern it made that horrible gargling sound they always make when you surprise them. You know?"

To demonstrate the murlock's surprise, he waved his hands in the air and made a throaty noise - like an opera singer with a slit throat.

"Sam, I honestly don't care -"

"So how was I supposed to know it was a domesticated murlock?" Sam choked back tears. "Just because it was wearing a collar and a t-shirt with the words 'Mom and Dad went to the Wetlands and all I got was this lousy Murlock?' You tell me what you'd do if you saw a little appendaged fish running around in the dark."

"Can you stop talking long enough to give me a hand with this thing?"

Dough nodded to a long bench lying against the wall.

Sam was dazed and didn't respond right away. Then he accompanied Dough and grabbed one side of the bench. They set it on the floor and Dough brushed off the dirt and dust with his sleeve.

"Let's just sit for a few minutes. Okay?"

This was mostly directed at Lucite, whose facial expression might have been misinterpreted as shock by a less learned observer. However, Dough had seen this facial expression many times before and was able to recognize it almost immediately. This was beyond shock. In fact, the last time he'd seen this expression, it was while watching a traveling companion get gored by a hungry Bloodfist Ogre. The ogre had ripped open the man's stomach and sucked out his intestines as easily as someone cracking a crab leg. The surprised expression on the dying man's face was nearly identical to Lucite's.

Back when this evening began, Lucite had prepared for a blind date, some dinner and perhaps some nooky-nook. Instead, she had become entangled in his everyday life. Lucite was living in his world now, and it wasn't a world he wished on anyone.

If he wanted to keep her sane, he needed to break the silence.

"So," Dough began. "What do we know so far?"

No response. The rogue continued: "I'll tell you what I know. I sold an amulet to Sam. The dark iron dwarves somehow found out about it and came here with the intent to steal the amulet away from him. Instead of just saying 'I don't know where it is' Sam decided to sell out one of his trusted friends. So he sent the murderers to Clobberella's house where they successfully destroyed her home and poisoned her. The end."

"I didn't sell her out, rogue."

"Well, you certainly didn't protect her either." Dough stabbed his finger at the druid's chest. "Unless druid's have the power of telepathy and you were planning to send her a mental warning, I'd say you sold her out."

"I had to say something. They would have killed me."

"Coward."

"Look, just don't tell her what I did. Okay?"

"I won't," said the rogue. "But only because I still need you alive. How about you Lucite?"

Lucite just stared at the wall.

"There," the rogue continued. "Doesn't look like Lucite will say anything either. Your secret is safe for now."

"Uh-huh. Until such time that you feel it's advantageous to either blackmail me or simply tell her yourself."

"Exactly."

Something broke over Lucite's face and she cleared her throat.

"If the amulet is so powerful, then why did you sell it to Sam?" she asked the rogue.

Dough shrugged. "For the money." He rolled his eyes. "Is that a trick question?"

"No," she said dryly. "If that amulet is so dangerous, why didn't you try to hide it? Why would you risk it falling into the wrong hands?"

"Oh, that. Well..."

Sam sneered. "Because he never intended to let me keep it."

"Now hold on a sec-"

"You had every intention of stealing it back once you ran out of gold. Didn't you, rogue?" The druid crossed his arms.

"Hmm." Dough considered. "Well, yes. But only because it's so dangerous. Damn it, Sam. You make it sound so petty."

"It is petty. Especially with all the business we've done in the past. I thought you and I had a pretty good working relationship."

"Sam," Dough said, closing his eyes. "Have you ever actually looked inside the lockbox in your basement?"

"How do you know about the lockbox in my basement?"

"Mm-hmm. Have you opened it lately?"

"Well, yes. But only to put more things inside -"

"Ever wonder why you're able to cram so many things into it?"

"Well, no," the druid replied. Then he clenched his jaw. "Until now."

"Uh-huh. You might want to install a better lock."

"You bastard."

"Look, I'm just saying that I never intended to let you keep the amulet for more than a few weeks."

"Well, it's not here anymore."

"Yes, I understand that. So where is it?"

"I'm not telling you the amulet's location yet," Sam growled. "I have a feeling I might find myself meeting with a grisly death if I let slip that bit of information. Is anyone hungry? I can make some parsnips and cheddar sandwiches."

"Where is it, Sam? I'm not going to kill you. I'll still need a good fence after all this is done."

"It's not like I'm the only fence in the area."

"No," he considered. "But you're the only one stupid enough to keep storing your possessions in an unsecured lockbox."

Sam clucked his tongue. "Not telling."

"Haven't I made it clear how dangerous this amulet is? There's no time for secrets. If the dark irons are after it -"

"It wasn't so dangerous that you couldn't line your pockets with my gold, was it? You've explained the danger. Albeit in pedestrian terms, but rest assured the amulet is safe."

"Safe?"

"Yes. Safe. Don't worry about it."

"Fine," said Dough. "I suggest we get some sleep and then head out in a few -"

BOOM.

"-hours?" He jumped off the bench. "What the fuck-?"

The foundation of the house rocked. A mirror fell off the wall and shattered. The bench shook and knocked Lucite to the ground. There were yelps and shouts of surprise throughout the neighborhood.

Sam ran for the front door and stared off into the distance.

"That was an explosion," he pointed to the north, "That must have been an explosion."

"Nice work, Sam," said Dough as he helped Lucite to her feet. "Did you use your powers of druidity to figure that one out?"

"It came from over there," he said, pointing. "I can see smoke behind the hill."

Dough leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The timing of the explosion was too coincidental. There had to be some connection.

"What's that?" Sam was pointing to something. "Dough, come here."

"What?"

"In the bushes...do you see red smoke?"

Dough joined Sam on the porch. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight. There it was. Red billowing smoke coming from a patch of bushes a hundred yards away. It was the same patch of bushes that Lucite had warned him about earlier.

Damn.

"I told you, rogue," yelled Lucite from behind him.

"Shut up, Lucite," he said. "Not another word."

"I told you we were being watched from those bushes. But you didn't care did you?"

"Can someone close her mouth, please?"

Sam shrugged. Nothing he could do about it.

"Hello. I'm a spiffily dressed rogue," she said, in her best Dough impersonation (which was also her drunken ogre impression). "I'm not the least bit concerned about anything you have to say. You are just a big stupid, Lucite. A big ugly stupid."

"Lucite, do you remember what you saw in the bushes earlier?"

"I'm a rogue," she continued. "I like to get girls drunk, sling them over a horse and rape them. I also enjoy getting wasted and skipping out on my dinner check so that I can puke in a gutter and make my date pay the bill."

"You said you saw someone in the bushes. Who was it?"

"Look at me! I'm a rogue," she said. "Wherever there are repercussions and consequences for my actions I am nowhere to be found. Maybe I'm in a tavern sucking down bottles of wine so that I can puke on my blind date over and over again and get a refund from the dating service. Maybe -"

"Damn it! I get it already. Just say you fucking told me so and answer my questions."

"I told you so."

"Good. Now what did you see in those bushes?"

"I don't remember."

Sam turned to Dough. "There's somebody watching us from those bushes?"

"Yes."

"You think he has something to do with the explosion?"

"That depends on what exploded. But yeah, don't you?"

Sam nodded.

There was a loud banging noise as someone collapsed and knocked a few photographs off the wall behind them. They turned to see Clobberella fall forward and then try to get back up. Dried blood was still caked all over her body and in her long hair, giving her the appearance of a walking corpse. She could barely stand on her own.

Lucite dashed over and slipped her arm underneath Clobberella's, trying to give the ailing woman some support.

"Go back to bed, Clob," Dough said.

"Like hell." She spat up a stream of blood and then braced herself on the wall. "I know where that explosion came from."

"Sure you do," Dough nodded. "Now go back to bed."

"Don't patronize me, rogue. I'll split your skull open if you do that again."

"Sorry," he said. "Now, please go back to bed."

"You want to know what exploded?" Clobberella asked. "I suspect it was the Lucky Aces Casino."

"And why would you suspect that?"

"Because that's where I sent the bastards that did this to me."

"You sent them where?"

"I told them that I stashed the Amulet of Control at the casino"

"At the Lucky Aces?"

"Yes," She staggered to the bench and practically fell onto it. "Sam, can you please get me some water?"

"Certainly."

Clobberella cleared her throat. "After I killed the two orcs, the dark iron dwarf threatened to poison me. I had to tell him something. There weren't a lot of options open."

"You lied to the dwarf and told him the amulet was at the casino?"

"Yes. But he poisoned me anyway."

Dough smiled warmly. "Good thing we arrived when we did. I'm just glad we were able to get you healed in time."

"I swear I'm going to kill you, Dough." Clobberella looked away and coughed up more blood. "If I get through this, I'll rip your throat out with my fingertips."

"Maybe I should've let you die in your cottage?" Dough asked. "Or maybe this is your way of saying thank you?"

"You didn't bring me here to keep me alive. You brought me here because you saw a financial opportunity."

"What do you want from me?" The rogue kept his distance and remained on the porch. "I saved your life."

"Only because you think you'll profit from it."

"Profit? Listen, you were dying. I just wanted to help-"

"Help with what? Help yourself to figure out what was so valuable that someone would try to kill me for it?"

"You're wrong, Clob," Dough said angrily. "And don't you even think of chiming in on this one, Lucite."

Lucite batted her eyelid with an innocent "who, me?" look toward the rogue.

"Maybe I'm wrong," Clobberella said, rubbing her swollen cheek. "But I doubt it. The fact that you took that damned amulet out of Blackrock and sold it to a fence despite the dangers involved is enough. I'll kill you for that. You lied to me. Nobody lies to me."

"Self righteous bit -"

"Do not finish that sentence." She turned to Sam as he came back with a glass of water. Sam handed her the glass and she thanked him, then proceeded to drink the contents down in just a few gulps.

Clobberella handed the glass back to Sam and looked him in the eye. "I wasn't about to send them here and put Sam in any danger, so I tried to buy myself some time by lying about the location. Even so, it looks like they decided to stop here first."

"What do you mean?" Dough asked.

"Well," she replied, as if speaking to a two year old. "I don't think Sam would trash his own house, rogue. My guess is they came here and trashed Sam's house looking for the amulet, too. Am I right, Sam?"

Lucite and Dough glanced at each other and then to Sam uncomfortably. Sam cleared his throat.

"What?" Clobberella asked. "What am I missing?"

"Nothing," said Sam. "Yes. They came here as well."

"So I told the dwarf that the amulet was in a lockbox at the Lucky Aces Casino. It wouldn't take long for them to figure out I was lying."

Lucite looked confused. "But why would they blow the whole place up?"

"My guess?" Dough said. "I suspect for one of two reasons. Either they couldn't find the amulet and they blew it up to cover their tracks. Or..."

"Or," Clobberella cut in. "they're sending us a message."

Message... Dough bit his lip and thought about that word for a minute. Red billowing smoke and the casino explodes a few miles away...

"Damn," he said, pulling out his dagger. "The red smoke coming from the bushes was a message. Whoever is in those bushes was signaling to someone at the casino."

"Signaling what?" Lucite asked.

"That's what I'm going to find out."

And the rogue was gone.

---------

The dark iron dwarf finished picking the glob out of his nose and packed up the last of his belongings. This spot in the bushes had been his home for almost a week, and he would certainly miss it. It was so much different than Blackrock Depths, and the dirt had a cleanliness to it that he'd grown fond of. Still, he longed for the brimstone filled air of his cave.

Spying came naturally to him. Voyeurism wasn't just a profession, it was a hobby. He enjoyed watching - and it didn't matter what. He especially enjoyed watching violent sex of any variety. The little man once observed a dwarf make love to a trout and then beat it to death out of shame. He enjoyed the act of watching so much that he became the perfect candidate when this job requisition opened up.

The posting on the break-room wall had read: "Position Open. Excellent Pay and Benefits! Wonderful Opportunity!" then, in smaller print at the bottom of the posting: "Compensation may include, but will be limited to one of the following: 5000 Gold Pieces, a palacial estate on the outskirts of the Burning Steppes, seventy-two gnomish virgins and -"

The last word was significantly smaller than the rest, and nearly impossible to read even with a magnifying glass...

"-death."

In fact, the word was in such tiny print that the dwarf had just assumed it was a typo or perhaps the word "derth." While he had no clue what the definition of "Derth" was, he assumed that it referred to an article of clothing the seventy two virginal gnomes would be dressed in when they were presented to him.

His fellow dwarves had mocked and chided him about taking the job.

"It suicide, dummy," they said, and pummeled him with rotten melons.

He didn't understand why they called it suicide. All he was required to do was monitor a house and wait for that stupid rogue to show up. Then send a signal to the dwarves at the casino. That was easy, not suicidal.

He smothered the fire with a thick blanket and waited until the smoke began to dissipate, then he turned to leave his perch forever. With a smile on his beaky face, he walked forward two paces and...

...bounced off the rogue's stomach.

"Rogue." He muttered, and dropped his pack in surprise.

"Dark Iron Dwarf. Should've known."

"Let me pass, rogue," he said.

"No use running, little beast. You know I'm faster."

"But not smarter."

The dwarf scooped up some of the warm soil and flung it into Dough's eyes. Then he grabbed his pack and...

...was caught from behind by the rogue.

"Don't do that again," said Dough.

"What you want? I tell you nothing."

"Answers. Lots and lots of answers."

The dwarf smiled slyly. "You get none from me."

Dough nodded, looked around to make sure they were alone, and sunk the blade of his dagger deep into the dwarf's shoulder. It cut through like butter, and he could see the tip of the blade on the other side, poking from inside the skin.

The dwarf shrieked. "Get it out!"

"Um, no." He yawned playfully. "That would defeat the whole purpose of torturing you for information, now wouldn't it?"

"Get it out. Damn you!"

"Okay. I'll get it out. But first..."

He closed his fist and punched the little monster straight in the head. The dwarf collapsed.

Dough collected the little man's backpack and carried him back to the house.

The rogue did not hear the ticking of the timer inside the backpack. The timer had begun counting down the moment the dwarf released the red smoke, and it was nearly finished. He also missed the fact that the timer was connected to three sticks of dynamite sewn discreetly into lining of the backpack.

Dark Iron Dwarves have always been very good at tying up loose ends...

Chapter 7 - Backpack go Boom

It was a scene that would terrify Azerothian folk for decades - the fire, the smell, the incalculable number of dead trapped and smoldering inside the Lucky Aces Casino. The cleanup would take years. But to anyone involved in the tragedy, the day would never truly be forgotten.

However, Lord Glick had moved on quite nicely. If the damned smoke would just disappear, he could forget that the entire mess had ever happened. The destruction of the casino had been nothing more than a means to an end. A smoky inconvenience, but still...

At the moment he held a wet cloth over his nose and mouth, trying desperately to breathe. The smoke flowed like fog over the hills and around him, staining his robe and burning his eyes.

"Is everything ready?" Glick asked.

His lungs were on fire, yet he didn't dare complain out loud. That would show weakness. And weakness in the dark iron culture meant you were basically asking for death the same way a neighbor might ask for a cup of sugar.

"Just a few minutes more, my lord," Bernie replied. Bernie was his dark iron lieutenant, and his main contact to the hundreds of other dwarves under his command.

The blazing inferno burned out of control, spreading to neighboring buildings and trees. He knew that they needed to make their exit soon.

Five dark irons carried Lord Glick to a horse-drawn carriage where they set him down gently on the padded leather seat of the interior. Glick smoothed out his robe and used both hands to pull his dead legs into the carriage, trying in vain to make them cooperate. In the end, he needed Bernie's assistance to get his right foot all the way inside.

The dwarves loaded the wheelchair into the back of the carriage and moved away quietly. Bernie climbed in and sat next to his master.

The dwarf clucked his tongue and stared at Lord Glick's legs.

"Yes?" Glick asked from behind the damp rag.

"My lord," he began, "The others...They wonder about your legs."

"What about them?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"They say you feeble. They not think feeble human can lead great dark irons to victory."

Glick stared at the little man. Be careful now... he thought.

"Well, what do you think?"

"My lord, I think my opinion the only one that matter," he said. Then: "For now."

"And what is your opinion?" Glick coughed into the wet rag as the smoke filled the cab.

"I not think you want to hear it. But I'm smart dwarf, my lord. And we all want amulet. So I tell dwarves that you are strong, and you will bring us amulet anyway."

"And I will."

"I know you will," he said dryly, with a hint of threat. And then added too quickly: "My lord."

Glick knew it was time to change the subject, lest the dwarf find a reason to murder him.

"Have preparations been made?"

"Yes," replied Bernie. "This carriage bring you safely to destination."

"So we have determined the destination?"

"No, my lord. But scouts have been dispatched to druid's home. They have orders to follow the rogue and report back with further information."

"Bernie, if Dough leaves the house before the scouts arrive..."

"Impossible," the dwarf picked at his large incisors with the arrogance of a predator amid crippled prey. "With the amount of poison I personally administered to woman, she won't be able to move for hours yet."

"Even though the druid healed her?"

"Yes. I am dark iron, my lord."

"Undoubtedly," he coughed again into the damp rag and squinted hard against the smoke.

The dark iron dwarf stared, as if sizing up a twenty ounce porterhouse.

Glick cleared his throat and returned the glare.

"The rogue," Glick said, "he has a certain loyalty to Clobberella. I'm not sure why, since she doesn't seem to feel the same loyalty toward him. He'll want to insure her safety before he begins his pursuit of the amulet."

"Yes, that is the plan."

"Then everything is going smoothly. Take me out of this smoke." He made a sour face. "It's putting me in a foul mood."

"Of course, sir."

The carriage rambled forward, pulled by two large horses. Glick held onto the railing tightly, trying not to fall out. He closed his eyes as the carriage moved.

"Bernie," he began. "What about the dwarf that signaled us from the druid's neighborhood? Has he been dealt with?"

The dark iron smiled. "That loose end will be tied up in approximately eight minutes, sir."

"How can you be so precise?"

"Countdown on the explosives started when he lit signal flare, my lord."

"Ah," Glick nodded. "Very crafty indeed. You seem confident."

"I packed the explosives myself, as well as the timer. Yes, extremely confident."

"And if he's been captured already?"

"Impossible."

"How can you be so sure? The rogue is very clever..."

"He won't be captured," Bernie said, then reconsidered. "But even if he has..."

"I sense doubt."

"Well, even if rogue did manage to capture the spotter, the rogue wouldn't be stupid enough to bring the backpack along with him. He must know it loaded with explosives."

"I hope so."

"Besides, my lord," the dwarf shrugged. "My dark irons should be at the house very soon. There won't be any time for him to interrogate the spotter."

Lord Glick nodded again. Things were going remarkably well, and the smoke was dissipating as they moved farther away from the raging inferno. He opened his eyes and rubbed them hard, then looked at Bernie.

He had one more question to ask, but didn't quite know how to vocalize it. If any further weakness showed, he could receive his death in that carriage before they even made it to the next phase. But he just had to know...

Blackrock Bernie picked up on Glick's troubled face and returned the glare.

"Yes, my lord?" Bernie said cooly. "Is something else bothering you?"

Careful...

"Is she..." he stopped and looked out the window, away from the dwarf. "Is the woman still with them?"

"Ah yes, the woman," the yellowed, pointed teeth showed over the creature's bottom lip. "My lordship asks about woman."

"Do not mock me, dwarf," Glick said, finding a sudden spark of defiance. "I may be crippled, but I'm not helpless. Is she, or isn't she?"

"She is," he replied with a somber nod. "The signal indicated four people in house. I can only assume that-"

"No. Don't bother. I understand what it means."

Glick balled his hands into fists and stared at the little monster - his trusted lieutenant and at the same time, his captor. A monster that addressed him as "My Lord", but never in a respectful tone, only in sheer mockery. And every time he heard that title "my lord" it reminded him of what they did to him - the horror that he faced in those depths. The horror that he vowed never to face again.

All caused by one crafty rogue. A rogue he would see dead by his own hands. But for now they needed him alive. Only for the moment.

If the rogue died now, he would never get the amulet back.

Lord Glick was comforted in the knowledge that even if the rogue had somehow been able to capture the dwarf, he wouldn't be stupid enough to bring a backpack full of dynamite with him. Dough was too smart for that.

Wasn't he?

--------

Dough put the backpack down near his feet and turned his attention to the dark iron dwarf.

"Cover up those windows, Sam," Dough said, studying a length of rope. "I don't want any of your neighbors peeking in on us."

"Understood."

Dough set the dwarf down on a chair and went to work on the ropes. The hilt of the knife stuck out of the dwarf's shoulder and made it that much harder to tie him up.

"Be still please," Dough said, pulling the ropes tight.

The dwarf howled in pain, the knife buried deep in his shoulder.

Sam worked fast to get the drapes pulled and the windows covered. He mumbled to himself as he worked - something barely intelligible, yet words like "bastard" and "thief" were audible from time to time.

Clobberella sat on the bench with her head down, looking like she could collapse at any second. They begged her to return to the bedroom, but she insisted on being part of the interrogation. She said she wanted to help, but Dough wondered if she didn't get some perverse kick from watching men in excruciating pain, even if they weren't human.

The dark iron screamed again.

Lucite went pale.

"This is inhumane, rogue," Lucite said angrily. "This isn't right at all. I know you're a sick man, but I never thought you could lower yourself to torturing another living being."

"You didn't?" he replied with a grin. "That's refreshing. Especially since an hour ago I was a rapist, a thief and a coward."

"I never called you a coward," she said, then put her finger to her chin. "Oh, wait. Yes I did. But this is different. You can't just leave that knife in his shoulder."

"Lucite, he's a dark iron dwarf. I'm pretty sure this doesn't count as inhumane."

"It's wrong."

"But necessary."

"I can't go along with this."

"Fine," Dough finished tying the knots. "Then what would you suggest?"

Lucite paused. She hadn't really expected him to solicit opinions.

"Exactly," Dough said. "Good at judging, lousy at offering alternatives."

"Talk to him," she pleaded. "Just talk to him. Without all this violence."

For a second Dough just stared at her. Then he started to laugh. Even Sam and Clobberella snickered a bit.

"Don't laugh," she said, looking around the room.

The rogue shrugged.

"Okay," he said. Then turned to the dwarf. "Mister Dark Iron? Would you be so kind as to tell me who you were signaling to, what's going on and who's behind all of this?"

Silence.

"Uh-huh," Dough nodded. Then to Lucite: "Should we let him go now?"

"You're a monster, rogue. I should've left you puking in that gutter."

"True, but think of all the fun you would've missed."

"That's enough," Clobberella said firmly. "We don't have time for bickering. Dough, something's not right here."

"What do you mean 'not right'?"

"I don't know. Something's bothering me."

Dough didn't want to admit it, but something was bothering him as well. His instincts were buzzing all over the place and he didn't know why. All throughout this ordeal he had ignored his instincts and at every turn he had paid the price. This time he wanted to heed them, but they refused to give up any tangible information - just vague warnings of danger. Grabbing the dwarf had been so easy. It really shouldn't have been so simple.

The rogue pulled another knife from his belt and held it out in front of him, letting the blade catch the light and glint into the dwarf's eyes.

The dark iron stared at it, but made no expression other than pain.

"Tell me what exploded," Dough said calmly.

Silence.

The rogue twisted the knife in his shoulder until a fresh stream of blood spurted over the hilt and began to stain the shirt in a flowery red pattern.

"Casino," the dwarf replied.

"Why?"

The dwarf turned his eyes to Lucite and smiled - a big toothy grin that showed off fang and a yellowing puss caked over the gums. His hollow eyes took her in as if trying to seduce her.

"Maybe you just talk to me again, huh?" the dwarf said smoothly. "Without violence? Maybe that work."

Lucite shuddered.

Dough twisted the knife, causing the dwarf to cry out. Then he brought his face close to the dark iron's ear.

"You don't talk to her, dwarf. You talk to me."

Dough planted his right foot on the dwarf's chest for leverage and yanked the knife out of his shoulder. Blood flew like spittle from the gaping wound. The rogue held both knives tightly and thrust them down with all his strength into the dwarf's thighs. They cut through easily right down to the chair beneath.

The dwarf howled and waved his hands wildly in the air.

Sam clucked his tongue. "And how am I supposed to get the stains out of this carpet, rogue?"

"Quiet," Dough said, then whispered into the monster's ear again. "Talk or the knives go someplace else next time."

"I won't talk," he said beneath tears. "You better kill me."

"You think we don't know what you little bastards are planning? Tell us who sent you."

Sam the druid was having trouble watching the display. His stomach wasn't adjusted to the kind of torture the rogue was dishing out. He searched for a way to keep himself busy.

"Can I get anyone something cold to drink?" He asked, which, in the current situation, was like asking a coroner if he could use a glass of tomato juice.

When nobody responded, he looked around, intent on just keeping himself busy, and found the backpack that Dough had brought in with the dwarf.

The abomination laughed in the rogue's face. "If you think you know what we planning, then why you torture me? YOU the one who stole amulet from us. We want our property back. We are victim."

"Yes. And as I recall, you 'victims' were going to use the amulet to destroy the world. If you're looking for repentance..."

"We were going to fix the world with it."

"Right," Dough nodded. "Sorry. Got my semantics wrong, I guess."

"We will improve the world. Take back the surface. It is prophesy."

"Uh-huh."

"Your time comes soon, rogue," the dwarf pointed a shaking finger around the room. "All of you. You'll all be dead soon."

"Right."

"Even you."

This time, Dough did a double-take and had to see where the dwarf was pointing. Lucite. He nodded at Lucite to clarify.

"Yes," he said, licking his gray lips. "Even you, dear Lucite."

Dough kicked the dwarf hard in the stomach and then pounced on him. "Why? Why her? She has nothing to do with this."

Now the dwarf's anguish turned to joy. He howled with a mixture of pain and laughter.

"You truly believe that?" The dwarf asked with a wry grin. "Then you know nothing."

Dough turned to look at Lucite.

"I have no idea what he's talking about, rogue," she said with a shake of her head.

In the time it took Dough to turn his attention back to the dwarf, the dwarf took the opportunity to pull one of the knives out of his leg and plunge it into his own heart.

"No!" Dough was on him in a second, trying to wrench the knife out of his hands. "You can't die yet."

The dwarf grinned and showed all his teeth while he twisted the blade deep into his own heart.

"This I promise, rogue. I'll be raping you very soon. In hell." He coughed and fell limply against the ropes. "I'll make sure I get my mickey all polished up. Just for you..."

Then his hands dropped, his head rolled to the side and he was dead.

"That was our only lead." Dough said sadly.

Lucite shrugged. "You should've just talked to him."

"You're lucky I don't put you in that chair." Dough spat. "Why would he say those things about you?"

"I don't know."

Sam had removed the contents of the backpack: a bottle of water, flares, bread. The backpack was empty and he was still looking through it.

"Sam," Dough said "What the hell are you doing. That's getting very annoying."

"Just looking for anything that might help us. Maybe you should help, instead of bullying an innocent girl."

Dough grunted.

"I'm just saying that we might find a clue inside this thing."

Sam ran his palm over the bottom of the backpack.

"Now what are you doing?"

"Not sure," the druid brought his ear closer to the bag. "The backpack's making a funny noise, and I'm just trying to figure out where it's coming from."

Both Dough and Clobberella locked eyes quickly.

"Bomb." They said simultaneously .

Suddenly, the rogue's instinct for danger that had bugged him since bringing the dwarf into Sam's home made complete sense.

The dark iron dwarves would never allow the spotter to get captured. He knew too much about their plans. They wouldn't want him to be interrogated...

"Out!" Dough screamed. "Everyone out!"

Lucite helped Clob to her feet and Dough pushed them both toward the door.

"Listen to me," he said. "Get as far away from this house as possible. And -"

He stopped as he saw the druid run toward the bedroom - deeper into the house.

"Sam! Where the hell are you going?"

But the druid disappeared into the room.

"Sam! Get back here!"

Lucite and Clob hobbled onto the porch and out the door.

What is that druid up to now? he thought.

Dough pointed to Lucite: "Get her out of here." Then he looked uneasily at the bedroom. "Sam! Damn it, come on!"

But Sam wasn't coming.

Dough grabbed one of his knives and cut the cloth on the backpack, ripping it open at the seam. A timer attached to explosives read :07 seconds and was counting down.

"Sam! Seven seconds! Get your ass out."

Dough tossed the backpack onto the porch, hoping to minimize the damage of the explosion, and then ran as fast as he could after Lucite and Clob. Running...Just moving his legs, not thinking about anything except how stupid he had been. So stupid...

Boom

Chapter 8 - Bits of Dough

Sometimes we awaken from a deep sleep and discover that we have no idea where we are. Or, even worse, how the hell we got there in the first place. We examine our surroundings, try to move past the initial shock and then proceed to take inventory of our limbs. Yet, even when we determine that everything is functioning normally, we still spend those first waking moments in deep confusion.

And so it was that Dough opened his eyes slowly, feeling the wet earth and blades of grass around his head. His heart still beating, his limbs still attached and responding.

This isn't possible, he thought. I'm dead. I must be.

The blurriness was too much for him and he shut his eyes tightly.

What happened to me?

The last thing he remembered was running, then hearing a loud noise and then...

And then...

Nothing.

And if he was dead, then where was Death? How dare she be tardy to his own expiration date? This was just like her. Considering their long history and excellent working relationship, the least she could do was tend to him quickly. What was taking her so long? Here it was, the first time he actually required her services and she's too busy to make an appearance? The nerve!

Then a soft voice came from a figure hovering above him: "Don't move. You banged your head pretty hard back there."

Ah, there she was, finally. But something wasn't quite right...Death's voice seemed different than he imagined - not the Death of his dreams. He'd always pictured her voice as being either melancholy at the inevitable termination of their lucrative relationship, or joyful because she had finally succeeded in procuring his soul after so many failed attempts. Perhaps she would even offer him a job. If there was one profession he was well-versed in, it was the dispatching of souls.

Dough tried to move and the world spun around him. He sank his head back into the muddy earth.

A different voice, also female but not nearly as gentle: "I want an explanation. Now."

Dough tried to speak. All that came out was "Whaaa?"

"Shut it, rogue," the gruff female voice replied. "I'm not talking to you."

The first voice responded. "Explain what?"

"What did you do? Why isn't he dead?"

"I didn't do anything. What's wrong with you?"

"Uh-huh. If you didn't do anything, then tell me why we're not covered in bits of Dough right now?"

Bits of Dough...? He tried to talk but couldn't find the words.

"How would I know? He was running away from the house just like we were. Maybe he got far enough away before the explosion. I guess he was lucky."

"He was not lucky. He was blown up. That bomb went off and he wasn't more than a few feet away from it. Yet he was thrown clear of the blast and got nothing but a bump on the head."

Nothing but a bump? This really hurts!

"He was lucky," the gentle voice replied. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth. Tell me what you did?"

"Nothing," a tone of desperation, "I swear I didn't do anything. What are you -?"

Now Dough heard the sound of footsteps next to his head followed by what sounded like a pair of bodies falling to the grass. There was an audible "Oof" as the wind came out of one of the ladies. The "oof" was replaced by the unmistakable sound of a knife's blade leaving its sheathe. The scuffling stopped abruptly.

"Talk. Or I slash your throat."

"Please," the gentle one replied. And as the world finally came back to him, Dough recognized the voice. Lucite.

Lucite was begging fast now: "Please please. I don't know anything. He must have run clear of the blast. That's the only explanation."

"I'll start with your left ear," Clobberella said. "If you still don't give me an acceptable answer, I'll move to your right. Do you understand me?"

Dough tried to sit up. "Stop," he muttered.

Through his foggy vision, he could see Clobberella turning to him, her forearm still braced under Lucite's chin and pinning her to the ground.

"I told you to shut it, rogue. This doesn't concern you. This is between me and whatever this 'thing' is."

"I saved your life!" Lucite screamed.

"I'm grateful. But that doesn't mean I won't take yours."

"Dough, help me!"

The rogue tried to sit up and then fell back into the grass, the world spinning again.

"He can't help you. Tell me what I want to know, or I cut off the ear."

Clobberella positioned the knife just above Lucite's left ear and slit a small bit of flesh so that drops of blood trickled down the blade.

"Please..."

"I will count to three. Then I cut it off."

"No."

"One..."

"Dough, do something. I don't know what she's - "

"Two..."

"I have nothing to do with any of this. I was just - "

"Three. Bye bye ear."

"WAIT!" she screamed, sobbing. Her voice was punctuated by a nasally whine. "Wait."

"I'm waiting," Clobberella said, ready to cut.

"I might have," she stopped and choked on her tears, "I might have thrown a shield around him at the last minute."

"Might?"

"Did," her voice quaked. "I did throw a shield around him before the blast."

"Really? And how, pray tell, would you manage to do something like that?"

"Because I'm a mage. Okay? I'm a mage."

Clobberella put the knife away. Dough heard it return to her belt.

"Did you hear that, rogue?" Clob asked.

Dough nodded slowly.

"Did you know?" she asked.

Dough shook his head. He didn't know.

"Why didn't you tell us before, Lucite?"

"Because I didn't think it mattered. Yes, I'm a mage. But I'm not a very strong one. I know a couple spells and I can pull off a few party tricks, but that's it."

"You threw up a solid shield that kept Dough from being blown to pieces. I've never met a mage that could pull off that kind of magic without having a tremendous amount of power. That wasn't a party trick."

"I saved him," she pleaded. "And I saved you."

"Looks that way. But I can't be sure."

"What do you mean?" She was near hysterics now. Fear gripped her and her voice quaked. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Nothing," Clobberella replied calmly. "Because if you were a truly powerful mage, I never would have come that close to cutting off your ear."

"I-"

"You're weak, Lucite," she said. "Yet, somehow you managed to shield Dough from an explosion that destroyed an entire house. I don't know whether to be impressed or afraid."

"Why would you be afraid of me?"

"I don't know. But something tells me that I should be. Am I right?"

There was silence.

The rogue tried to lift his head again.

"Feeling better?" Clobberella asked him.

"No," the rogue squinted at her. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. "Where is Sam?"

"Sam? He's dead I suppose," Clobberella looked back toward the house. Dough saw her face outlined by the light of the sun. She was almost angelic - not a word he would ever associate with Clobberella out loud. The word Angelic would get his intestines ripped out and stepped on repeatedly.

"You suppose?" he asked.

"You've been unconscious a long time, rogue. We've already searched the wreckage around the house. The fire's still going, and it doesn't look like Sam got out alive."

"How long have I been out?"

"At least an hour."

"Listen to me, Clob," he closed his eyes and felt the urge to vomit. "Just listen. We need to find Sam."

"Why?"

"He's the only one that knows the location of the amulet."

"Wait. Are you telling me you don't know where the amulet is?"

"Uh-huh."

"You dumb son of a bitch."

"Sam was going to -" he coughed. "He was supposed to take me to it."

"Well, he's dead."

"Look, it's not that I don't trust your nose for death. I trust it even more than my own, but he can't be dead."

"There has to be another way to get the amulet."

"There isn't."

"Fine, then -"

"Wait," this time it was Lucite. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

But even as he asked the question, he could feel the footsteps, the noises. Hell, he could smell the little bastards.

"Dark Irons..." .

"Where?" said Clobberella.

Dough sniffed the wind and could feel the moist earth under his head start to shake like gelatin. "They're coming."

"How many?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say all of them."

"Then we'd better hide."

"Uh-huh. As far away as possible."

--------------

Lord Glick's carriage rolled to a stop directly in front of the druid's home - or what was left of it. The front of the house had been blown apart, and the left side of the roof sank into what had once been the porch.

Glick stared at the home, his eyes heavy. All of his hard work - creating a logical blueprint guaranteeing success - had been rendered irrelevant by one meaningless backpack filled with explosives. This destruction signified the failure of a well-planned operation.

Dark iron scouts had arrived well before the horse-drawn carriage. The fire was nearly extinguished and those dwarves not fighting the flames were thoroughly searching the wreckage, looking for signs of life and anything that might be useful.

Periodically, nosy neighbors would meander toward the druid's house, either curious to see what was happening or simply intending to scavenge the home for free goodies. Lacking the patience and social skills necessary to politely send the passers-by away, the dwarves had taken to killing each one as they came too close. Already there was a pile of seven bodies (one of which had been dragged into the bushes by an overly eager dwarf using one hand to drag and the other to unbutton his overalls).

"Why did I trust you?" Glick asked the only other occupant of the carriage - his dark iron lieutenant. "Look what you've done."

"You overestimated rogue's intelligence, my lord. Not my problem."

"He brought the backpack into the house. You said he wouldn't do that."

"No. I said that based on your assessment of rogue, he wouldn't bring the backpack with him."

Bernie, the dark iron dwarf, glared at the crippled man in the long, colorful robe. The dwarf picked at a scab on his arm, purple against the grayness of his skin, and licked his blistered lips.

Glick rubbed his hands together nervously.

"If we've lost the rogue," said Glick, "then we've lost the amulet."

"Hope you're wrong," Bernie picked at the scab. "Your life depends on it."

Lord Glick turned to the dwarf. "I can't help it if you blew him up."

Bernie shrugged.

Lord Glick looked away again. "We need the rogue," he said.

"So now you're concerned about rogue's well-being?"

"What are you talking about?"

Bernie sat forward in his seat. "Well, you not seem so concerned about rogue before. You blame rogue for your...your," he paused, and looked up at the ceiling of the carriage. "...your Experience, yes, experience with us in the depths. Such a delightful distraction you turned out to be. And soon we will bring you back, yes?"

"You don't need to remind me of -" Glick stopped himself, took a deep breath and then continued: "We need him. You know that."

"Yes, we do. But is it the rogue you are so concerned about, my lord? Is it truly the rogue?"

"Of course it is," Glick replied, not able to meet the monster's cold eyes, and not happy with the direction the conversation was going.

"I am relieved to hear that, my lord," the dwarf sat back again comfortably. "Because I thought you still worried about the woman."

The word "woman" was drawn out and spoken in a mocking tone. "Woe-mon."

Bernie half-smiled. "Are you, my lord?"

"Am I what?"

"Worried about the woe-mon? If the rogue died in the blast, then she must surely be gone as well," he puckered his cracked lips, "Poor Lucite. Poor, poor- "

Glick moved much quicker than Bernie could defend against. While the dwarf smiled and mocked the crippled man, Glick simply fell forward on top of him, his dead legs anchored to the bottom of the carriage, and he locked his hands tightly around the little man's throat, clenching them against the windpipe.

Bernie's eyes widened in surprise and his thick tongue lolled out of his mouth. The color began to leave the grayness of his face. Glick squeezed the air from his throat, murderously.

"Never use her name again, dwarf. Never!"

He continued squeezing and Bernie's eyes began to lose form, rolling up into his head.

"I'll kill you," Glick said, pushing all his weight against the small body beneath him. "I'll kill-"

"My lord!" A dwarven voice from outside the carriage. "My lord, stop at once."

Glick quickly let go of Bernie's neck. The dwarf coughed and began sucking in air quickly, trying desperately to catch his breath..

"What!" Bernie demanded, clutching at his own throat.

Lord Glick had already positioned himself back into his seat and was using the robe to wipe off his hands.

"We found something," the intervening dwarf replied.

Glick was about to ask him what they found, but when he looked out the side of the carriage, he was able to see for himself.

Four dwarves emerged from the rubble of the home. They surrounded a tall, blue skinned man. His hands were bound with thick rope. Blood covered half his face and he could barely walk on his own. The dwarves were practically carrying him toward the carriage.

Lord Glick's mouth was agape.

"The druid," Bernie said with some excitement.

"Yes," Glick whispered. "This can still be salvaged,"

Suddenly, Glick felt the dwarf's hand on his arm, squeezing. He flinched back.

"This not over, my lord," Bernie said with a flick of his tongue. "You tried to murder me. I'll not let that slide."

Glick pushed his hand off and stared him back to his seat.

"If I wanted to murder you, I would have done so, Bernie. I may be crippled, but I'm not helpless."

"We'll see."

The dwarves escorting the prisoner came to a stop just outside the door of the carriage. Their prisoner stared down at the dirt, apparently still in shock.

"You are the druid, yes?" Glick asked the cerulean prisoner.

"Yes," Sam replied.

"Where are the others?"

"I don't know."

"Don't make me torture you. I don't have the stomach for it."

This, of course, was a lie.

"I honestly don't know," the druid muttered. "They were running out the front door when the explosion came. I was in my bedroom."

"Why?"

Sam's eyes met Glick's. He raised an eyebrow and seemed to be at a loss for words.

Glick crossed his arms. "I asked you why?"

One of the dwarves stepped forward. "My lord. You should see this."

He reached into his pocket and produced what looked like a pill box.

"Hand that to me," Lord Glick ordered.

The dwarf passed it over and Glick held the box up to the light. "Where did you find this?"

The dark iron dwarf explained: "We search bedroom and found druid next to an open safe. He was trying to close safe when we found him."

"This pill box came out of the safe?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Anything else in there?"

"Just gold and silver pieces."

Lord Glick held the pill box up to the light again and then shook it in front of the druid.

"What's inside?"

"My medication," Sam replied with a shrug.

"It must be very special medication for you to risk your life."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You said that the others tried to escape through the front door, but you retreated to your bedroom. I have to assume that this medication is of some value."

"Yes, it's for my... Arrhythmia."

"Arrhythmia. I see," Glick opened the box. As he did so, Sam's eyes widened. "Perhaps you should take the medicine now."

One tiny, solitary orange pill sat on the bottom of the box.

"I don't need it right now," Sam replied too quickly.

"Maybe I'll just throw it away then."

"No!" Sam yelled. "No, just...it's just a pill, that's all."

"I see," Glick played with the box. "Where is Dough?"

"I told you. He's probably dead."

Bernie's cold hand touched Glick's arm and made him jump.

"Master," the dwarf said humbly. "I sense that the druid speaks truth. If rogue died in explosion, then we must change current plan. Do you not agree?"

Glick nodded reluctantly. He agreed, but he didn't like it. Sure he wanted to see the rogue dead, but he wanted to do it himself, and only after recovering the amulet. Once again, Dough had foiled his plans - this time by dying prematurely. The bastard had robbed him of both his desires: the amulet and the rogue's long painful death.

"I agree," he said grudgingly. "Yes, damn it."

"Good," Bernie sat back with a comfortable grin. "Then what are your new orders, my lord?"

Glick thought for a minute, then brought his attention back to the druid.

"The rogue's death has ruined everything. Luckily we have you. And you are going to help us."

"How?" There was panic in his voice. "I don't even know what you want."

"We hoped you would either give the rogue the location of the amulet, or lead him to it yourself. Now that the rogue is dead, we have to change our plans. We still need to get our hands on the Amulet of Control."

"Wait...is that what all this is about? You just want the location of the amulet?"

"The location won't be enough," he looked over to Bernie. "The dwarf will explain."

Bernie folded his arms. "Yes, druid. I talk. You listen. The rogue happened to be the Chosen One - the one that was destined to lead us from the depths and into the light." he paused, looking at Lord Glick. "And once he succeeded, he would receive a martyr's death. An honored death."

"Yes," Glick said through gritted teeth. "Apparently, I'm not 'chosen' enough to lead them. I guess I'm chosen enough to find the amulet, just not good enough to wear it."

"Mind yourself, my lord," the dwarf threatened. "Remember that the rogue was responsible for finding the amulet. After hundreds of years, he found it. Not you. Yes, he is indeed the chosen one."

"Only because I locked him inside with it. I enabled him to locate your damned jewelry. You could say that it was my discovery."

"I could, but I won't," the monster smiled, exposing dripping fangs. "Don't be angry, my lord. You still serve purpose. Would you rather we return you to your room in Blackrock Depths? Do you miss the fun?"

Glick stared down at his dead legs and clenched his teeth. "No."

"I do."

Glick lowered his head.

"But best not to dwell on good times past. Am I right, my lord?" Bernie rocked in his seat.

"No."

"Sadly," the dwarf continued, "if the rogue is truly dead, then we need to alter plans. You take us to amulet. I suppose my lord will need to wield the amulet in the rogue's place. A poor substitute indeed. Wouldn't you agree, my lord?"

Glick nodded angrily.

I would have killed Dough and taken the amulet for myself anyway, he thought, but did not say. Then you would have seen how 'special' your Chosen One truly was...

"Then lead us, oh great master," The dwarf licked his dried lips again. "Lead us to victory."

"Where is the amulet?" Glick asked the druid.

Sam straightened his back out defiantly. "I am not talking."

"Poor decision."

He nodded to one of the captors, and the dwarf pulled out a knife.

Glick looked at the knife. "I hope you have a high threshold for pain, druid. Once my dwarf has -"

"This won't work."

"Hmm," Lord Glick took the tiny orange pill from inside the pill box and held it in his palm. . "You're probably right."

"What are you doing with my pill?"

"I've decided not to torture you physically."

"I appreciate that. However, I still won't tell you anything."

"Oh, I think you will," Lord Glick said with a grin. "I'm sure you will. Otherwise, I'm going to make my dwarves shove this pill all the way down your throat. Unless, of course, it's a suppository, in which case, I'm sure they would be most eager to -"

"Okay, okay I'll talk," the druid said quickly, tears welling up. "just give me back my pill."

"Perhaps. Where is the Amulet of Control?"

The druid stared at his own bare feet and squinted.

"Where?" Glick repeated. "Is it buried in the woods somewhere close? Is it under water? Where is it?"

"Ironforge."

Of all the answers the druid could have provided, this one was not even on Glick's radar. The amulet couldn't have been in a more inconvenient location.

"Ironforge? The city of Ironforge?"

"Yes. In the bank vault under my name."

Ironforge was the most heavily guarded city in Azeroth. It was a city where species from all over the world came to sell their merchandise at the Auction House and where all of the world's largest monetary transactions were conducted on a daily basis. If the druid had stashed the amulet inside the walls of Ironforge, then this wasn't going to be a quick grab.

"Well, you're going to get it for me."

"I can't."

Glick handed the pill box to the dwarf with the knife.

"No!" The druid held out his hand. "No, I mean it's impossible. I can't just walk up to the counter and ask for it. They won't give it to me."

"I don't understand. Didn't you pay the Ironforge Bank to store the amulet in a lockbox?"

"Yes, but -"

"In their vault?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then there shouldn't be a problem. You'll just walk through the city gates, saunter up to the bank and ask for your lockbox. Then you will remove the amulet and hand it to me. That's it. Now tell me you understand or I will be forced to destroy your precious orange pill."

The druid tried to formulate the right words, then gave up and nodded. "Fine. Okay."

"Get in the carriage. Now."

The druid looked down at his clothes. They were tattered and bloodied.

"I can't enter the city wearing this," he said. "I need new clothes."

"That won't be a problem."

Glick pointed to a dark iron dwarf coming out of the bushes, buttoning up his overalls. A bloody corpse lay face down in the brush, naked. The dwarf held a linen shirt and a pair of brown trousers in his hand.

"Put those on," Glick said, "Now."

-------

Dough, Lucite and Clobberella watched the entire exchange from a hill overlooking the area. They watched Sam being led out of the house, they watched him change his clothes and finally they watched as he stepped into the carriage.

"What is he doing?" Lucite asked.

"Clob, have you been able to see who Sam's talking to?"

"No," she replied. "I can't see into the carriage."

"Me neither," said Dough. "But whoever he's talking to... That must be the leader of this whole operation."

"Agreed."

Lucite tapped Dough on the shoulder. "So what do we do now?"

Dough shrugged her off. "We follow. Sam will lead them to the amulet, wherever that is, and then we'll just have to figure out a way to get it back."

"How?"

"How the hell should I know? I'm making this up as we go along." Dough shook his head. "We have to get the amulet before Sam does. Otherwise, he'll give it to whoever was in that carriage. Let's just hope the amulet is close and not too heavily guarded."

Clobberella sat up. "Let's go."

"We'll just have to hope that we can follow unnoticed," Dough said. "A rogue with a hangover, a woman that can barely walk and the ugliest mage in Azeroth. Yeah, I think we'll blend right in."

Chapter 9 - A Rogue's Guide to Communicating With Women

The caravan stopped abruptly in the town of Lakeshire.

Dough wasn't sure why the caravan had come to a halt, unless the amulet was hidden somewhere in this very place. But it seemed unlikely that Sam would hide it only a half-mile away from his own house. Dough suspected that the amulet was someplace else - in a much more secure location than this podunk town. However, since the amulet's location was still a mystery, he thought it best to hang back and observe unnoticed, and keep his options wide open.

Dough watched as the carriage came to a clumsy stop in front of the Lakeshire Inn. Dwarves spread out over the town.

The caravan consisted of a horse drawn carriage - containing Sam and at least one other mysterious captor - and an accompaniment of no less than two hundred dark iron dwarves. They marched alongside the carriage with reckless indiscretion.

All along, Dough had assumed that the vertically challenged horrors would at least try to stay hidden. But here they were, flagrantly strutting around like they belonged topside. Most likely comfortable in the knowledge that soon the Amulet of Control would be theirs. They seemed overconfident. Maybe with good reason - considering the only person that knew the amulet's location was tied up and in their custody.

But why had the caravan stopped? It was either to get the amulet or gather supplies. Regardless, Dough knew that he needed to hide quickly.

He was certain that the carriage's occupants believed he was dead. And that kind of deception could only work in his favor. How? Unknown. But in his line of work, having the enemy think you were deceased usually provided you with a distinct advantage. You pop up unexpectedly with a blade to your enemy's throat, and there's always at least three to four seconds of your enemy stammering things like "How did you...?" and "No! You're dead!"

Dough and Lucite quietly led the horse carrying Clobberella down the embankment, trying hard to stay out of sight. They moved underneath the bridge that crossed the lake leading into town. Clobberella swooned on the saddle and nearly fell over, but righted herself at the last minute. Sweat fell from her forehead and the tip of her nose in droplets. She could barely hang on. And when she climbed off the horse, she refused any assistance. Dough winced as she came off the horse awkwardly and barely landed on her own two feet.

"Why are they stopping?" asked Lucite.

"No clue," Dough sat down hard on the wet earth and rubbed his ankles. "Maybe to get a postcard?"

Clobberella coughed. "Or maybe to get the amulet."

"Come on, Clob. Do you really think Sam would hide it here?" Dough asked. "If he was going to leave something that valuable in a shit town like this, he might as well have left it in his basement."

"So then why did they stop, rogue?"

"For a group photo? How the hell would I know?" he replied. "But I'm fairly confident the amulet is elsewhere. Probably in a secure location. At least that's what my instincts tell me."

"Instincts?" Lucite said. "Yeah. I'll trust those. They've been real reliable so far."

"Oh, shut up. You're just lucky I didn't listen to my instincts when they told me to put a sack over your head."

"Rude."

"I never asked you to come along with us."

"Well, someone had to -"

Clobberella took off her boots. "You two shut up. I'm tired of hearing you bitch."

She set her boots on the embankment and wiggled her toes.

"What are you doing?"

Clobberella dunked her feet into the stream.

"As long as we're under this bridge and next to fresh water," she said, pulling off her leather pants. "I need to get this blood off me."

Clobberella was covered from head to toe in dried blood. She'd been covered in it for at least three days - since the attack at her cottage. And she smelled. Bad. Every once in a while Dough caught a whiff and his stomach lurched. It wasn't so horrible that he would mention the stench to her. He still valued his life, after all.

"I'm going to take a bath," she said with conviction. "If you have a problem with that..." she slapped her bare right butt cheek to complete the sentence.

"Here?" This time both Lucite and Dough spoke at the same time and looked at each other.

"Yes." she said, removing her tattered shirt. "Here."

Lucite gave Dough a dirty glare, then moved closer to the nearly naked woman.

"I wouldn't do that in front of him," Lucite whispered. "Undress, I mean. I wouldn't. He's a...well..."

"Pervert?" she said staring into Dough's eyes with a crooked grin. "Rapist? Vile human being? Rogue?"

"Yes."

"And do I look that defenseless to you?" she asked, stepping closer to Lucite. "Do I really look that defenseless?"

Dough whistled and smiled. "Answer carefully, Lucite."

Lucite furrowed her eyebrows at the nearly naked woman.

"Yes, you do," she replied defiantly. "You look sick and vulnerable to me. You look like you could collapse at any moment."

"Watch your mouth, little mage," Clobberella's nostrils flared. "Or I'll remove it from your face."

Dough rolled his eyes.

"Clob," he said, attempting to defuse the situation. "If I promise not to rape you, will you leave her mouth on her face? It's not like she can afford to get any uglier. Just do whatever you need to do please."

Truth be told, Clobberella didn't look much better than when she'd been paralyzed and lying half-dead in her cottage. She could barely keep up with them, barely walk upright and her eyes were black like a raccoon's. Without the horse to ride on, she wouldn't have made it anywhere.

Lucite cleared her throat at Dough. "Turn around, rogue."

"But -"

"Turn around. All the way. Avert your eyes."

"Avert my...what?"

Lucite put her hands on her hips. "Rogue, I don't trust you. You're a dirty man with a dirty mouth and a lustful appetite. Keep your eyes off of her."

Dough put his hands up and turned around, facing the underside of the stone bridge. He could hear Clobberella wade into the lake underneath the shadows.

"Fine," he said. "But if I have to miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see her naked, then the least you could do is make sure you get a good look at Clobberella's body, Lucite. That's what a female is supposed to look like."

Lucite gasped. "Why you wretched rogue."

"Just trying to help."

"You are the cruelest -"

"I'm just saying, maybe if you splashed on a little lipstick, took some sandpaper to that complexion or picked up a bar of soap once in a while..."

"No. You're not talking about the way I smell. You're talking about -" she stopped and leaned in to whisper "- boobies. You're talking about boobies, aren't you, rogue?"

Dough rolled his eyes. "Sure, Lucite. Boobies. Yum yum boobies. Whatever."

"You men and boobies..."

"Yes, we're silly like that."

"So what if mine aren't as big as Clobberella's?" She squeezed them together and stared down at the meager line of cleavage that formed.

"I'm not saying anything. You look great, Lucite. For a -"

"Don't. Say. It. You're a mean old rogue," Lucite pointed her finger at Dough. "My boobies might not be as big as Clobberella's now, but they'll get bigger soon, and then -"

She stopped, clapping her hand over her mouth.

Dough was set to make a witty remark, but quickly shut himself up. This time, he turned to her - risking a glance at Clobberella's nakedness and a sharp axe to the back of his throat should Clobberella catch his gaze - a quizzical look on his face.

"What the hell does that mean? 'They'll get bigger soon'?"

"Nothing," she said anxiously. "Turn around and face the bridge."

"No," Dough pointed to her chest. "What about your boobies, Lucite?"

"Nothing, pervert. I bet you'd like to hear all about them, wouldn't you?"

"Cut the act." He now looked her straight in the eye - really looked at her this time - analyzing her face. Sure, it wasn't lined up correctly. He'd noticed that before. The eyebrows were too bushy, the eyes too narrow and spread apart. The nose contoured into the shape of a pig's snout and her upper lip too thin for her mouth. But something else caught his eye...something he'd just taken as simply another physical abnormality:

Acne.

"My God."

Here she was - as tall as Dough, yet gaunt and gangly, with no breasts to speak of. A female, yes, but Lucite suddenly looked different now. She looked younger. Not quite a woman...

"How old are you?"

"I'm as old as you," she stuck out her chin with defiance, but the tears welling up in her eyes betrayed her. "Old enough anyway."

Clobberella came out of the lake and went to pick up her clothes. The water spilled off her naked body. She stopped suddenly, realizing that Dough was watching her.

"What's going on?" she said, then met Dough's eyes. Dough stared right back, the confusion still painted over his face.

Clobberella tilted her head. "Rogue. Unless you want your throat slit, I suggest you turn your head."

"We have a problem, Clobberella."

Lucite gritted her teeth angrily and stared him in the eye. "No we don't, Clobberella."

"Damn it, rogue," Clobberella exhaled loudly. "Do you really think I won't slit your throat?"

"No, I truly think you would - "

"Will."

"Okay. Will. But the fact remains that we have a problem."

"Explain, Dough."

"A mage with a considerable amount of power, but with the inability to control or harness the power. That's the problem. It should have been my first warning sign. That, and Lucite's 'I'm so god damned innocent in a world so foul' bullshit act. How could I have let that one slip?"

"Get to it, Dough. And if I find out you're just pontificating to get a good look at my ta-tas and wet ass cheeks, I'm going to be truly upset."

"I'm not pontificating. And I'm not looking at your gorgeous ta-tas and magnificent ass...well, not staring anyway. Corner of my eye doesn't count, right?"

"I'm going for my blade."

"Answer me this first; When does a mage's power begin to develop? To its full potential?"

"That's it. Steel blade, meet rogue. Rogue, meet steel blade."

"A pleasure as always. But humor me first, oh naked one. When do the mages begin to develop their powers?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I guess they can start gathering strength in adolescence. But it takes the tutelage of a stronger mage to help them harness and control the power. What does that have to do with anything, Dough? I'm cold and wet," she frowned at him. "and creeped-out, quite frankly."

"Now look at her." Dough pointed to Lucite.

"I have."

"No, I mean really look at her."

Clobberella put a hand on her naked hip and frowned at Lucite this time. But she examined her face while she did it.

Something seemed to click, because she winced and her face became deathly serious.

"Um, how old are you, honey?" Clobberella asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Almost sixteen."

"See!" Dough yelled triumphantly. "I told you there was a problem."

Clobberella turned back to Dough and shrugged. "So you're a sexual deviant. Like I didn't know that before. Remind me why this is such a big deal again? And why I shouldn't plunge this knife through your eye socket?"

"Because Lucite and I were paired up on a blind date. By the agency," Dough said. "and the Agency has a policy against underage participants."

"So you're saying they don't allow minors?"

"I don't know about miners, only underage participants. I guess they'd let miners join. As long as they don't fight over the same copper vein or -"

Clobberella rubbed her forehead. "No, idiot. MINORS. Like under eighteen."

"Oh. Right."

Tears streamed down Lucite's reddened cheeks. "It's not fair. I'm on your side."

"That's not the point."

Clobberella was still smiling. "What's a matter, Dough? Is she too old for you?"

"I don't know how you can be so smug about this whole thing." Dough responded. "You don't like being duped any more than I do."

She shrugged and continued putting her clothes on.

Dough felt a surge of anger. "We can't trust her, damn it! What else has she been lying about?"

"Nothing!" Lucite screamed.

"She's a kid," Clobberella said, calmly. "She's an undisciplined mage and she's saved both our lives. If she feels capable of tagging along and helping, then what's the big deal? It's her own life to risk, isn't it?"

"The big deal is she's just a child!" Dough was livid. "A few hours ago, you were ready to kill her yourself."

"That was before I knew she was a kid."

"I am not a kid!" Lucite objected.

"Shut up," both Clobberella and Dough replied in unison.

"Rogue," Clobberella began, "from what I've seen, she can take care of herself, even if she is just a baby. Better than you can anyway."

"You aren't seeing the big picture here."

"Look, I'd love to stand here and discuss how you skirt the dating agency's rules in order to satisfy your sexual fantasies, Dough. I really would," Clobberella craned her neck to survey the other side of the bridge. "But that caravan is moving again."

Dough eyed her with concern. "Maybe you should stay here in town with Lucite while I go on. Get some medical attention. You really look like hell."

"Yeah. And maybe I should shove this dagger up your ass for watching me take a bath. There's no way I'm staying behind, rogue. I'm coming with you, sick or not. I'm not giving you the opportunity to screw it up again. If I leave it to you, you'll probably get the amulet back and sell it to a Murlock for a blowjob."

She turned to Lucite. "No offense, kiddo."

Lucite just glared.

"Anyway," Clobberella continued, "this time I'm going to watch you retrieve the amulet and I'm going to stand there while you destroy it. Understood?"

He did, but still couldn't help feeling concerned. Since the surgery, she hadn't improved much at all. The pace of her recovery wasn't just slow, she actually seemed to be regressing.

"Fine," he said. "But that caravan isn't moving very fast. I think we can afford a few minutes to relax without losing them. Besides, with that many dark iron dwarves in tow, they're liable to leave a trail of dead civilians in their wake like bread crumbs."

"No, we need to keep moving."

Dough shook his head. "Give me ten minutes, Clob."

"What the hell are you doing now?"

"Reconnoissance."

Dough moved quietly to the top of the bridge, then turned back to his two female companions. "Don't go anywhere. And watch our baby mage."

"I hate you, rogue!" Lucite called up.

"Good. So don't move, okay?"

--------------

As a rogue, Dough had a knack for sneaking around. Most rogues were quite good at pickpocketing, lockpicking and keeping themselves unnoticed. But only a few were masterful enough to slither through a crowded room without being detected. Dough was very good at sneaking - it was his specialty.

He moved soundlessly over the bridge and into the small town of Lakeshire. The sun glistened off the red rocks above. The buildings sat under the shade of a tall mountain.

He sneaked past the blacksmith and livery stable and into the heart of downtown Lakeshire. The townsfolk were uneasy and shaken. The moment he stepped onto the main street, he noticed the anxiety and fear on all the faces around him. There was no way they could have been prepared for the swarm of Dark Iron Dwarves that descended upon their town.

Dead bodies lined the street, and townsfolk lugged the corpses off with their shoulders slumped, throwing the carcasses into the belly of a lopsided wagon. It was filled to bursting with bloody limbs and lifeless villagers. Dough counted ten at first glance.

It became clear that the last of the dwarves had finally moved north, accompanying the mysterious carriage. With the pressure off, he slipped into the Lakeshire Inn and examined his surroundings.

The Lakeshire Inn was filled to capacity with townspeople and other "Specialists" like himself. Here, the locals mixed it up with tradesman and lower level rogues, druids, hunters, mages and warriors-for-rent. The bloodshed was not spared in this place either, and barmaids quickly cleaned up the remains of patrons that could no longer eat or drink - or pay.

To his left was a roaring fireplace with tables and chairs set up near it. However, despite the coziness that the warm fire promised, he was instead pulled toward a heavily populated bar on the far side of the room. A bartender stood guard behind the counter. The miserable old man wouldn't know how to produce a smile if it came with instructions.

Suddenly, Dough realized just how thirsty he truly was. The sight of a tap overflowing with whatever the bartender had pissed out that very morning made his throat constrict.

I need a drink..

He sauntered up to the bar, but stopped when he heard an old familiar voice bellow from behind him.

"Hey!" the voice was female. And shrill.

Damn, he thought. Forgot about her...

Standing so close to him that the hairs on the back of his neck sprang up was Brianna, the red-headed innkeeper of this dead-end establishment - wearing a dingy blue skirt, a corset, and a scowl that would make the undead creep back into their graves, cover up their own plots and go back to sleep.

He glanced at her, licking his lips in futile anticipation of a pint of ale, and turned back to the bar, throat as dry as the Tanaris desert. .

"Long time no see, sweetheart." he offered with a playful grin.

She slapped his face. And when he gave her the "What was that for?" look, she slapped it again. Hard.

"What are you doing here?" the innkeeper whispered, looking around anxiously. "I told you never to come back here, you stupid rogue."

"Ah. Dear Brianna," the rogue said, rubbing his cheek. "You still look fantastic."

She slapped him again. Harder.

The patrons' attention had been peaked and they watched the exchange with a mixture of concern and amusement. Brianna's scowl told them to mind their own business. They did just that, but continued listening anyway.

"Damn it, Dough. Did you come back here to get your pecker pulled again? More free food and drink. More free tosses from an old innkeeper?"

"Old? Oh, come on Brianna..."

"What, I wasn't good enough? You lost your taste for the old ladies?" She bared her teeth. "Did you hook up with something younger? A fresher tart, perhaps?"

He thought about Lucite and blushed.

"Uh-huh. You did, didn't you? Son of a bitch."

"No, it's not like that. You make it sound like we never had anything," Dough moved closer. "You and me, we had a special bond, didn't we? I mean, it wasn't all bad, was it?"

"You and your damned willy had a special bond. You probably still do. I was just something to plunge into every once in a while," She stared at him suspiciously. "Hey, why did you come back here, anyway?"

"To apologize."

She snorted. "Like hell you did. Apologize for what? For plucking out me heart and stomping on it? I'm the one that gave you the Snatch-Scratchers, didn't I? Serves you right for the way you treated me."

"Eloquent as always, darling." Yet, even the words made his nether-regions itch with ferocity. "Besides, that rash cleared up nicely."

"Don't get too cozy, rogue," the scowl turned into something that resembled a grin. "It comes and goes."

"I just came here to offer an apology, that's all."

He was shoved out of the way by someone lugging a corpse out onto the street..

"By the way," he said, carefully. "What's going on here today? Lots of dead folks."

"Interesting. Mister rogue enters my inn right after some little gray bastards shit all over it. Just to apologize to little old me?"

Dough blinked innocently.

"You know what I think?" she said, jutting out her chin. "I think you've got something to do with those nasty little monsters. Am I right?"

"Maybe."

She slapped him again.

"I'm running out of cheeks," he said, grimacing. "What was that one for?"

"You're a liar. You never had no intention of coming back for me. After all those promises."

She was correct. Dough had promised her a quick exit out of Lakeshire and a chance to see the world. In his youth, the prospect of seeing the world had been enticing and adventurous. He fully intended to live up to his promise and come back for the innkeeper once he established a reputation. However, when he finally realized how truly piss terrible the world actually was, he never returned for Brianna - thereby breaking his solemn vow to her. It wasn't that he didn't want to come back, it was just that he couldn't stand the thought of her viewing the world through his eyes. She wouldn't survive it.

That, and he'd found out that there were other "Giving" innkeepers scattered all over Azeroth that were just as gullible and quick to bed as dear Brianna. And most were twice as pretty.

"It was for your own good, Brianna," he said. "The world...it's ugly. It's much better to keep dreaming about how nice it is. This place... it's heaven compared to what I've seen."

"You could've at least visited."

"Yes. I'm sorry. Truly I am," he glanced around, uncomfortably, needing to change the subject. "Um..."

"What?"

"Um, can you tell me why those little devils stopped here?"

"You're a bastard."

"Yes. But that doesn't answer my -"

"A few of them came in here, scared the hell out of my customers. Killed a few and laughed while doing it. They smelled like a pickled cock in the afternoon sun. Dreadful. They wanted supplies."

"Supplies? Like what?"

"Food, drink. They took some crates of rations. Like they're preparing for a long journey somewheres."

"Did they say where?"

"No," she said sharply. "Maybe to go see the world. They promised to come back and marry me, too. Make me an honest woman. Like I've never heard that one before."

"Come on, Brianna. We were both young and -"

"Get out, rogue. Now."

Dough exited the Lakeshire Inn and started walking back to Lucite and Clobberella, but they were already at the door.

"I told you two to wait under the bridge until I gave the okay," he looked around wildly. "What if they saw you?"

Clobberella shrugged. "They're gone. Nobody's going to see us now. What'd you find out?"

Lucite was still sobbing. She stood hunched over, her arm covering her eyes.

Dough tilted his head. "The caravan stopped here for rations. Listen, Clob. The amulet must be pretty far away for them to load up with supplies here. I think we've got some time if you want to take it easy."

"No, let's head out now."

"Clob," Dough said firmly. "They aren't moving fast. The way they're traveling, they'll spot us for sure if we keep them in sight. Our best bet is to let them get ahead of us, and follow the trail they leave. For God's sake, woman, with the way they're traveling, we could wait a week and still catch up to them."

Lucite cleared her throat and spoke in a froggy voice. "Dough's right. We should get a room here and get some sleep. We're all tired."

Dough looked alarmed. "Here?"

"Yeah, here. What's wrong with that?"

Dough swung his head back and looked at Brianna whose cheeks were drenched with tears.

"Fine," he said. "But maybe you should rent the room."

Chapter 10 - Willy Wants What Willy Wants

"A Dark Iron in the hand is worth two in the innkeeper's bush." - Old Azerotherian proverb.

Though he was lying on the most uncomfortable, moldiest bed in all of Azeroth, Dough felt extremely relaxed. He sunk his head into the foul smelling pillow and breathed deeply. While he wished for nothing more than a long, restful sleep there just wasn't enough time for it. He needed to use this opportunity to plan his next move.

Earlier, Lucite had rented two rooms from Brianna, the innkeeper, using her own money. Dough knew that Brianna would rather kill him than rent a room to him, so he stayed clear of the inn until the transaction was complete. One room for Lucite, and the other for Clobberella.

Once finished, the three huddled up outside the inn to discuss sleeping arrangements. Lucite spoke first, insisting that she and Clobberella share a room - something about a lack of trust in Dough's ability to keep his penis away from them while they slept.

So Dough was awarded a room of his own. Getting inside, however, proved to be a difficult task.

The rogue was forced to climb the outside wall and pick the lock on a narrow window in order to gain access. Once inside the room, he peeled off his clothes and collapsed onto the cool linen bed sheets, bare-butt naked. While he knew that sleeping naked had its risks, he just didn't know any other way to relax.

Dough stared at the wall, comforted in the knowledge that Clobberella and Lucite were sleeping soundly in the next room. At least, that's what he hoped they were doing. Knowing Clob, she was probably standing guard behind the door while Lucite slept. That was just her way.

Dough drifted off again and caught himself just before falling asleep. He forced his eyes wide open. Too much to process, no time for slumber. He turned himself over and stared into the darkness, thinking.

What do I know so far?

He knew that Clobberella wasn't getting any better. Maybe from the stress of moving so quickly or maybe because she spent three days lying paralyzed in a pool of orc blood. He looked back at the adjoining wall again and felt a tinge of concern for his comrade. Would she still be alive when they were ready to leave?

Clobberella was the closest thing he had to family, and as sad and pathetic as that thought was, family was supposed to look out for one another - even if this sentiment wasn't always reciprocated.

So did he know anything?

He knew that Sam the Druid was leading the Dark Iron Dwarves toward an amulet that would destroy the world.

He knew that he needed to quit the "Duskwood Matchmakers" dating agency, or at least get a refund.

And that was about it.

Except for Lucite.

Finding out that she was a powerful, unfocused mage had surprised him. Finding out that she was nothing more than a teenager had truly pissed him off. He wasn't quite sure why it infuriated him so much. Sure, the simple fact that she was underage wasn't such a big deal. But why would the agency pair them up? It was this question that baffled him.

His instincts said "Don't trust her," even though she'd saved his life. Were there truly people this genuine in Azeroth? He found himself falling into a common and potentially dangerous trap: trusting in someone's good intentions. The simple fact that he couldn't even read her anymore meant that he was fighting against his own instincts and judgement. That worried and frustrated him more than anything else. He'd never met anyone quite like Lucite - someone without a personal agenda. Someone that wasn't entirely selfish - that smiled at you and nodded without visualizing the necessity of slitting your throat once it became financially advantageous.

He buried his head into the soft pillow and ceased his battle against sleepiness. Before long, his exhaustion took over, his eyes closed.

And the rogue fell into a deep sleep.

----

Dough woke up groggy and with a massive headache. He realized with a measure of confusion that he was lying on his back, even though he'd fallen asleep on his side. He went to scratch his face and -

What the hell?

- a sharp pain shot up from his wrist. He moved his other hand and it didn't budge either. His wrists were bound to the bedposts.

Dough looked around wildly and tried to move his legs. But his ankles were tied to posts at the foot of the bed.

Don't panic, he thought. No reason to panic yet.

Too late.

Dough flailed against the ropes, pulling his arms into his body, hoping to somehow break the bonds. He thrashed about, flexing his left wrist down hard, but the ropes held firmly.

"Don't bother," she said in the darkness of the room. "I tie good knots, remember?"

Brianna, he thought with resignation. And then Shit.

"Wretched, lying rogue," she whispered. "You used to love it when I tied you up. Or was that a lie as well? I would tie you to the bed and...oh, what was it I did again? Do you remember?"

The voice hit home in a wave of forgotten nostalgia. Despite his will and every fiber of his being yelling "No! No! No!", he felt all the blood in his body rush to the center and something flaccid begin to solidify - rising toward the ceiling.

Not now, you damned brainless, one eyed bastard!

Cursing at it didn't help. It never did. And, in seconds, the rogue was fully erect. Pitched up and ready for action. This sort of thing happened often, and usually at the most inappropriate times. He just hoped that Brianna wouldn't notice.

She did.

"Oh, so you do remember," she cooed. Her face moved toward his tingling groin and she rested her cold cheek against his inner thigh, sending shivers up his back. Brianna took a breath and breathed cool air at his uncooperative genitalia.

Dough closed his eyes and tried to fill his head with distracting thoughts.

Lava is hot. Bears are mean. I like wine. Damn I'm horny. He sighed loudly. Bunny rabbits are fluffy. Damn I'm horny.

This tactic obviously wasn't working.

"Hello," she said in a high squeaky voice, as if talking to a stray cat. "Hello little Willy. Hello. It's old Brianna. Remember me, poopy-kins?"

Then he felt her hand wrap tightly around his "Willy." Dough's ass jumped off the sheets, and, using the same hand that held his prized possession, she brought it down in one fierce stabbing motion. His butt returned to the sweaty bed sheets and her grip tightened.

Sweaty Gnomes. Bathing Druids. Some wagons are red. Damn I'm horny...

"Did you miss me, little Willy? I missed you. You still got them nasty Snatch Scratchers? Oh dear. That's my fault I suspect. But we had so much fun, didn't we?"

"Brianna, please, I -"

"Shh. I'm not talking to you rogue. I'm talking to little Willy."

Horny. Horny. Horny. Not working at all.

"We have so much to catch up on," she continued in a high squeaky voice. "Yes we do. And I have so many other things to share with you besides the Snatch Scratchers. Oh yes."

"No..."

"Yes, you'd be amazed what an innkeeper can pick up and carry around with her. I'm dying to share such wonderfully magical treasures with you, little Willy."

"Please, Brianna - "

"It's like a cornucopia of fun up here in my yum-yum. All sorts of exotic diseases. I get me the itches and bleedin' pee most days. I just want to share. That's all. No harm, right?"

No harm to you, maybe...

Moments passed and her grip tightened. He realized he wasn't breathing - as if she was strangling him. Brianna released her grip and he exhaled.

She stood and began undressing. Her clothing came off at the shoulders, and with the small amount of light coming from the door jam, Dough could see her bare, ample chest. This did nothing to stop the raging soldier down below.

The rogue looked away, but Brianna laughed with that old seductive giggle he once loved, and the erection throbbed.

Stupid bloodflow...

She pulled her stockings down, slowly - rolling them toward her feet and off, tossing them aside. Then she draped her leg over his head. Years ago, this would have excited him with the smell of her sex drifting pleasantly into his nostrils - a sweet smell that he fell in love with. But now...now it smelled like a pus-filled sore freshly lanced. A long forgotten fisherman's net filled to bursting. Regardless, his hard-on raged - but only because it had no sense of smell.

The innkeeper nuzzled her bare skin against his and rubbed her large breasts along his ribcage. Dough closed his eyes tight and tried to shift positions unsuccessfully. The breasts ran up over his flesh. His jaw clenched.

"I, I -" he stammered. "I meant to come back, dear Brianna. Truly. I hoped we could get together and relive some of the -"

"Shh."

"But truly, I've missed you so much. Couldn't we just...cuddle?"

"Shh," this time she put her finger to Dough's lips. "No more talking. You finally came back to me, even if you never intended to. But here you are, and I've been waiting for soooo long."

He had to admit that the idea of having sex was not without its appeal - so much so that he was having trouble rationalizing the "Consequences" of going through with the deed. "Consequences" of popping his ding-dong into the innkeeper being either
a) the complete destruction of his genitalia
b) a slow and painful death
c) a penis with a distinct resemblance to an over-boiled asparagus.

She kissed him on the neck and moved up to his cheek, her tongue rolling over his scruffy skin. Her breath smelled of sour milk and urine. Dough turned his head away. Brianna nibbled at his ear - sucking on the lobe, running her tongue up behind it, and then -

"Ow!" he yelled as her teeth sank into the lobe.

She giggled and brought the weight of her body down on top of him. Dough bit his own lip hard enough to draw blood and prayed to any deity that would listen to make this crazy bitch disappear.

"Are you ready, baby?" She asked rhetorically. "Because mama's just about ready to sheathe your pointy dagger."

"Brianna..." he said with a shiver. "I'm sorry."

"No time for that, I'm afraid. You'll make it up to me. But now it's time for Willy to dive into the deep end."

"Do you want me to beg? I'll beg."

"Oh, you'll be begging alright. Begging for a quick, merciful death when little Willy turns to ash and falls off."

Well, at least that was a scenario he hadn't thought of.

She hovered over him, her legs straddling his. Her chest against his chest. All she needed to do was grab it and bring it into her. Part of him wanted it - the part that was carrying all the blood at the moment.

There were no more tricks up his sleeve - or even a sleeve to hide tricks, for that matter. Luckily, he was still a rogue. And rogues were never completely out of options as long as their mouths remained intact.

"Brianna," he spoke in a whisper. In a voice he hadn't used in years - a voice he thought long forgotten. It was a tone that hid no secrets, no lies - and was nearly genuine. Nearly.

Whatever the timbre of the word, it surprised Brianna as much as it did Dough. She stopped, just as she was ready to sit right on top of it, and tilted her head, waiting for the rogue to continue.

If he had any chance of getting out of this with his mickey still intact, he needed to act quickly.

"I loved you."

"Lying, stinkin' rogue." she said, pointing her finger into his bare chest. "You never loved me."

"Not true," he said with sincerity. "I loved you more than anything. But that was a lifetime ago. I'm a different person now."

"Well, I'm not," she tossed her hair angrily. "I'm the same person, living in the same town running a stinking inn and listening to promises from drunk ogres and penniless bastards. You. You got to see the world."

"There's not much to it, Brianna. It's vast, uncharted. Dangerous. Easy to get lost in. Yes, I loved you. But hearts change - and never into anything good. All I can say is -"

"Don't." A tear fell onto his chest.

"All I can say is that my intentions were good. I never wanted to hurt you. I just -"

He stopped.

"You just 'what'?"

"I had to survive. In order to do that, I had to... compromise."

"You're not making any sense."

"I'm sorry. I just don't know what else to say. I meant to come back someday, under better circumstances."

The next few moments happened too quickly for Dough to fully comprehend or appreciate. The door busted off its hinges and Brianna leapt from Dough's naked body, landing on the floor with a yelp.

Dough looked over expecting to see Clobberella or Lucite coming to his rescue. No such luck.

"Stupid human!" Came a gruff yell.

"Out!" Brianna bellowed at the intruder.

"I paid you to tie him up, not kill him."

"I wasn't going to kill him, you monster," she began putting her clothes back on. "I was going to fuck him."

"That not part of deal."

Uh-oh, Dough thought. Grammatically impaired speech...could mean only one thing.

"Dark iron."

He stood in the doorway, all three feet of him, dressed in overalls. His smile showed off razor-sharp teeth and he curled his pug nose as the grin widened maliciously. Most unsettling of all was the enormous erection pushing through the overalls. Dough's own erection disappeared completely.

The dwarf giggled. "Hello, rogue. Master thinks you dead. He'll be most happy to see you."

Dough's gaze did not leave Brianna's eyes. There was anger in there, and a measure of shame as well. She grabbed her clothes in a hurry.

"Out," the dwarf commanded.

Dough wanted to say something, but couldn't. He watched as she rounded up all of her clothes and dashed through the open door behind the dwarf, giving them privacy. Brianna stomped down the stairs, crying.

"I saved you from that human wench," he said playfully. "Maybe you thank me?"

"Maybe not," he replied angrily.

"Oh, not with words."

The creature approached the bedside and placed his cold murky hand over Dough's knee. Dough could see that his other hand was rubbing an enormous bulge beneath the denim of his overalls.

The rogue tried to hide the terror in his eyes. If he'd had sex with Brianna, his penis may have fallen off. But if he had sex with this dark iron dwarf, his intestines, kidneys, stomach and any other organs unlucky enough to be in the general vicinity would fall off. In the end, he might still have his penis, but what good would it do him?

"What do you want?" Dough asked.

"You know what I want."

This wasn't going well at all.

"If you wanted me dead, you would've killed me already." It was a sad ploy, but he didn't have any ploys left. "Your master must want me alive."

The dwarf frowned, one misshapen tooth jutted over the bottom lip on his grizzly, gnarled face. He turned his head and spat.

"Yes. Master will want you alive."

"Does Master have a name?"

"Master does. But you not hear it from me."

"Well," Dough said, switching gears. "How can you accomplish your mission if my ass explodes?"

"Huh?"

"If we do the boom-boom and my ass goes kablooey, my overly-eager sex machine, I'm fairly certain that I'll die. Your master wants me alive, right?"

He thought about that for a moment. "Maybe I not go too deep?"

"Oh, but with an ass as lovely as mine, how can you resist? You know how these things go, I'm sure. Once you start spelunking in an unexplored cave, you can't just hang out near the entrance."

He licked his lips and unbuttoned his overalls.

Shit.

"Er," Dough began, "I'm trying to say that you'll kill me if you go through with this. And your master will be upset."

He stopped unbuttoning and stared at the rogue, thinking.

"Tell you what," Dough said cheerily. "If you untie my hands, I'll show you just how much of your enormous fortitude I can take before you disconnect one of my vital organs and kill me."

"I don't know..."

"What's not to know? If you're worried, then just untie one of my hands. What harm can I do with one hand?"

"This is a trick."

Duh.

"No trick. Honest. Maybe instead of asking what harm I can do with just one hand, you should be asking yourself what good I can do with just one hand, eh?"

The disgusting beast palmed his package through the overalls while considering the offer. He pulled at the back of his stringy, sweaty hair in frustration.

And came to a conclusion. "Fine. One hand. But don't try anything funny, rogue."

The dwarf reached over and cut the ropes holding Dough's left wrist.

"Now," the dwarf demanded, taking off the overalls and unleashing a scent that made Brianna's crotch smell like pumpkin pie. "You show me."

"Okay, come closer."

The dwarf did. The rogue tensed up in anticipation and stared at the knife held loosely in the dwarf's quivering hand.

I'll only get one shot... He reached toward the dark iron. And...

The floor cracked at the weight of a boot settling in the doorway. His head jerked in surprise as heavy footsteps rushed into the room.

Clobberella crossed the threshold quickly, carrying a sword that glinted in the light of the hall. The dwarf came out of his lustful trance long enough to turn around angrily and spit at the intruder. Clobberella brought the sword down in one smooth arc. The dwarf's arm came off at the shoulder, spurting blood all over the room and onto his assailant's clothes.

"I just cleaned this." Clobberella whispered below the deathly screams of the doomed monster and struck the dwarf again, taking his head off with the sharpness of the blade. It bounced onto the stone floor, rolling around in a circle before coming to a stop next to the body.

"Thanks," Dough said. "But I had things under control."

"Yeah, I noticed. Did he give you a few coins for that handjob, or did you guys have a 'thing'?"

"A gentleman never tells."

"Yeah, well, that's why I asked you."

"How clever," Dough rolled his eyes. "Untie me please?"

"Maybe," she grinned slyly, surveying his nakedness. "How did you lose your clothes? What is this? I show you mine, you show me yours?"

"Darling, unless you're going to 'show me yours' again, can you please cut these damned ropes?"

"Fine."

Dough looked around the room uncomfortably. "Where's our little girl?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"She disappeared while I was sleeping. I searched the town, but she's not here."

Clobberella cut the ropes binding his extremities.

"Where do you think she went?"

Clobberella shook her head. "No idea. But she was feeling really bad about the way you treated her."

"How I treated her? You were the one that threatened to kill her."

Clobberella shrugged.

Dough worked the cramps out of his legs. "Wherever she is, I hope she's safe. I just don't understand why she'd be so willing to help out one minute, and then try to sneak off the next. It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe it was too much for her."

"Or maybe a Dark Iron took her while you were sleeping?"

"I doubt it," Clobberella said, then pointed to the decapitated dwarf, "You think he was alone?"

They both looked down at the corpse.

"Why don't you ask him?" Dough said, searching for his clothes. "I think his head's over there."

-------

They came down the stairs carefully, Dough supporting Clobberella as best he could with each rickety wooden step. She was in tremendous pain and the killing of the dark iron dwarf had taken a lot out of her.

Brianna waited for them at the foot of the stairs. She regarded Clobberella with contempt - a look of absolute hatred.

"Is this the sort of horror you find out in the 'great big world,' Dough?" Brianna asked, putting a little too much emphasis on the word "horror."

"She's a friend, Brianna," he said.

"Surely," the innkeeper wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "I suspect you'll be leaving again and never coming back."

Dough nodded.

"Here," she handed him a paper sack. "I made you a couple sandwiches and threw in a few apples."

"Thank you."

As they moved toward the door, Brianna stepped in front of the pair one more time.

"Did you mean it, Dough?" She asked, biting her lip.

"Did I mean what?"

"What you said upstairs. Did you really love me all those years ago?"

Dough sighed loudly.

"I did," he met her gaze. "But I was stupid and naive and very, very horny."

Her face twisted as if slapped.

"And now," he continued "Now I'm just stupid and very, very horny. Have a nice life, Brianna. Thanks for the sandwiches."

They left the inn. Brianna stood next to the door as they walked toward the stable to retrieve the horse. Her face was like stone, filled with hatred and malice. With the darkness of night and the fog coming up from the lake, she was gone before they'd walked more than a few feet away from the inn. Another regret, lost in the past. Another good intention unfulfilled.

Clobberella took Dough's arm, something she would never have done if not on the verge of death, and he supported her weight. Just a man and a very sick woman, out for a moonlight stroll. He patted her hand gently.

"You certainly have a way with women," she said quietly.

"What? I never made you cry did I?"

"Not openly. But your current perfume of cheap wine, unwiped ass and week-old sweat could do the trick."

"Oh, this coming from the woman who splashed on a few pints of eau de Dark Iron a few minutes ago?"

Clobberella examined the fresh blood stains covering her clothes and shrugged.

"Whatever keeps the stupid and very, very horny rogues away," she said.

Dough couldn't help but smile at that, and Clobberella exhaled with a weak laugh. The rogue joined her, and shortly the two of them were walking slowly toward the stable, giggling like children.

Chapter 11 - Birth of the Unwanted Guest

On sleepless nights, bad memories come bitching - pervading our dreams, our waking moments. They are the unwanted guests banging on the door even though we tell them to go away. Despite our protests, we send them mixed messages by inviting them into our house from time to time. And when they do come inside, they occasionally serve to remind us of happy times gone by, but mostly they remind us of the harm we've done, the horror we've faced and the people we've loved, lost and hurt.

The majority are incomplete and fragmented. Even our most cherished memories come back in highlights - the surrounding details fading into the past. But within all of us we hold a handful of memories so sharp and pronounced that we can recall every last detail, no matter how insignificant: Our first kiss, first sexual experience, first life-altering tragedy.

Tragedy can define and shape us. And when we're older - better able to reflect on a tragic memory with fresh perspective, we can tame it and use that memory to strengthen our character, our resolve. Or we can allow it to define us, and justify our actions - no matter how vile. Use it as an excuse to allow the unwanted guest not only entrance into our house, but to bludgeon us over the head with a rock, bury us in the backyard and take up residence. Tragic Memory wears our clothes, steals our name and takes over our lives completely, with utter disrespect.

And sometimes...well...

Sometimes the unwanted guest keeps us alive - chained and gagged in the basement - for its own morbid amusement.

------

She was murdered on what should have been the happiest day of his life.

Ana. His wife.

Glick wasn't yet established in his craft. And as insignificant as he was, he chose the worst place to make a start - in the bustling city of Stormwind. Here he was just one more human in an overpopulated city trying to create a name for himself. Glick was an apprenticing priest, learning the trade.

He lived with his wife in a tiny room above a bakery shop. The accommodations were meager, with only enough space for a small bed, a table, and a chair. The room smelled of freshly baked bread all day and night - a cruel reminder of how hungry and poor they truly were. Glick assisted the shopkeeper with the morning tasks of baking and cleaning. In exchange, he received a discount on the rent. The discount didn't help very much.

"It's temporary," he told his wife constantly. Soon they would be wealthy enough to own ten bakery shops. But until that time...

He worked odd jobs around Stormwind when not apprenticing. The income was pitiful, but it was honest work. And he wanted to build his reputation cleanly. He'd seen too many other folks destroy their reputations by taking contract work from less than honest employers. Sure the money was better, but at too high a cost. So he accepted odd jobs - lugging bags of rice from carts into warehouses, sweeping sidewalks. He and Ana scraped by on the dreams of future prosperity.

On the evening of what should have been the happiest day of his life, Glick was bagging up horse manure. He lugged the bags behind a barn and piled them up. it was back-breaking work, paying no more than a few copper, but it was more money to add to their savings. Enough copper would eventually turn into silver and hopefully give them the financial boost they needed to start a life.

He'd packed seven one-gallon bags full of sloppy manure. The stink made his eyes water, but by bag number five, he'd almost adjusted to it. Glick was preparing his eighth when a gruff voice boomed from outside the barn.

"Yo, priest!"

Glick pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. The handkerchief came away drenched.

"You have a wife named Ana?" the voice yelled.

He cleared his throat, confused.

"Yes, sir."

"You'd better come collect your wages then."

"Sir, I -" he stopped and made his voice louder, trying to remove the exhaustion from it. "Sir, I still have more bags to haul. Please, I need the money."

"Your wife's in labor, son."

He didn't move. The soaked handkerchief fell from his hand and landed with a wet thud on top of the steaming manure pile.

"Yo! You deaf? I said your wife's in labor, asshole."

Glick's eyes came back into focus. He turned to the voice of his foreman, took a step, then turned away. Before he knew it, his legs were flying out from under him and he was running out of the barn and onto the cobbled street - his eyes alight, his heart leaping in his chest. He didn't even bother to stop for his day's pay - five copper pieces. His only thought was to get home, be with Ana.

He rounded the corner in a dead run, nearly tipping a cart filled with apples.

Glick hoped it was a boy. Someone to mentor, someone to teach the difference between right and wrong, to guide through adolescence into maturity and mold into a virtuous man.

The child would benefit nicely from their genetic combination: Glick a priest and Ana a mage. And while his wife was also still apprenticing, she'd already demonstrated tremendous power. A parent couldn't ask for better stock. Their traits would be passed on to the newborn - traits of both Mage and Priest - making the child strong willed, intelligent, powerful.

His legs grew tired, but he willed himself to continue running. Less than two blocks to go.

Glick would have to work harder, yes. More hours. Take on additional jobs. But in a few weeks, Ana could go back to work at the tavern. She made good money there, and it would give him the chance to stay with the baby - the time he needed to hone his craft.

Their future was well-plotted: Glick would become a priest, Ana a powerful mage. They would raise this child and all future children in a beautiful house somewhere in the Hinterlands. They would be happy, have lots of grandchildren, live to be old and wise. Leave their mark on the world and a place in the Azerothian history books.

Unfortunately, all plans of optimistic, bright eyed youth, no matter how carefully constructed and calculated, can be altered through one unanticipated occurrence - one monumental tragedy. It can poison a perfectly good plan and transform it into a sad bastardization of what it once was.

The apprenticing priest slowed as he made it to the bakery shop. He put his hands on his knees, tried to catch his breath, then closed his eyes and said a silent prayer - pleading with God for the baby to be healthy, for his wife to get through the birth without complication. When he finished the prayer and felt confident in his deity's good graces, he dashed up the stairs.

In retrospect (always in retrospect, because that is where the grieving, heart-broken victim lives for the rest of his life), he regretted not adding more requests to the prayer. If he'd known how things would turn out, perhaps he would have taken more time with it. But alas, all he requested was a healthy baby and an uncomplicated birth.

And that's all he got.

Glick opened the door to the small room above the bakery shop, and in the time it took his brain to process what he saw, his life changed. Like flames to parchment, the well-laid plans burned to ash. Blood covered the room, reaching into all corners. Red streaks and splatter dots stood out against the eggshell white walls. There were puddles in spots, where the wooden planks of the floor sagged. The table had been upended, the chair broken and drenched with blood.

He felt a ringing in his ears, beginning as a dull, distant sound. It grew louder as he surveyed the room, and was nearly deafening when his eyes fell upon the corpse at his feet. Glick tried to back away from the blood, but it quickly surrounded his shoes and soaked through.

The mid-wife, an elderly woman that had offered her services for only a few copper, lay near the door as if she'd been trying to run away. If it wasn't for the fact that her head was balanced against the bedpan on the other side of the room, he might not have recognized the decapitated body. Her torso was large, stocky. She couldn't have been easy to bring down, but a nice sharp blade could cut through any amount of bulk.

Glick knelt down to the headless heap, and nearly collapsed when he saw his wife from the corner of his eye.

Ana was sitting upright in bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. The white sheets were pulled up over her waist and blood matted them down on top of her like a wet rag. The blood pooled around her abdomen and ran down in a straight line to the foot of the bed, dripping onto the wooden planks of the floor. Her face showed terror through widened eyes and she was wheezing for breath.

He also noted that underneath the spreading blood, the swelling in her belly had disappeared. And if the swelling was gone, then...

Where is my baby?

As if in answer, he was suddenly aware of screaming coming from behind the open door. The ringing in his ears intensified and his forehead throbbed. He stepped further into the room, slammed the door behind him and locked eyes with his newborn child...

...being rocked in the arms of a stranger.

The man was large, beefy. He wore a fedora over a face marked with old scars and burns. A sword swung lazily from his hip in a make-shift scabbard, red drops dripping onto the wooden planks near his black boots. The man eyed the young priest with unapologetic and callous eyes.

Glick attempted to speak, his throat moving, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth, stepped further into the room, glanced at his bloodied wife and felt an unfamiliar emotion creep into him: Rage.

"This baby is mine," the stranger said with finality. "Midwife got in me way, so's I cut her 'ead off nicely. Feisty ol' broad. Are you going ta get in me way too, little priest?"

Glick felt the anger rise and build - completely unfamiliar. As unfamiliar as the stranger standing before him. The anger was so intense that he felt nearly euphoric. Sure, he'd been upset before and angry, but until that very moment, he'd never felt pure uncut rage. Bestial in its simplicity. Overpowering. A man could get lost in rage so pure. Even a priest...

The baby wailed and the stranger tightened his grip.

"I'm leavin' now," he said. "You should know that the child be a girl. I was promised a boy," he paused and let the silence hang in the air, as if letting him know he wasn't satisfied. "But I'm a reasonable man. She'll do nicely I think."

Glick's eyes narrowed.

"I'm not likin' your look, boy," he said, but stepped back a few paces anyway. "I don't want to cut ya, but I will. Now you just get away from that door, and let me pass."

Glick didn't move, his rage building.

"Look," the stranger said with a sneer. "You and the missus, well, you just keep pumpin' her full a' priest juice and mayhap she pop out a boyo for you, eh? In the meantime, out of my way. This one's mine."

The stranger moved toward the door, intending to brush aside the young, gaunt priest, still clutching the wailing baby in his meaty hands, but Glick was not about to let him pass. He -

He...

...was being asked a question?

----------------------

"-do you think, my lord?" The scratchy voice of the dark iron dwarf asked.

Glick's eyes opened slowly, and for a second he forgot where he was. It would've taken him a lot longer to figure out if the sulfur smell coming from the dark iron and the stench of unbathed druid to his right wasn't so overwhelming. He looked around for his baby and the heavy-set stranger holding her, then leaned forward in the leather seat.

Where..? he thought, confused. Where was all the blood? Where was Ana? Where was the baby?

He lunged forward, his hands outstretched, and collapsed onto the floor of the carriage in a heap. His chin hit the floor and he bit his tongue, tasting blood.

The dark iron dwarf named Bernie laughed. "Good one, master! Such entertainment."

His laugh was short, staccato and maniacal. And with the brief and sickly sound of it, Glick snapped to.

Lord Glick... he corrected himself. I am Lord Glick now.

He felt the cold, clammy hands of Bernie grasp his shoulders and lift, helping him back into his seat. His dead legs refused to cooperate and shuffled along unwillingly as he settled back in. Lord Glick was panting, sweating and still a bit disoriented.

"What do you dream of, my lord?" the dwarf asked with a knowing smile. "Do you dream of the 'Depths? Do you dream of your return to paradise below the world? I do."

Lord Glick said nothing and turned to look out the window of the carriage.

They were traveling through the Burning Steppes on the way to Ironforge. He felt too warm and found it difficult to breathe through the thick acrid smoke. The Burning Steppes wasn't exactly a vacation spot, and travelers had been known to die of heat exhaustion as well as dismemberment from the nasty creatures that populated the area.

The only other occupant of the carriage was the captured druid, Sam. He bounced on his seat as the caravan moved along, staring at his captors with contempt and misery. The usually talkative druid had worked hard to keep his mouth shut, feeling his chances of survival were best if he could keep himself from speaking.

"So?" Bernie asked conversationally. "Lord Glick, I asked you what you think?"

"About what?" he offered.

"Why, the pill box of course."

At the mention of the pill box, Sam's head turned to the dark iron dwarf and he licked his lips anxiously. Bernie noticed the reaction from the druid and smiled. Sam watched the pill box in the dirty dwarf's palm and his throat tightened.

Lord Glick closed his eyes again. "I don't."

"You don't what?"

"I don't think anything."

"Ah," Bernie said with a nod. "I understand. You mean you don't think about the pill box because you think about something else right now."

Glick tried to ignore his traveling companion.

"You think about the girl, don't you?" Bernie said with a smile. "The girl whose name I am not supposed to mention."

Lucite...

"Poor girl who must not be named," the dwarf said in mock sympathy. "Poor girl who died in explosion."

Lord Glick shuffled uncomfortably. "Let me sleep, monster."

"So you can be alone with your thoughts of 'girl who must not be named?'"

Silence.

"Well, then surely you can answer this one question before sleep? What is this druid doing with orange pill and expensive pill box?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't know."

"It might be valuable," the dwarf said, opening the pill box and staring at the contents greedily. "At least we know it valuable to druid."

"Please be careful with that," Sam finally spoke.

"You don't talk, druid," Bernie said sharply. "Unless I ask for talk."

Lord Glick fell back to sleep. But before he completely drifted off, he heard Bernie say one more thing:

"If it valuable to druid, maybe it valuable to someone else too?"

-------------------

A mile behind the caravan, two travelers followed the trail.

Dough and Clobberella moved slowly through the stinging smoke and heat of the Burning Steppes, tailing the procession of dark iron dwarves and mysterious horse-drawn carriage, unaware of the caravan's destination. Dough walked in front of the horse that Clobberella sat on.

"Sat" was not the most appropriate word. Clobberella was practically draped over the horse's saddle and looked ready to fall at any moment. Her clothing stuck to her skin like a wet adhesive, drenched with sweat and dried blood. The circles around her eyes had grown darker, and her mouth hung open. She shivered violently as the horse moved up the trail.

Dough considered tying his companion to the saddle, as he had done in order to transport her to the druid's house the night before. She was completely unstable and had come close to falling off more than a few times.

Every once in a while Clobberella babbled like she was experiencing terrible fever dreams. She needed help soon, but he'd exhausted every one of his options. The druid had already removed the poison, so he couldn't imagine what was causing the sudden turn in health. It was almost as if -

And then he heard the saddle slip, and the body of his friend collapse to the dirt. Clobberella's cheek lay flush with the earth, with one leg still strapped to a stirrup. The rest of her body slackened.

He quickly stopped the horse, fearing that her spine would snap, and removed Clobberella's foot from the stirrup. Her body fell completely to the ground.

"Clob," he said gently.

Her shoulders rose and fell quickly, meaning she was still breathing. The quivering continued and he found it hard to even lift her while she shook so violently.

Then she spoke for the first time in hours: "My...back."

"What about your back?" he asked.

But she was done making sense and began to babble something about horses and the distinct difference between venison and short ribs.

Dough paused, processing the information. Then he took out his dagger and cut the cloth from her back, as he had done the night before, ripping open the material and staring at her bare skin below the shoulder blades.

He swallowed hard.

The wound from last night was still open, but it wasn't oozing green anymore.

It was oozing orange.

Chapter 12 - Hardened Bricklebrack Root

Blackrock Mountain towers high above the desolation of the Burning Steppes. It casts a long shadow independent of the raging sun and pools over to one side, bathing the landscape in perpetual darkness. Steam clouds rise from every crevice of the mountain, reaching up into the reddened sky, a cautionary tale for the wary traveler. Unfortunately, cautionary tale or no, it is the only way to move north and therefore receives a considerable amount of traffic.

Due to the one hundred percent fatality rate of mountain climbers attempting to scale Blackrock, the inside of the mountain has been hollowed out, leaving a well worn - if not precarious - path through its heart. This "path" involves the negotiation of a somewhat narrow stone bridge set above a pool of hot bubbling lava. This leads to the other side of the mountain where the welcoming, tarred air of the Searing Gorge awaits: a sad improvement over the Burning Steppes.

Travelers have been known to get lost in the dizzying heat of the mountain and wander aimlessly into less ..ed areas, where they become scrumptious delicacies or worse. And dehydration could force a man to sway a little bit too much on the bridge, lose his balance and fall into the lava below, unceremoniously wiping himself out of existence.

Blackrock Mountain has a practical use as well - the disposal of dead bodies. It's not just a lava pool, but a highly regarded model of efficiency. To put it simply, you no longer need to worry about your children accidentally digging up one of those dead bodies you so carefully bashed over the head and buried in the backyard a few weeks ago while they're playing hide-and-seek with their friends. Simply commit the murder, lug the body over to Blackrock Mountain and drop it into the lava pit. No muss, no fuss. It's an easy way to dispose of a bothersome corpse and the murder weapon at the same time. In fact, this practice has become so commonplace, that you'd swear it was raining gnomes, humans and elves all day long.

Four enormous, hand-crafted statues of Dark Iron Dwarves are positioned around the perimeter of the fiery lava pit - each one holding a large chain connected to a mammoth boulder. The boulder is suspended high above the center of the lava pool and contains a spiraling ramp leading down to the caverns below: One path to the Molten Core, inhabited by giants made entirely of flame and dogs ten times the size of human beings; the other to Blackrock Depths, the home of the Dark Iron Dwarves and pure nightmarish terror.

The caravan approached the entrance of Blackrock. Because their destination - Ironforge - happened to be in a northerly direction, the caravan had no choice but to pass through the heart of the mountain in order to continue.

"Hot," Sam the druid said with a click of his tongue. "I don't like the heat really."

"Shut it," the dark iron dwarf named Bernie snapped.

Glick was angry at the route the dark irons had chosen. "You could just as easily have gone through the Badlands, you know? This path wasn't necessary."

"True, my lord. Very true," Bernie replied happily. He bounced on his seat with excitement. "Can you smell it, my lord? The scent of ash and heated rock. Home."

"Not my home."

"Not yet."

They had been traveling for over a day now, and Glick had slept the night without dreaming. Mercifully, he'd been able to keep the painful memories from tainting his slumber. When he woke, the afternoon sun nearly burned out his retinas, hot and blazing and riding high over the ashen landscape. The caravan moved slowly along the winding road leading to Blackrock Mountain. The towering shadow enveloped the party in darkness. It was a cruel shadow that only brought more heat than the sun could ever hope to produce.

The dark irons flanked both sides of the carriage and seemed to quicken their pace as the entrance drew nearer. Their chattering increased until it was an excited crescendo. And their joy stank like a diseased, cornered skunk.

Glick felt that his heart would explode if they proceeded any further. He needed to make them turn the caravan around immediately, away from the mountain.

"You still work for me, Bernie," he said, his lips quivering. "I command the dark irons. Until we find the amulet, you -"

"Yes," Bernie interrupted calmly. "Until we find amulet."

"You still work for me. This is my plan. Not yours."

The dark iron dwarf seemed to consider this for a moment, rolled his eyes and said, "More or less."

"What do you mean 'more or less?'"

"You know what I mean, my lord."

"Regardless, it is still my plan, damn it."

"Oh?" Bernie picked at a finger nail. "Was it your decision to have Lucite execute the beginning phase of your plan, my lord? Was it your plan to have Lucite lure the rogue to - ?"

"No. Shut up about her," Glick growled. "It was my plan. You may have chosen to use an innocent girl to implement it, but the idea was mine."

"Hmm. And did you ever ask yourself who poisoned Clobberella in her cottage?"

Glick eyed the gray skinned dwarf suspiciously. "No. You administered the poison personally, didn't you? In order to avoid complication."

"I did. You are correct. I administered poison and left paralyzed body to be discovered."

Sam's ears perked up and he found himself intrigued by the conversation.

Glick wiped the sweat from his forehead with the corner of his brightly-colored robe, trying to figure out what the dwarf was up to. "Then I don't understand. You poisoned Clobberella. You told me that before, and you just admitted it again."

"Yes. I poisoned Clobberella," he sat forward on the seat. "But where did I get poison?"

"How should I know?"

"Oh, but you should. Funny how we never ask most important questions until too late, isn't it?"

Glick shook his head in confusion, but realized as they passed through the threshold that his curiosity was greatly outweighed by sheer panic.

"Turn this caravan around, now," Glick commanded. "You still work for me. And with the rogue dead, you'd better get used to my authority. Now, you must listen to me. You must!"

"Yes, of course, my lord," he placed his hand over his heart in mock shock. "I would never question your authority."

"Fine. Then get us out of here. Now."

"No."

The one syllable answer made the back of Glick's neck shiver. He could feel tears welling up and he fought hard to keep them back.

The dwarf cleared his throat and smiled. "Not yet."

"Nice statues," Sam muttered with a yawn. "Are you working with a fence? Because if you're not, I can get you a real nice price for one of those -"

"Shut it, druid."

The caravan came to an abrupt halt near the walkway that crossed the volcanic pit. A procession of dark irons moved swiftly along the path to greet a contingent of their brethren, most likely coming up from the 'Depths in order to service the conquerers. They held baskets of food and crates of water - all looking undrinkable and completely inedible.

"Then fetch me a drink of water," Glick said with airs. "If you're forcing me to sit in this fiery hell, the least you can do is keep me hydrated."

"Me too?" the druid asked.

Glick nodded and half-grinned at Bernie. "Make that two glasses of water. We don't want our druid dying before he can retrieve the amulet, do we?"

"Or after," Sam said meekly.

"Or after," Glick confirmed, licking his dried lips.

Glick expected a harsh retort from the dark iron dwarf or at least another defiant act, but nothing came. Instead the dwarf he had come to know as Blackrock Bernie simply opened the door of the carriage, caught sight of a group of dark irons across the way and exited.

"Yes, my lord," he said flatly.

The door to the carriage shut behind him and Bernie was gone - leaving Sam and Glick alone.

Interesting, thought Glick and folded his arms, trying to decipher the dwarf's reaction.

All throughout the journey, Bernie had played the subservient lackey, but always with an undertone of authority that frightened Glick. Now he was fetching Glick a glass of water? Something was up. And what had Bernie meant when he said "we never ask the most important questions until too late?" What did that mean? This was his plan. Had the dwarves initiated some sort of "side-plan" that was running in parallel with his own? Were they keeping secrets from him? Something -

"Psst."

- wasn't right. He was missing an important piece of the puzzle. He knew that if he didn't figure it out soon, it might come back to haunt -

"Psst. Hey. Psst."

Glick's thoughts broke and he searched for the source of the "psst." The only other passenger in the carriage. The irritating druid.

"Yes?" he asked, disinterested.

"Help me get free of these ropes."

Glick tilted his head in confusion. "And why would I do that?"

"Duh," Sam said, making a silly face. "Maybe because it's our only chance to escape?"

Glick stared at the druid for a full ten seconds, then, "You'll have to forgive me. The heat and all. But what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Look," Sam said, leaning in to whisper. "You obviously aren't the one in charge of this operation. No offense."

Glick shrugged.

"We need to make haste," Sam turned his back to Glick and extended his wrists, bound with thick rope. "Do you have something to cut these bindings with?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then go for it. Quickly."

Glick didn't move. "Sit down, druid."

"Just go ahead and cut -"

"Sit."

Sam turned around reluctantly and sat back on the leather seat, his greasy dark hair falling over the narrow features of his face and making him look less confused than stupefied.

Glick cleared his parched throat. "You are my prisoner."

"Look, I don't know what delusions you're under, but you can't negotiate with these things. They will kill you, too."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

The roaring sound of an eruption came from beneath the lava pool, nearly making him jump out of his seat. The fear was still building up, and he tried desperately to squelch it. He honestly didn't know how much longer he could stay sane in that mountain. He needed to distract himself - focus on other things. Like the pill box for instance...

Glick's eyes fell upon the pill box perched on the seat next to the druid. "What is that?"

Sam flushed, which meant the druid's face went from blue to aquamarine. "Nothing."

"Yes, you've stated that before," Glick leaned forward and extended his hand, palm up. "May I?"

"May you what? If you're asking for my permission to take it, there's not much I can do to stop you."

Glick grabbed the box and held it up to the light. Ornate, well-crafted. He opened the lid and stared intently at the solitary inhabitant of the box - a small orange pill.

"What is this?"

"A pill."

"Obviously. What sort of pill?"

Sam bit his lip.

Glick gave a comforting smile. It hurt, but he needed information. And he doubted this blue-skinned dimwit would have the mental capacity to see through a good deception.

"Look druid, I hate to admit this, but you are correct. I am being held against my will by these monsters."

He allowed his eyes to well up and a single solitary tear to streak down his cheek. The druid tilted his head.

"Damn you for making me admit that," Glick continued, "Damn you druid. But it's true. It's true. We are both prisoners of these verminous creatures."

"Um...right. So untie me, okay?"

"Don't you think I want to? Honestly, if it were within my power to do so, I would cut those ropes in a heartbeat. But they'll kill me if I do. And there's no place to run, especially with my dead legs."

Pause for effect, he thought to himself. Count down from three, two, one...continue

"Unless..."

"Unless what?" The druid asked anxiously.

"No," he said with a quick shake of his head. "No, that would be impossible."

"What would be impossible?"

"Or would it?" he placed his hand on his chin and forced his eyes to light up. "Yes! Perhaps if we work together..."

"What? What? What?"

"We can distract Bernie with the pill box," Glick said. "Make him think you swallowed the pill. Or we can just dispose of the pill altogether. He'll be so frantic about recovering it that he won't see us escape."

"Yes!" The druid exclaimed. Then, "No. Wait...You want me to take the pill?"

"Sure. Or just throw it out of the carriage."

"I can't do that."

"Okay, then. Swallow it. That kind of distraction should give us the time we need. Oh, yes. This is a brilliant plan."

"But I don't get it," the druid said, still shaking his head. "How could swallowing Hardened Bricklebrack Root create a distraction? That's just..." and he stopped.

"...stupid?" Glick finished for him, puffing out his chest. "Yes. I suppose it would be, wouldn't it?"

Lord Glick looked out the window of the carriage at the dwarves. They were still huddling together, talking and laughing - scheming about something. But at least they were out of earshot. Glick made his move.

"Bricklebrack Root," he let the sound roll off his tongue.

"Damn," the druid huffed.

"Hardened Bricklebrack Root."

"Shh," Sam cut in. "They'll hear you."

"Uh-huh. You talk too much druid. How you've survived all these years as a fence is beyond me."

The druid shrugged, unable to meet Lord Glick's intense stare.

"You carry a small sample of Hardened Bricklebrack Root in a box as if your life depends on it. For some reason, this pill holds a tremendous amount of value to you. Question is, why?"

The druid coughed. "May I have it back please?"

"Why would you carry this pill box? What possible use can you have for Bricklebrack Root?" he placed his hand on his chin. "I've studied Herbalism and know a few things about this particular herb. I know that it can be used to cure warts and aid in the stiffness of an erection, if applied topically. Neither of which seems useful - or wise - given your current predicament."

He paused and examined the druid's face. The druid was still staring at the floor.

Lord Glick continued, "Placing the root under the skin, however, or in an open wound for a considerable amount of time can cause Bricklebrack Poisoning, leading to fever, nausea and eventually death. It needs to be treated in a timely fashion. And what is the treatment? My, my. I seem to be blanking on that one..."

Sam spat on the floor of the carriage and finally met Glick's heavy gaze. "Hardened Bricklebrack Root."

"Ah. Yes. The ailing victim of Bricklebrack Poisoning must receive the hardened form of the root orally, correct?"

The druid nodded.

"And you don't seem to be suffering from any of the symptoms, unless the symptoms include stupidity and the inability to keep your mouth shut."

Glick examined the pill again, holding it between his index finger and thumb.

"You're not exhibiting any symptoms," he thought aloud. "And this pill isn't for you. So who would need to -"

But then it dawned on him and his eyes widened. The druid caught the sudden realization and muttered a silent "Damn" to no one in particular. Lord Glick's smile disappeared completely. He'd been using this interrogation to try and distance himself from the current setting and get his pulse back to normal. It had worked for a while, but now, faced with this new information, his pulse raced even faster.

Glick sneered at the druid. "You rubbed the Bricklebrack Root into Clobberella's open wound, didn't you? And that means that -"

"Is he coming back with my glass of water soon? I'm thirsty," the druid asked conversationally.

"She's alive?" Glick pounded his fist on his dead knee. "Clobberella is alive?"

Sam nodded. "Barely, by now."

"She was able to escape the explosion?"

Sam nodded again.

"But, but..." he stammered. "But I don't understand. She was poisoned when the rogue delivered her to you. Poison of Paralysis. Didn't you remove the poison?"

"I did," he said. "Then I poisoned her again."

"You cured her of Poison of Paralysis, then gave her Bricklebrack Poisoning? Why?"

"I never intended to let her die. I just needed some...insurance. I was the one that sent the dark iron dwarves to her cottage, and it was only a matter of time before she figured that out. Then she would kill me. I needed to protect myself and make sure I had some leverage in order to explain the circumstances to her. Once she agreed not to slit my throat, I would hand her the Hardened Bricklebrack Root and she'd be okay."

"How ambitious of you, and somewhat short-sighted. But surely she's dead by now."

The druid started to answer, then closed his mouth quickly.

"Ah. I see," Glick nodded. "You think there's still enough time to give her the pill. Which means you think she's close by. Maybe even following us. But given her condition from the Bricklebrack Poison, she must be near-death by now. Which means she's not alone. Somebody must be transporting her - helping her along...and...and..."

Dough... Just thinking his name made his shoulders tense up.

"They are both alive, aren't they? You knew this and you didn't tell me?" Glick's face reddened.

"Of course I didn't tell you."

"He'll want to bargain for this pill," he murmured. "Oh yes. If she's still alive, Dough will want to cure her."

His plans were still valid after all. Glick had to smile. He could still be the one to murder the rogue himself. And with Bernie and the dark irons still believing that Dough had been killed in the explosion, they had no reason not to give him the amulet. So Glick would end up with the Amulet of Control and the tremendous power that came with it and end the rogue's life with his own bare hands. It couldn't have been better. He just needed to keep this new information a secret from Bernie...

"Listen to me, druid," he said sternly. "Do not breathe a word of this to any of the dark irons. I don't want them to know that the rogue and the woman are still alive."

"I don't want them to know either. Just let me hold onto the pill, okay?"

Glick set the pill box on the seat next to the druid, and as he leaned over, something else clicked into place. Maybe it wasn't just Clobberella and Dough that survived the explosion. Was it possible that -?

"A gift, my lord," came a gravely, horrible voice from outside the carriage. Glick jumped in surprise. He hadn't been paying attention to the dark irons since he'd learned of the orange pill's intended function.

Bernie gave him a sly smile. "Did I startle my lord?"

"No. What do you want, Bernie?"

And then his eyes drifted to the human standing next to the gray skinned horror.

That euphoric rage he'd felt nearly sixteen years ago came rushing back - that same emotion that exploded when he'd rushed through the door of his home and found Lucite being rocked in the arms of a stranger. That overwhelming and helpless rage, this time focused on a vertically-impaired monster.

Perhaps Bernie noted the emotional whirlwind behind Glick's eyes because he bowed quickly and stepped back. "This is a gift, my lord. A gift to you for your loyalty to the cause."

Glick licked his lips and stared at the gaunt young girl with the manly shoulders and the lanky figure. The acne covered, awkward face scrunched up as she tried to control her tears, but they fell regardless of her effort. Her snout nose sniffled and gushed like an undammed river.

Lucite stared angrily at Bernie, and tried to speak between choked sobs. "I did what you asked. I did everything you asked. Now let me go. You said you'd let me go. You promised."

Bernie gave Glick a side-glance and spoke to the girl with apparent glee: "Yes, you did everything I asked of you. But to be released? Well, that is up to Lord Glick. You see, this is his plan and I must do what he commands. Isn't that right, my lord?"

Glick wasn't listening. He was suddenly aware of all his gray hairs - 57 - and the etched lines in his face from all the years gone by, the scars and imperfections that had defined him since that fateful day when he lost everything that he knew and loved, and had become something and someone else entirely.

That night so many years ago that had changed everything.

"Lucy?" He whispered, and extended his trembling hand, intending to wipe the tears away from her cheeks. "Lucite?"

"Yes," she replied, taking a step back and squinting. "Do I know you?"

Chapter 13 - "So you just put a horse in this here bottle and cork it, see?"

Dough lifted his head and came to a sudden halt near the entrance of Blackrock Mountain.

It wasn't the heat that buckled his knees and forced him to stop dead in his tracks. It was the location. This familiar mountain contained nightmarishly unattractive natives - natives that would welcome him with their own special brand of down-home hospitality if given the chance.

Oh, come on, he thought, staring up at the sky in contemptuous protest. Of all the mountains in all the world...

Dough scratched at his scruffy beard. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a nice shave. Sure, he was used to having razors near his neck, but none that had his hygienic well-being in mind. The beard itched like a thousand grubs were burrowing into his cheeks. Life just kept getting sweeter.

The rogue mustered what saliva he had left and spat toward a beetle near his big toe. He felt defeated, overwhelmed and incredibly thirsty. The sound of spit hitting dirt made the horse whine again.

"Settle down," Dough whispered.

The horse was easily spooked, having spent the first few years of its life at the Dark Moon Faire giving rides to naughty, sadistic children. In case you're wondering, nothing is more frightening to an animal than a three-year old with a strong grip.

Dough found the horse's tendency to spook cute at first, and mildly entertaining. But now that it was carrying Clobberella on its saddle, the cuteness factor was gone. The horse bucked again, jolting Clobberella's body against the ropes that bound her. Luckily, the rogue knew how to tie strong, intricate knots. He just wasn't very good at untying them.

"Yeah, yeah," the rogue said to the horse. "You're thirsty. I'm thirsty. We're all thirsty. If I had any sweat left, you could drink that."

Clobberella groaned and shifted uncomfortably. She was draped over the saddle, face down. The arrangements were barbaric, but the rogue had little choice. Her breathing had become short and wheezy, punctuated by incoherent babbling. She seemed to be experiencing terrible fever dreams: dreams that involved rabbits tasting like charcoal, and diseased grizzlies that took high-tea with syphilitic kangaroos. Fascinating stuff, but terrifying nonetheless.

So he had stopped the horse near the entrance of the mountain, realizing that the dark iron caravan intended to pass straight through its heart. His shoulders slumped and he whispered a large variety of cuss words he'd saved for special occasions. The horse whinnied again, and Dough sighed.

"You've heard worse." Somehow this satisfied the horse for a few minutes. If the horse had shoulders that shrugged, he would've shrugged.

This was indeed a conundrum.

How could he pass through Blackrock Mountain unnoticed? The problem was further compounded by the hefty load on the horse's back. Alone, Dough would simply sneak through to the other side in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, he was not alone, and he needed to bring the damned horse and Clobberella with him.

Must carefully plan this, he thought. He hated planning things. Planning seemed downright counter-intuitive.

Dough couldn't just double back, or he'd lose the trail. And he certainly couldn't saunter through Blackrock Mountain like any old traveler. The dark irons would have a ball gag in his mouth before he could even say howdy.

Think.

The rogue was left with little choice but to resort to his usual method of troubleshooting conundrums. Dough opened the saddlebag and rummaged through the contents with a dirt-covered hand, smiling when he heard the unmistakable sound of glass clinking against glass. He wrapped his palm around the cool ridge of a bottle and pulled it from the bag. The rogue lifted the bottle of Elwyn Merlot to the sunlight as if it were a trophy. Then he bit off the cork and drank.

Ah, yes. This would definitely clear the cobwebs and help him strategize with perfect clarity.

He left the other two bottles of Merlot in the saddlebag, giving a fleeting thought to where he'd obtained them: the Lakeshire Inn. The rogue had swiped them from the table where they were practically begging to be swiped. Dear, sweet innkeeper Brianna had closed her tear-filled eyes for those very precious and necessary few moments - enough moments for him to gather up all three bottles. Would she hold a grudge once she found out they were missing? Nah.

Dough stood next to the horse and the murmuring Clobberella, drinking. He stared at the entrance of the mountain with a furrowed brow and an open mind, waiting for those elaborate schemes to just start dancing through his head.

Brain get ready. Here they come!

---

Near the center of Blackrock Mountain, along the narrow bridge, the caravan remained parked and still. The door of the carriage was open and a large cluster of dark iron dwarves stood around it, with Bernie near the front. The dark irons held the distraught young woman by her lanky arms, waiting on Lord Glick to decide her fate.

"We all waiting, my lord," said the smallish devil from behind rotted teeth. "Decision must be made."

Glick swayed in his seat, fell forward a bit, and grabbed the handrail to balance himself. This startled Lucite and her head flinched back. The intensity of his stare had left her feeling somewhat embarrassed, as if she had done something to make him angry. She felt herself absently pull her white sweater up, covering the less-than-ample cleavage of her bosom self-consciously against the intensity of his eyes.

This display of embarrassment delighted Bernie. "Master holds up entire battalion. Surely you can make one simple decision. How can master be trusted with amulet if he cannot decide one insignificant matter? Today we march toward Ironforge and regain our birthright. If you still wish to lead, then decision must be made. It simple as that."

Lucite clasped her hands together submissively and addressed the dwarf. "Please let me go. I did what you asked."

"I not in charge." Bernie pointed helplessly to Lord Glick. "I am humble servant to my lord. Perhaps you should beg? Maybe you can offer him your youth. Your..." he paused and placed a clammy hand over her inner thigh making Lucite jump high into the air. "...young loveliness? A fair trade indeed, my lord."

Glick was beyond seething at this point, and watched with maddening eyes as Lucite slapped the dwarf in the face. There was a thumping sound rather than a slap and when she pulled away, the imprint of her palm remained, almost pink against the pale gray and stubbly cheek. Bernie laughed and nodded.

Lucite stepped forward until she was merely a foot away from Glick and met his gaze with meek hope. Her face was a complete mess of acne and dampness, but underneath there was a quiet anger.

"Please, sir," she said. "Please let me go."

Bernie clapped. "Delightful!" he yelled. A line of drool fell from his lip and connected with a large brass button on his overalls. He didn't seem to notice. "Absolutely delightful." Then he reconsidered, "No, I think it tragic. Yes. Tragically Delightful!"

The sound of Glick's teeth grinding together was deafening in the small carriage. So deafening, that the druid sitting across from him became too irritated to keep his mouth shut. He clucked his tongue and sighed loudly.

"Will you just let her go, for Onyxia's sake?" Sam said, rolling his eyes at Lord Glick. "I already told you where the amulet is. What could you possibly need from her?"

"Yes," Bernie nodded. "What could you possibly need from Lucite? Why keep her around at all, eh? After all, she's already completed her task."

Sam inched forward. "Wait," he said, pointing. "What 'task' are you talking about. Did Lucite actually do something for you half gallon bipeds?"

Lucite blushed, enhancing each and every acne spot on her face.

Bernie's grin widened. "Oh, you not know?"

"No," he replied with a raised, narrow eyebrow, "I not know."

"Tell him," Bernie commanded, and patted her bony back.

"I'd rather not," she replied.

"I not giving you choice, little one."

Lucite kicked at a loose pebble near her foot and exhaled. "I kinda maybe cast a spell on Dough during our date."

"The blind date?" Sam cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Um, yeah. He got drunk off the wine at the steak house, and - well - it's easier to cast a spell on someone when they're drunk, see?"

"What sort of spell did you cast upon the rogue?"

"Sort of a mind control spell. But with just one simple suggestion."

"Which was?"

"Go to Clobberellla's house," she cleared her throat and the rest just poured out of her. "But that's all. Nothing else. Then I paid the restaurant bill, and...and..."

"Go on."

"...and I went through his pockets to make sure he didn't have any gold." There was shame in her face now. "And he didn't. So it wasn't like I stole any money from him. He didn't have any money at all. Anyway, when he finally sobered up in the gutter in front of the steakhouse, I told him the he needed to pay me back. Since the suggestion had been planted to go to Clobberella's house...well...that's where he suggested we go."

Sam frowned. "So the bottom line is that you were working for them, that you may still be working for the dark iron dwarves? They... what, hired you to lead Dough to Clobberella's cottage, knowing that you would find Clobberella half dead there?"

"They told me they wouldn't hurt her. They promised me."

Bernie snorted. "Ah, denial. So liberating. So easily played."

"I am not in denial! You promised not to hurt her. I had no idea -"

"Of course you did."

Lucite pouted out her bottom lip and turned her face back to the druid. "Sam, I didn't know."

"Maybe not," Sam said, "But your 'employers' surely knew. They knew that once Dough discovered Clobberella, it was only a matter of time before he brought her to me to heal her."

Bernie shrugged and picked at his teeth. "That was Lord Glick's belief, yes."

"Let me go," Lucite said.

"Not up to me," Bernie replied. "Also, there's fact that you didn't do as you were told completely."

Lucite whipped her head around and slackened her jaw. "I did so!"

Bernie shrugged again. "She was supposed to lead the rogue to Clobberella's cottage and then disappear. Instead, she helped them, perhaps even gave away our precious secrets."

"I didn't tell them anything," she whined. "I don't even know anything. How could I -?"

"I think you do."

"Well you're wrong," she said defiantly. "I don't know anything."

"Then why stay with them? Why help them?"

"I couldn't just leave that woman there. Clobberella...she was paralyzed, totally helpless. And that rogue...he would've raped her."

Now they all cocked eyebrows at her.

"He's a rogue," she said as if educating small children. "That's what rogues do. They rape people."

"And here I thought they baked cookies," Sam said. "How shocking."

Bernie wasn't amused. "You disobeyed us, Lucite. We told you to lead the rogue to Clobberella and disappear. Instead, you helped him. You interfered. As you can see, Lord Glick is not pleased with you."

Glick pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at the monster.

"Wait," Sam said again, "So the dating service set you and Dough up on this blind date?"

"No, druid," Bernie said with a disappointing tsk. "She not old enough to join dating service. We had to...dispose...of the assigned blind date in order to substitute our dear Lucite here."

"Not old enough?" Sam looked her over from head to toe, and then asked: "Just how old are you, Lucite?"

"Almost sixteen."

"She's sixteen?" the druid asked, paused, then fell over on the seat laughing.

"Stop laughing," Lucite snarled.

But the druid couldn't. He laughed until the color in his face blossomed into a bright purple plum and then laughed some more. It sounded like an old woman cackling with lungs full of water.

"Stop it!"

"But she's sixteen," he said, and choked on his own guffaws.

"Enough."

They all turned to Lord Glick. The druid stopped laughing quite suddenly. Glick spoke through clenched teeth, his voice deep and guttural.

"That's enough," he repeated and folded his arms. "I've made my decision. The girl comes with us."

"But, my lord -"

"Hush, Bernie. As I've stated before, I am in charge."

"Of course, my lord."

The color in Lucite's cheeks drained and her lip quivered in shocked contempt. "Please, let me go."

"There will be no more begging, Lucite," Glick said as firmly as possible. "You will get into this carriage at once. Either of your own free will or with the assistance of my followers."

"Please -"

"Do not make me ask again."

Lord Glick offered his hand to her.

Lucite reluctantly climbed into the carriage, ignoring his hand and pulling her sweater tight against her chest. As she entered the cab, Lucite brought her face close to Glick's, her lips brushing past Glick's right ear. He felt goosebumps rise over his arms. Then she whispered to him in a virulently sour voice:

"You keep your filthy hands off of me."

Glick pursed his lips, then replied in a whisper as dark as Lucite's: "Sit, my Lucite. Now."

Lucite frowned.

"Bernie. You will move this caravan forward," Glick commanded. "I am ordering you to get us out of this furnace and continue our journey to Ironforge."

"Certainly, my lord," Bernie said with a bow. "And, my lord?"

"Yes?"

Bernie smiled that wide, toothy grin. "If I may be so bold as to offer observation. You show much promise as leader. Much potential. We will allow you to continue leading us for now."

Bernie turned and whispered a few things to the huddled group of dark irons.

Lucite planted her butt down in the vacant seat next to Lord Glick with crossed arms, a scowl painted over her face.

And the happy caravan crept slowly toward the exit.

-----

Outside, the sun had dipped a few inches, but not very much. The heat was unbearable. The horse was thirsty. Clobberella was babbling. And...

Dough was drunk.

Down one and a half bottles of Elwyn Merlot.

Dough usually had an epiphany and a "brain-boost," somewhere around half a bottle. Unfortunately, the brain boost was accompanied by a "thirst boost" which tended to take precedence. The timing was just plain bad, and gave him approximately five seconds of clarity in which to formulate a plan. Any longer and he risked extinguishing all those firing synapses, like water over hot coals. Leaving nothing but rising steam.

Damn it, he thought. This never works.

He took another drink.

The rogue plopped down on a step near the entrance of Blackrock Mountain, his brain numb and sloshing around inside his skull. Clobberella muttered something about brushing her teeth with a precocious apricot, and Dough nodded, raised the bottle and drank again.

He squinted his eyes together hard. The question danced through his inebriated melon: How the hell was he going to get through that mountain unnoticed?

In the end, he came up with three options. Each one more brilliant than the last:

OPTION ONE: Squeeze Clobberella and the horse into one of the empty wine bottles and sneak them through Blackrock Mountain in his back pocket.

It sounded reasonable enough. But then he realized that the weight of both Clob and the horse might make the bottle a little too heavy to carry. How would he even fit the bottle into his pocket?

OPTION TWO: Take off all his clothes and streak across the bridge.

He wasn't sure what this would accomplish, but somehow it just felt right.

OPTION THREE: Drink the last bottle of Elwyn Merlot.

In the end, he chose Option Three. Which, in hindsight, wasn't the worst choice.

Dough started to uncork the third bottle when he heard a loud rumbling coming from the caravan on the bridge. The dark irons were on the move. He set the corked bottle back into the saddlebag gently and inched closer to the entrance. In doing so, he used as much stealth as possible - difficult, considering the drunkenness of his legs, and set his back against the warm stone of the entrance's arch.

From his vantage point, he could see the large mass of dark irons surrounding the tall horse-drawn carriage. The caravan moved toward the exit. Unfortunately, not all of the dark irons were exiting with the caravan. Many were standing guard on the bridge, unmoving and armed with sharp pointy weapons.

Dough squinted again, trying to think. What were those three options again? They had sounded so brilliant at the time...

OPTION ONE: Something about a bottle and shoving it inside Clobberella and the horse. Hmm. Scratch that. Not a good idea.

OPTION TWO: Get naked.

OPTION THREE: Drink more wine.

Option Three was still a winner, hands down.

He peeked around the corner once more. The caravan was nearly gone. One by one the dark irons surrounding the carriage disappeared through the opposite arch. He needed to move soon or risk losing the trail. Dough cursed when he saw that there were still several dark iron dwarves standing guard on the narrow bridge. But how many?

He tried to count, but forgot that he was counting by the time he got to six. Then he became thirsty and staggered back to the horse's saddle to recover the third bottle of Elwyn Merlot.

The rogue uncorked the vintage and took a big gulp.

Think.

He took another swig and plopped down, sprawling his legs out in front of him. Dough tilted the bottle to his lips and swallowed, feeling the warmth in his gut as the delicious wine hit his gullet.

Think.

Dough wiped his dampened chin and took another sip.

Sleep, and then No...Think!

The rogue stood up, wobbled over and caught the horse's tail to regain his balance. The horse bellowed and ran forward a few steps. Dough caught it and tried to calm the spooked horse. Suddenly, OPTION FOUR became crystal clear.

Excited, the rogue rushed to the entrance of the mountain again, peering inside. The caravan was completely gone. All that remained were the six or more guards standing on the bridge and blocking the path.

Dough burped, smiled and ran back to the horse with a spring in his step.

He tilted the bottle back, letting the crimson red wine spray his face, making him feel as if he were standing underneath a natural merlot spring. He lapped up what he could with his tongue, then gripped the empty bottle by its neck and...

Well...

It had sounded like a good idea at the time, but in hindsight...not so much.

Hindsight be damned! he screamed in his head and perhaps a little too loudly since both the horse and Clobberella tilted their heads toward him.

Dough held the bottle high and then swung it as hard as he could at the horse's ass. The bottle shattered on impact and the horse reared in the air for a few seconds, screaming like a tenor singing an aria. It pitched forward, stumbled a bit and then broke into a frantic run.

Clobberella bounced along on the horse's saddle as it galloped across the bridge. Dough raced to the entrance and watched the dark irons jump out of the way in a daze, yelling at one another - trying to make sense of the spooked horse and incapacitated rider.

Dough crossed the warm threshold, both daggers drawn and ready. He watched as the horse plowed through the group of dark irons knocking them off-balance and causing mass confusion. A few of them ran after the horse, weapons out and swinging through the air. The others just watched.

Dough straightened his neck and made his move.

Showtime.

Silently and swiftly. That is how he moved. Silent and swift.

The first dwarf stood alone in front of him, facing the retreating horse. The rogue moved to ten feet away, then eight feet. He lifted the dagger in his dominant hand and prepared to strike, tip-toeing closer and closer and then he...

...tripped.

The bridge spun around wildly and his stomach lurched.

Not now... he commanded his alcohol-ridden stomach. Later.

The dark iron dwarf turned just as Dough jumped up from the floor and closed the gap with his dagger raised high. He cut a vicious slice into the dwarf's collar and then another over his neck, sending coal black blood spurting all over the bridge. The dwarf dropped his weapon and put his hands over the open wound to try and keep the blood in check, but it spurted through his sausage fingers and he cursed while falling loudly to his knees.

Before Dough could regain his composure, the second dwarf was already on top of him, with the third one coming way too fast. The other dwarves were still oblivious and continued running after the horse.

Dough kicked the third one in the face with the heel of his leather boot, sending him flailing backwards and over the side of the bridge. The tiny monster screamed all the way down and the scream ended abruptly as he landed with a splash into the molten lava below.

The second one - the one that was trying to choke him from behind - took a moment to look after his friend, and that moment was all Dough needed to plunge the blade through the dwarf's neck and shove him aside.

Three down.

The remaining three - Dough winced as he'd hoped he was just seeing double and there were only half that number - came at him then, disregarding the horse and its ailing rider. They came at him slowly from his left and right side, moving like a pack of wild boars that had grown arms and learned how to walk upright.

Dough kicked one of the dead dwarves into the lava below in order to give himself more fighting room and inched forward, waiting for the inevitable attack. A sword came at him quickly, and Dough dodged out of the way just in time, feeling the wind behind the singing blade as it whizzed past his cheek. He slid his own dagger over the dwarf's outstretched neck, stunning him as his momentum carried him forward, forcing him to fall flat on his monochrome face, gasping for air that would never come again.

With shortened breath and a dizzy head, the rogue reached into his belt and pulled out a pinch of Flash Powder. He tossed it high into the air. With a poof, the rogue disappeared from view, leaving the remaining two dwarves waving their weapons around frantically.

Quickly, he looked toward the other side of the bridge, shaking his head to expel the sweat burning into his eyes, and made a mental checklist:

Horse and Clobberella off the bridge and through the exit? Check. Remaining dwarves confused? Check. Knives still sharp? Check. Buzz from wine still working? Double check.

All was well.

In the space of a few seconds, Dough had an arm locked around a dwarf's neck, and was shanking him with the dagger in his right hand. Then he elbowed the other dwarf, knocking out his front teeth, and stabbed him through the heart with the dagger in his left hand.

When he was finished, the remains of the dwarves lay at his feet. Dough picked each body up and tossed it into the fiery lava pool below, clearing the bridge of any sign that he was indeed tracking the caravan.

OPTION FOUR: Spook a horse, filet a dwarf, he thought, sheathing his blades and trying in vain to catch his breath. Never fails.

(Added 28 August 2007)

Petey and Lotramen and the Blustery Day

From scorching heat to numbing cold.

They sat in the carriage, weary and exhausted, as it inched along the badly paved road so slowly that it might as well have been moving through mud. They had shaken off the soaring temperatures of the Searing Gorge and Blackrock Mountain only to find themselves rumbling through snow and frost. The temperature change was so dramatic and sudden, that their teeth were chattering before their bodies even noticed the difference.

An army of dark iron dwarves flanked the carriage, trudging alongside in wet snow up to their hips. The dwarves looked absolutely miserable. Most tried to stay to the road - even though it was icy - and they muttered obscenities under their breaths. Fact: Dark iron dwarves hate cold weather (as if you didn't see that one coming).

And yet, they were finally closing in on their destination: Ironforge.

"Stop," commanded Lord Glick.

Bernie slept, his sweaty gray head hanging limply over his right shoulder, bumping the window pane annoyingly in rhythm with the road. When Lord Glick addressed him, his neck twisted upright, making a cracking noise like a snapped twig.

Glick cleared his throat and repeated: "Stop."

Bernie scowled at the falling snow outside.

"Right," he responded dutifully. "Why?"

"Because we have arrived."

"But," Bernie peered out the window again. All he could see was white. Ugly, miserable white. "We here? Where are gates, my lord? I see only snow."

"I believe we are a mile away."

"Then why stop now?"

Lord Glick crossed his arms, scooted himself over so as not to wake Lucite from her fitful slumber - she'd been sleeping for hours and definitely needed to continue. He spoke to his lieutenant in the quietest voice he could muster.

"I'm disappointed, Bernie," he said. "For such a great tactician you don't seem to be thinking things through."

Bernie bit his lip. "Enlighten me, master."

"How many dark iron dwarves are accompanying this carriage, hmm? Two hundred? Three hundred?"

"Three fifty two, my lord."

"Fine. Then I suppose your plan is to roll through the gates of Ironforge, the most heavily guarded and well-defended city in all of Azeroth - the center of commerce and trade -, we're just going to roll through those gates with three hundred and fifty two dark iron dwarves armed to the teeth. Dark iron Dwarves that most people don't even think exist, and certainly never expect to see outside of Blackrock Mountain or the Searing Gorge."

Bernie bit his lip harder.

"Is that what you were planning?" Glick asked with a raised eyebrow.

The dark iron dwarf shook his head.

"Ah, good." Glick smiled. "Then stop the fucking caravan. Now."

Bernie didn't move for a few moments, just kept his eyes locked on Glick's, then he slowly opened the door and stepped out, signaling to a few dark irons nearby. The dwarves immediately stopped their trudging and dashed over. Then Bernie and the dark irons moved behind the carriage, speaking in a foreign tongue that Glick could not understand.

When he was gone, Glick exhaled a long, held breath. Lucite whimpered in her sleep and then her breathing became heavy once more. Glick felt a certain comfort in her snoring. But along with that comfort, came a mixture of guilt and sadness as well.

She didn't even recognize me... he thought.

Lord Glick closed his eyes and tried to relax. Just relax and prepare for things to...

"Psst."

No. Not again...

"Psst," the druid tapped him on his dead leg, then reconsidered and tapped his shoulder instead. "Hey. Psst."

"Yes, druid?".

"Can you do me a favor?" Sam asked.

This time, Glick opened his eyes and stared at the druid. One second passed in silence, two, three, four, five, six, seven -

When Glick finally realized that the druid wasn't going to speak, he clenched his teeth and asked, "What?"

"Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd really rather not go with you to Ironforge."

"Really?"

Sam nodded.

"Oh, I see. Well, since you put it that way..."

"You mean it? You're going to let me go?" Sam asked hopefully, then he clucked his tongue. "Oh. You're just being sarcastic. Fine. But I already told you I won't be able to just walk up and get the amulet."

"That's exactly what you're going to do."

"Why does everyone keep saying that? It's not up to me."

"Druid," Glick said. "Allow me to give you ample motivation. If you don't just walk up and retrieve the amulet, you will die. That is why you will just 'walk right up and get it'."

"Point taken. But what about the Bricklebrack root?" He pointed to the small box holding the orange pill. "You said you had a plan."

"Quiet!" he yelled briskly. Lucite stirred in her sleep and then resumed snoring. "I have not forgotten the orange pill, you blue skinned marsupial. Later, druid. Later."

Bernie reappeared next to Glick, standing up to his ankles in fresh snow. He looked much less intimidating and more like a grumpy old man in need of a diaper change.

"Caravan is stopped, my lord."

"Good."

Lord Glick surveyed the landscape and noticed something most peculiar amongst the wind-blown snow packs and ice; The dark iron dwarves were disappearing. They moved away from the carriage and into the trees alongside the path, vanishing into the whiteness - blending into it.

"Where is our escort going?"

"You concerned?" Bernie asked. "Interesting."

"It's called curiosity, Bernie. Not concern."

"They go away, my lord," Bernie said. "They must not accompany caravan. Upon reflection, I find that you correct. I was in error. We cannot allow my brethren to keep us from goal."

Glick felt a tinge of vulnerability as the dark irons receded. This was mixed with an equal measure of relief. The carriage was now alone and unguarded, yes. But alone and perhaps a little less confined by captors who could turn mutinous at any moment.

Bernie, Glick, Lucite, Sam, two horses and the carriage were all that remained of the once mighty caravan.

The druid cleared his throat. "An observation?"

"Hmm?" Bernie grunted.

"Now that you've sent our driver and the rest of your brood into the woods to freeze to death, who will be driving the carriage?"

"Me."

Sam snorted. "You?"

"You think me incapable, Druid?"

"No. I think you a dark iron dwarf."

"So dark iron dwarves cannot drive carriages?"

Sam shook his head. "I have no doubt that dark iron dwarves can drive carriages. I do, however, doubt that dark iron dwarves can drive carriages into Ironforge."

"A matter easily hidden."

Bernie unfolded a dark hooded cloak from underneath the seat and shook it out. Then he pulled it tightly around him, covering his head and facial features along with the rest of his body. Casual observers would mistake him for either a common dwarf or a midget with bad fashion sense.

"Right," Lord Glick said, pointing forward. "On we go then."

-----

The gates of Ironforge were most impressive - standing tall against the piling snow. Over the massive entrance, a golden emblem of an anvil shined: a testimony to the dwarves that protected and served the glorious city. From the outside, the entrance promised heat, warmth and sanctuary from the cold.

Two Ironforge Guards stood on either side of the entrance. Petey and Lotramen were well-bundled and armed for war. Each carried a shield in one hand and an axe in the other. They wore ridiculously long grayish beards that rested against their stout bellies and their huge noses exuded steam with every breath. One more observation - both were approximately four feet tall.

Today, it was their turn to stand guard at the main gate. The two dwarves were each in their eighth year of service. Given that most guards stuck around until they dropped dead of old age, Lotramen and Petey were practically rookies.

Becoming an Ironforge Guard was not an easy task. The criteria revolved around these three stringent requirements:
a) Must have a specific dwarven bloodline
b) Must have a long beard
c) Must have no aspirations or goals.

The job of Ironforge Guard was the most highly coveted of all Alliance Military branches, and the very definition of complacency. Ironforge was such an invaluable component of the Alliance - and the world of Azeroth, for that matter - that the city was provided with a tremendous amount of military protection. And since the criminal element knew to stay clear, most days passed without incident. Therefore, the average workday for an Ironforge Guard consisted of:
1) Clock in
2) Stand at post
3) Give directions and useful advice to dumbass tourists with questions like "Where's the blacksmith?", "Where's the fishing trainer?" and "Where's the potty?"
4) Clock out

"This be suckin' like a gnome payin' off a bar tab."

"Aye," Petey agreed.

"Ya ask me, it's all a bunch a' hogger shit. There ain't no dark irons outside a' Blackrock Mountain. There just ain't."

"Aye."

"They knows to stay in their place and not ta leave it. Them wee piss-guzzlers know to stay home."

"Aye."

"So now what do we got, huh? The foreman - with his beard no longer than my arm, damn his growth - says that the dark irons have gone and risen up from them mountains. He say that they be blowing up the 'Lucky Aces' casino. He say that they be attackin' towns - if you can call a little brown stain on me linens like Lakeshire a town. He say that they be movin' toward us like some massive wee army. Go lick a horse's ball, I say. All hogger shit. All of it."

"Aye."

"So foreman sticks us out here in the fucktastically freezing snow to guard the entrance. Like they's goin ta just march right up and say, 'Excuse me buckies, shuffle off and show us where the drinkin's and rapin's is, huh?' No way, Petey. No way."

"Aye."

Lotramen spat in the snow and gave his partner a sideways glance. The two dwarves had worked together for so long that they could practically read each other's thoughts. This familiarity extended to knowing each other's bad habits as well.

Lotramen talked too much. And Petey had a bad habit of taking long naps at his post.

He often fell asleep while standing and had become quite good at disguising this by simply repeating the word "Aye" every time Lotramen paused to take a breath. The "Aye" had become more of a rhythmic snoring than an actual committal answer. He'd do anything to keep from having to stay awake through a boring duty shift.

"Say, Petey," Lotramen said conversationally. "I gots a question for ya."

"Aye."

"You want me to dip yer pecker in a hot pot a' monkey oil?"

"Aye."

"Ah-hah! Bastard!" Lotramen ran over to the other side of the entryway and jabbed his finger into Petey's stomach. Startled, Petey let out a whoop and flailed his arms out in front of him. "You be fallin' asleep at yer post again."

"Ow, damn it."

"Of all the disrespectful things ta do...to..." but Lotramen trailed off as both of them caught sight of a small horse-drawn carriage emerging over the horizon line and worming its way up the trail toward the entrance.

They quickly ignored the other travelers and merchants passing through the gates to focus on the lone carriage.

"Heh," Lotramen spat, sticking his elbow into Petey's ribs. "Well, lookey-lookey. Ain't that just the fanciest damn thing ya ever seen?"

"Hrmph."

"Must be a passenger of kingly importance ridin' in a carriage like that. Mayhap he be burdened down with gold."

There weren't many perks in the life of an Ironforge Guard:
1) A burgeoning medical plan - which, since visiting a doctor was seen as a sign of weakness, actually didn't cost anything and was coincidentally staffed by the same dwarves that guarded the gates on their off-days.

2) Eye candy - Visitors often let loose their inhibitions around the auction house. Sometimes visitors just ran around yelling things that pissed off other visitors, and sometimes they stood up on a pedestal, stripped off all their clothes and danced naked. While these strippers weren't nearly as appealing as the old lady that walked around with freshly baked bread all day, they were still nice to look at.

3) Bribery.

It was this last that Lotramen was thinking of now.

The two horses paced toward them, the wooden wheels of the carriage squeaking in time with the shoddily-paved road. They came closer and Lotramen elbowed his friend in the chest.

"Hoo-ee, Petey!" Lotramen crossed his hairy arms and kicked his feet in the air: the celebratory dwarf dance.

Petey yawned.

"What, you got blood blisters in yer love-hole or somethin'? Hells and turnips a' plenty! This be our ship a' sailin'."

Petey turned a tired eye to his co-worker. "Is our shift over yet?"

"Oh, cock munchers," Lotramen spat again, running out of creative ways to swear. "Ya just need to get yer little wee-wee rolled. How long's it been?"

"None of yer business."

"Yup. Ya just need ta find a nice gnomish pie hole and ram 'er full of dwarven pride."

"Later. Work now."

The horses slowed and came to a halt in front of Lotramen. While Lotramen calmed the horses, Petey walked around to investigate the carriage, and regarded the smallish driver holding the reigns. The driver wore a large black cloak that covered his entire face and body.

"State yer business please," Petey said with his usual authority.

"We just travelers, sir," Bernie replied from behind the dark hood. "Come to make commerce and...friendship."

"Friendship?" Lotramen laughed. "See Petey, they's gonna be our friends."

Petey ignored him and tried unsuccessfully to peer into the cab. The curtains were closed and he was unable to see any of the passengers.

"Cargo?"

Bernie nodded. "Yes. Much selling to do at...um...trading place."

"Open it up."

Someone inside the cab pulled back the curtain, revealing the contents of the carriage: a sleeping girl, a man dressed in lavish robes and a blue-skinned druid.

Petey's suspicion grew. He addressed the driver once more. "Step down please."

Bernie reluctantly set the reigns aside and jumped down to the snowy path. Instantly, both Petey and Lotramen exchanged knowing glances.

Lotramen, of course, spoke first, "What's all this then? Is you a dwarf?"

Bernie kept the hood over his face to disguise his skin color. "Yes. I was in accident and lost my...flesh coloring..so I not look like you...dwarves... anymore. And I embarrassed to take off cloak. Right."

Lotramen considered this for a moment. "What dialect is that you be speakin', boyo?"

"Dialect?" Bernie asked. "Oh, of course. Why I not talk like you? Er...Hmm...Oh, part of my tongue...I mean to say, part of me tongue, well it got burned off in accident. Hard to use pronouns with half a tongue."

"Pronouns?"

"Um..." there was too much anxiety creeping into his voice. "It...be...hard to slip back to...be...speaking native dialect," then he added, "me boyos."

"We be lookin' for dark iron dwarves, friend," Lotramen said, staring fire through Bernie's robe. "If I was to remove yer girly cloak, what I be findin'?"

"Nothing but woeful victim of accident. Oh woe. Oh woe."

Petey held the battle axe tightly, preparing to strike. "Take it off."

"Oh, there no need -"

"Off. Now."

"Surely," Bernie said with a bow. "But may I please...if you please...retrieve something from the back of carriage first?"

Perhaps it was the monotony of being an Ironforge Guard or the fact that neither Lotramen or Petey had actually ever used their weapons against another living being in their entire lives, but where most folks might question a seedy fellow in a dark cloak asking to "retrieve something from the back of a carriage", Petey and Lotramen instead looked at each other, shrugged and said "Fine" in unison.

Bernie waddled around to the rear of the carriage, tripping over the bottom of his long cloak twice as he did so, cursing, and face planting straight into the snow. Lotramen found this hilarious and laughed heartily while poking his co-worker in the ribs again. By now, the bruises on Petey's ribs had blossomed into a nice bluish-black color in the shape of Lotramen's elbow.

The back of the carriage contained luggage stacked on a set of wooden planks and a wheelchair tucked neatly to the side. Bernie reached behind the wheelchair for a knapsack and quickly began to untie the knot.

When the knot was undone, he pulled the drawstring free and the knapsack fell apart at the seams. Gold coins poured from the bag like a slow, golden waterfall, making satisfying clinks on the stone road. They quickly piled up, littering the unkempt path.

"Oops," said Bernie. "So that's what's been weighing down my carriage."

Lotramen's eyes widened greedily. A low grunting breath escaped his lips as if he was in the throngs of a quiet orgasm (a cursory examination of his skivvies would confirm that this was, in fact, the case) and he swiveled his head to his partner. "Gods, gods, gods..." he muttered.

"Bribery?" Petey asked, unmoved. "You dare to bribe the Ironforge Guard?"

Bernie shrugged, which, since he was wearing a cloak six times his size, actually didn't look much like shrugging. It didn't look like much of anything, except maybe a cough.

"It ain't bribery," Lotramen said, stooping to gather the gold coins hungrily. "The poor boyos been a' riding with a heavy load. We be helpin' him, Petey. Helpin'. Isn't that what bein' an Ironforge Guard is all aboot? Helpin' folks in need?"

"I don't know."

"Listen, Petey. Ya ain't goin' ta blow this fer me. No one else wanted to work with you because ya don't talk and when ya do, ya get all judgemental and doom-like. The only reason I be workin' with ya is that I drew the short straw eight years ago. Now I dinna want to be the one to tell ya all this, but I ain't gonna let ya blow this for me either, Petey."

Petey's eyes began to well up with tears and he found himself unable to speak.

"You go on, weary traveler," Lotramen said. "Yer burden be lifted."

...now get this damned carriage off my money. he wanted to add.

Bernie climbed back into the driver's seat and snapped the reigns as fast as he could, not wanting to give the guards a chance to change their minds. The carriage rumbled forward, spilling even more gold like a trail of sparkling raindrops behind them.

Petey crossed his arms, pouting. He watched the carriage disappear through the gates of Ironforge and into the city.

Lotramen shoved gold pieces into his pockets with gusto, whistling an old dwarven tune about bathing in golden rivers with a hidden innuendo about gnomish virgins on all fours smelling of lilac and mead. He filled his pockets with a happiness that gave him a nice healthy glow.

Amid the display, other travelers began to notice the spilled gold and meandered toward them, intent on filling their pockets as well. Lotramen growled like a savage dog forcing the travelers to back up and watch.

Petey kept his eyes on the path. "We have a duty."

"Shove yer duty. Grab some gold. I'm running out of pockets."

Petey knelt down and picked up one of the gold pieces. He'd held gold pieces before, and this one didn't feel quite right. Sure it was round, flat and gold colored, but the weight was a little off, and the color...

He bit on it and tasted copper. A fleck of paint stuck to his teeth.

"Lotramen," Petey said, turning the coin over. "We've been had."

He held the coin out in front of him. On the back of the coin was an engraving of a tower with a dollar sign. He turned it over and saw the words "Lucky Aces Hotel and Casino - No Cash Value."

Lotramen stopped shoving the coins in his pockets long enough to study one and come to the same conclusion as Petey. He stood angrily and kicked the small mountain of coins over.

"Shit!" he yelled, emptying his pockets.

"Now we've done it, Lotramen," Petey said. Fear crept into his voice. "We've gone and let them in. We'll lose our jobs for sure."

"Shut up. Let me think, wouldya?"

"You had to be greedy, Lotramen. Ya couldn't just stop them."

"I said shut -"

A horse whinnied a few feet behind him. Both Lotramen and Petey turned and discovered a rogue holding the reigns to a horse with a woman tied to the saddle. The woman appeared to be dead.

Dough looked down at the coins and picked one up, studying it carefully. "Hmm," he said. "I hate barging in on the middle of a conversation, but you might want to check these. I'm not exactly sure they're real."

Petey and Lotramen held their weapons tightly. Dough took a step back.

"Right," Dough said. "You mind if I just walk past? I've had a hard walk and I'm rather thirsty..."

"Say, Petey," Lotramen began, pointing at Dough. "You don't suppose this be the same rogue that gone and killed ol' Chester and all them dwarves in the tavern a few months back, do ye?"

But Petey had already figured this out for himself. "Aye."

"The same rogue that we're sworn to mutilate the next time he tries to step foot into Ironforge?

"Aye."

"Fuck, Petey. Is you asleep again."

"No."

The guards were, of course, correct. Months ago, Dough had visited a tavern inside Ironforge and killed quite a few corrupt dwarves. One of the dwarves, by the name of Chester, had been so embarrassed by the display that he swore vengeance. And while Dough hadn't been directly responsible for Chester's death, he hadn't done a whole lot to keep it from happening. Chester's demise had come inside the Blackrock Depths where dark iron dwarves had pulled Chester's body into several interlocking pieces.

Dough raised his hands. "Look, I don't want any trouble. I just need to get inside."

"Oh, you've got trouble, boyo. Lots of it."

"Whatever," Dough said, stepping backwards. "Can I at least get something out of my saddlebag?"

Petey and Lotramen thought about this for a moment, exchanged glances and said "Fine" in unison.

Dough opened the bag and discreetly pulled a pinch of Blinding Powder from a side pocket. He wasted no time tossing the powder into the air and, with a soft crackle, white light filled the small area around him. Both Lotramen and Petey grabbed at their eyes and screamed.

"I can't see!" said Petey.

"I'm blind!" cried Lotramen.

Dough quickly brought out his blades and cut the screaming short. Petey went down easy, with just a cut over the jugular. Messy, but easy. He collapsed and bled out over the dirty snow with quiet gasps.

Lotramen took a bit longer because Dough was just too exhausted to make the job neat. The rogue knew he had to finish before the blinding powder wore off, but the lack of sleep, food and hydration were finally catching up to him. He sliced at the neck and missed the artery. Dough cursed, and finally settled on stabbing the Ironforge Guard through the heart. Lotramen struggled: clutching and writhing, but eventually joined his friend at the rogue's feet.

The rogue wiped the blood on his pants and sheathed his blades carefully. Then he began transporting the bodies into the shrubbery beside the road: removing them from plain sight.

It was at this moment that he turned and noticed the audience: approximately ten travelers, some human, some elves, some...whatevers. They stood behind him with weapons drawn. Dough pulled out his own blades, and narrowed his eyes, hoping to make himself look at least somewhat threatening. A few tense seconds passed and nobody spoke - awkward seconds that passed too slowly.

Finally, one of the travelers, apparently human, broke the silence. "Well, are you going to take the gold or not?"

Dough looked down at the piles of Lucky Aces Casino "gold" chips scattered all around him. He'd forgotten all about those worthless things. But if the travelers couldn't tell the difference between gold and painted copper, then they were more than welcome to partake in the "riches."

"I'm good," he said. "It's all yours."

The spokesman for the mob stared at him suspiciously. "Wait a minute. Why don't you want the gold? Is something wrong with it."

"Oh, no. No. It's good gold. I'm just...um...terrified of you and your fellow mob. You would kill me if I tried to take it and I value my life much more than a bunch of beautiful gold coins and...so on and so on. Please, be my guest."

With that, he backed away from the worthless copper and the mob pounced on the pile, fighting and bleeding all over the painted coins. They murdered each other in a massive orgy of greed and death.

Dough took the opportunity to sneak away.

When he first realized that Ironforge was Sam's destination, he had hoped that the Ironforge guards would forget all about the incident in the tavern a few months ago. Evidently, these dwarves held a grudge. And if he was so easily recognized by the first two dwarves he encountered, then he was bound to get into a hell of a lot more trouble once inside.

Dough tossed Petey and Lotramen behind a tree. The rogue doubted that anyone would notice two dead dwarves among the ever-increasing pile of dead bodies - accumulating quickly around the piles of gold coins - but he didn't want to take any chances.

He rubbed his face in exhaustion and walked back to the horse. Clobberella was perfectly motionless in the horse's saddle. Dough finally realized what he needed to do:
1) Retrieve the amulet before Sam could get to it.
2) Avoid getting killed by the innumerable Ironforge Guards.
3) Find some way to heal Clob.
4) Find the people responsible for making his life so complicated and kill them.

With no other option available, the rogue led the horse through the snow - a good distance away from the road. When he was certain that he was alone, he tied the horse to a tree.

"Sorry, Clob," he said soothingly. "If I'm going to sneak through Ironforge, I can't bring you with me. I swear I'll be back. I just have to get the amulet."

With that, he dashed back to the path and through the front entrance, disappearing through the massive gates.

The Perfect Distraction

The carriage passed over the threshold, its wheels bumping along the stone floor. As it moved further into the shelter of the city, another set of guards nodded to the cloaked driver. The passengers avoided eye contact and tried to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. They needn't have worried. The guards at the front entrance - Petey and Lotramen - had already flagged the carriage through, so they were in no danger of being harassed or stopped again.

The horses pulled the carriage around a corner and into an enormous hall, illuminated by torch light. A wide variety of creatures, mostly human, congregated in the heavy dampness of the city. A domed ceiling overhead encased the entire hall like an air-tight lid.

Bernie snapped the reins and they passed the Auction House, a small room set into one of the walls on their right side. It was noisy with the yelling from auctioneers and bidders trying to talk over one another. This was commerce in action - the flow of gold and merchandise.

The room could barely accommodate ten people, yet at least forty stood shoulder to shoulder inside. Certainly, a window would have provided a beautiful view to the outside and relieved some of the heat and odor that the cramping produced, but the free flow of gold was the main priority here, not comfort. And so the only light in the room came from the torches on the wall.

Directly across from the Auction House stood the bank - open and ready for business. It was always visible from inside the Auction House, reminding merchants and buyers that gold was only a few steps away and that a good credit plan could always be negotiated.

Two guards stood outside the bank entrance, and bank tellers waited to serve customers from behind a long counter. An intimidating vault loomed behind them, iron clad and seemingly impossible to crack.

All commerce for the Alliance began and ended here. A successful attack on Ironforge could cripple the world's economy.

Glick cleared his throat to get the druid's attention. "Where is the amulet?"

Sam pointed apathetically. Lord Glick turned his head in the direction of the bluish finger.

"Bernie," Glick said with a nod. "The bank is to the left."

"Where? I don't see -"

But he stopped when his eyes fell upon the crowd.

"Ah."

There was a steady stream of humanity - and inhumanity - pouring from the bank to the auction house. In fact, most of the enormous hall was vacant except for what appeared to be a broken conga-line starting from inside the bank, continuing into the Auction House and then back to the bank again - like a trail of giant ants around a fallen sugar cube.

As they approached the bank, a guard slapped one of the horses on the back, making it jump. "Ya can't park that carriage here, boyo."

"Gots to keep this area clear fer the bastard tourists," said the other guard.

Bernie nodded and turned the carriage around, moving out of the stream of people and parking next to an armor shop.

"Here we are," Bernie said, hopping off the driver's seat and taking extra care to make sure his cloak remained in place. "It time, druid. Fetch the amulet."

Sam's brow was slick with sweat, and it wasn't from the heat. He was unable to return the dwarf's gaze.

"Druid?"

Sam picked at his finger. "I can't. I told you that already."

"You will. Simply walk up to counter and ask for amulet. Now."

"I can't." He sniffled, on the verge of tears.

Bernie growled. "Up, druid. Get in that bank and bring me the amulet."

Sam reluctantly climbed out of the carriage, He straightened his white linen shirt and brown trousers, trying to make himself look as presentable as possible.

"This isn't going to work," he said, with a shaking head.

"It better," replied the dark iron dwarf. "Or I'll gut you myself."

Lucite stirred from her restful slumber, coughing. "What's going on?"

"We have arrived."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Not long enough."

Lucite coughed again and rubbed her eyes. She saw that Sam was leaning against the carriage, tucking in his shirt. She looked back at Glick hopefully. "Are you letting us go?"

"No, dear Lucite. Not yet." Glick's voice was somber, and he could see the despair in her sleepy eyes, so he added, "Soon, Lucy. Soon."

Bernie pulled the wheelchair from the back of the carriage and it fell awkwardly to the stone floor. He righted it and brushed dirt and melted snow off the seat.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Lucite asked.

"Calling you what?"

"Lucy," she said with a frown. "My name is Lucite."

"Bring me the chair, Bernie," Glick said, ignoring her.

"Yes, master."

The dark iron dwarf wheeled the chair around to Glick's side.

"Little help, druid?" Glick asked.

Sam stopped tucking and looked surprised. "What?" Then, "Oh, of course. Of course."

Sam and the dark iron pulled Glick from the carriage and plopped him down into the seat. The chair rolled back a few inches and Bernie caught it.

"Hmm," said Sam. "I guess that means I'm not entering the bank alone?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Because I don't think you trust me."

"You are correct."

"I have to pee."

All three of them looked up into the carriage at Lucite, who held her hand over her bladder. Then they looked at each other.

Silence.

Then, "I said I have to pee."

"Yes, little one. We heard you," replied Bernie. "Hold it."

"I can't. I haven't gone in hours."

"Squat over there then."

"Oh, yeah," Lucite said with a hand on her hip. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like to watch me squat over there. I guess you'd also like me to get the guard's attention by peeing in public."

Glick rolled his eyes. "Let the girl pee, Bernie."

The dark iron dwarf's face reddened. "Not when we're this close, my lord. I won't take any chances. Not now."

"Bernie," he said calmly. "What could she possibly do in a ladies room besides piss? There are no windows and no doors in this place. If she tries to tell anyone what we're doing, she knows that she's just as involved in this scheme as we are. She wouldn't dare go to a guard to turn us in. Lucite has been a part of this from the very beginning. Haven't you dear?"

Lucite flushed. "No."

Glick shrugged again. "No? I see. Then we'll be sure to inform our captors that you've been involved anyway. Just to make sure you get the same treatment as we do."

Bernie wasn't impressed with the subtlety. "Down," he ordered.

Lucite climbed off the carriage. Before her feet even touched the ground, Bernie grabbed her wrist and pulled her away.

"What are you doing, Bernie?" Glick nearly fell off his chair leaning forward to try and grab Lucite's other arm. He started to roll after them, but the locked wheels remained in place.

"Get back here Bernie!" he screamed, feverishly trying to unlock the wheels.

When they were out of earshot, the dark iron dwarf released her arm.

"Ow! You're hurting me," she cried.

"Good," Bernie whispered. "I'm not as subtle as my lord, little girl. I tell you this once. I will allow you to urinate. However, I will stand outside bathroom and wait. If you run away, my brethren will find you and kill you. If you talk to anyone about plans, I will kill you personally. If you take too long in there, I will kill you."

Lucite scowled.

"Do you understand, little one?"

"I hate you."

"Good. Then you do understand."

"Get away from her!" Glick yelled. Sam nearly pushed the chair right over Bernie's little cloaked body.

Bernie smiled. "We just talking. She go pee now."

Glick gritted his teeth. "I will not tolerate this."The dark iron dwarf smiled. "I'm hurt, my lord. Truly hurt."

"When this is over, Bernie...I swear I'll -"

Bernie laughed, guttural and gravely. "When this over, master? When this over, you'll know what pain and suffering truly is. Oh, I have so many plans for you, master. So many plans..."

"Can I go pee now?" Lucite asked, unimpressed.

"Yes."

"Where are the bathrooms?"

Sam pointed to an alcove twenty feet away. "Over there, dear. But try not to touch anything."Lucite ran in the direction Sam pointed. Bernie chased after her, but his robe caught on his shoe and he face planted, skidding a few feet across the stone floor.

"Damn this robe!" he yelled and pulled it up like a long gown to keep from tripping over it again.

As Lucite disappeared into the bathroom, Bernie yelled over his shoulder, "Retrieve the amulet. We'll be there shortly."

Glick looked up at Sam. "You heard him. Let's go get it."

-------

The bathroom smelled rank, having not been cleaned in several years. Fecal matter littered the floor, the walls and even piled up in the sink. It would appear that every stall's "squat--hole" was over-run with poop.

When Lucite entered the bathroom, she immediately gagged, then put her sleeve over her nose. Disgusting. But she had been raised to be a lady - to always use the facilities when they were available, so she ventured into one of the stalls, pulled down her trousers, and squatted. Heeding Sam's advice, she tried very hard not to touch anything.

"Hurry up in there!" Bernie called.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she let them fall. How could she let herself get this involved? Here she was, at the lowest point in her life, squatting over a plugged hole in a disgusting bathroom, the captive of some icky race of dwarves that intended to kill her.

Then she remembered something.

She reached into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out the small pill box - the one she had stolen from the inseam of Glick's robe while pretending to sleep in the carriage. She opened the box and examined the orange pill inside.

Lucite didn't know what she was looking at, but she hoped it would provide some sort of insurance. The way they had been discussing the orange pill, it must have held some value. If so, she could use it as leverage. If not...well, she didn't want to think about that yet.

She needed to get free of the dark iron dwarf and that crazy man they all called Lord Glick. She needed to find some way of escaping. Lucite may have been young, but she wasn't completely naive. She would not be freed when this whole ordeal was over. They would kill her along with everyone else involved.

What she needed was a way out. What she needed was a distraction.

------

Ironforge wasn't exactly "Handicap Friendly". There were no ramps leading to the bank entrance, just eight steep steps. And the guards standing on either side of the entrance weren't enthusiastic about helping folks. Assisting dumbass tourists in heavy wheelchairs didn't fall within their job parameters, so fuck 'em.

Sam pulled Glick up the steps, one at a time. His gaunt frame and skinny arms quivered with the effort. When he finally got the chair up the last step, he locked the wheels and then collapsed to the ground.

"Get up, druid," Glick ordered.

"A nice thank-you would suffice,"

"Get the amulet."

"Right," Sam said, "The amulet. Oh goody."

The line for the teller on the far left seemed to be the shortest one, so Sam wheeled the chair over to it. They waited behind a squat, fat man wearing a polka dot moo-moo. Tucked under his arm was a wriggling sheep. It reminded Sam of a dirty joke, but one best saved for a more appropriate time.

"Next!" called the bank teller.

"Right," said the fat man with the sheep. "Me want to put this in vault."

"So you're making a deposit?"

"A what? No, me just want to put sheep in vault."

"Sir, that would be a deposit. Please fill out this slip."

The teller pushed a slip of paper and pen to the fat man. The fat man scratched his head and pushed it back.

"I see," the teller said. "Unable to read, are we? Not to worry. I can assist you with that."

"Good."

"How long have you owned the sheep?"

"Let me think," he looked up at the ceiling as if it contained the answer. "Me meet her two years ago in Westfall, and um...no, three years ago."

"So you've owned the sheep for three years?"

"Me guess so."

"Is the sheep explosive?"

"Huh?"

"Is it an explosive sheep? We get quite a few of those in here."

"Oh. Naw. She not explode."

"So you've owned the sheep for three years. Got it."

"Well, me meet her three years ago in Westfall. We go on adventures together. You know what me saying?"

"Ah. Yes, I'm afraid I may."

"But me have a friend. Him a warlock, see. He didn't turn her into a sheep until a few months ago. Me give him thirty gold and he change her into beautiful sheep."

"That's very...horrifying actually. And why did your warlock friend change her into a a sheep?"

"Um...'Cause she wouldn't let me put my pee-pee in her yum-yum hole. And...well... 'Cause he knows me like sheep holes better. You know what me saying?"

The sheep bleated sadly.

"Well, I'm happy to say that you've lost me there. Are you telling me that she's not really a sheep."

"What? Oh she is now. But up to a few months ago, she was this skinny little tease named Tantalia. Talked way too much and laughed at my pee pee. Much better this way, you know?"

"I see."

The teller smiled while pushing a button underneath the counter. Instantly, both Ironforge guards that had been standing, bored, in front of the entrance came rushing into the bank.

"Guards," the teller said, barely looking up. "Please escort this 'gentleman' and his sheep out of the bank. And kindly locate a warlock to change Miss Tantalia back to her former self."

The sheep bleated again. It sounded very much like "thank you," but it could just as easily have been "Kill me."

One of the guards took his arm. "You be hearing the bank teller, boyo. Let's go."

"Hey!"

The dwarves grabbed the fat man and led him out of the bank. He wriggled and writhed, trying desperately to fight them off, but another set of guards arrived and soon he was overpowered.

"Next!" called the bank teller.

Sam, who had been watching the entire display, nervously stepped up to the counter.

The teller shuffled some paperwork and gave his best teller grin. "Yes? Can I help you?"

Sam coughed. "Um, yes. My good man. Lockbox one-four-three-two-one please."

"You wish to make a withdrawal? Very good sir. Please sign here."

He pushed a slip of paper and pen to the druid. Sam picked up the pen in a shaky hand and scrawled his signature across the line.

"Please excuse me," the teller said with a bow. "I'll be back momentarily with your lock box."

The teller turned and disappeared into the vault.

"See, that went well," Glick said.

Sam clucked his tongue. "Wait for it," he replied.

----------

The rogue perched himself onto a ledge overlooking the bank. He surveyed the main hall from the safety of the shadows.

Dough watched as the carriage came to a halt near the bank entrance. He watched as Lucite walked to the bathroom with what could only be a dark iron dwarf dressed in a long cloak. And he watched as the druid pushed someone in a wheelchair up the steps to the bank. But from his vantage point, he still had trouble making out who was actually in the wheelchair.

Of all the observations, the thing that upset him the most was seeing Lucite walk arm in arm with a dark iron dwarf. He felt betrayed. All along, his instincts had begged him not to trust her. They told him that her altruistic nature was just a smoke screen to hide what she truly was. Instead of listening, he had squelched those instincts so deeply that he started to believe "Good" people actually existed in this uncaring, cutthroat world.

Dough rested his head against the warm stone of the ledge and sighed.

As far as the plan went, he knew there was no way to retrieve the amulet without drawing attention to himself. Dough was going to have to figure out some way to grab it once Sam made the withdrawal from the bank. But how? And since he couldn't just sneak around Ironforge undetected for long, he needed to move quickly. He needed a new plan.

What he needed was a distraction.

----

The bank teller returned from the vault with a small metal box. He placed it carefully in front of the druid. The top of the box contained a three digit combination which Sam dialed. With a click, the lid popped open.

Glick strained to see, but all he could make out was the outside of the box.

The bank teller smiled. "Please verify the contents, sir."

Sam nodded and peeked inside. "Yes, that's it."

A purple colored stone lay on the bottom of the box. Attached to the stone was a cheap golden chain that Sam had fashioned together in the hopes of fetching a higher price at auction. An amulet that couldn't be worn around the neck was useless, and this amulet's chain had been broken when Dough sold it to him weeks ago.

"Show me," Glick commanded.

Sam picked up the box in both hands and carefully brought it down so that Glick could look inside.

Upon seeing the amulet on the cheap gold chain, Glick smiled. There was something in the smile - a relief of sorts.

"No lavender glow..." he muttered, and exhaled a long held breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, druid. Let's get out of here."

"Sir," the teller began. "Please sign this release document, and you can be on your way."

"Certainly."

Sam set the box back on the counter and picked up the pen in order to sign. It was at this moment that he noticed the bank manager stepping up behind the teller.

"Shit."

The bank manager, a small man with no hair and pale white skin whispered something into the teller's ear.

The teller nodded, then turned back to Sam. "My manager will continue this transaction. Excuse me please."

"Hello," the manager said.

"Hi. We were just leaving."

The manager shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

Glick pulled at Sam's shirt. "What's going on?"

"Oh nothing," Sam replied. "We're about to get arrested. That's all."

The manager seemed very pleased with himself. "I must say I never expected to actually catch you here. The paperwork is still being filed and we were intending to have you arrested at your home. Are all druids as stupid as you?"

"I should hope not," Sam replied. "Well, here I am."

"Yes, here you are. What possessed you to simply turn yourself in?"

Sam pointed to the man in the wheelchair. "Him.".

The manager nodded. "I see. A coconspirator? That's very interesting. And convenient."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Glick crossed his arms.

"Allow me to explain then," the manager said with relish. "On the day the druid deposited this..." he looked down with disdain at the box, "...necklace, he also deposited a considerable amount of other items: sixteen battle axes, twenty four Anaconda Fighting Chickens, twelve leather tunics, eighteen pairs of battle boots, fourteen -"

"Enough," Glick yelled. "Get to the point. This is a bank. Why should I care about how many things he deposited? We only want the amulet."

"Oh," the manager looked wounded. "Oh, I see. So you don't care that your friend took advantage of the Ironforge Bank and Trust and exceeded his limit of depositable items?"

"No. I do not."

"Your coconspirator used a Gnomish Shrink Ray to drastically reduce the size of these items so that they would fit into a small box: a box he claimed was filled with a collection of valuable figurines. Isn't that correct, druid?"

"Hmm, well not entirely."

"Then what did I leave out?"

"Well, I...Oh,.. no, I guess that is the gist of it then. Sorry."

"Three days after you made your deposit, all of the shrunken items... expanded?...yes, expanded, and nearly destroyed our vault. Do you know what it's like to chase twenty four hungry Anaconda Fighting Chickens around a vault that size? Those fighting chickens hadn't eaten in over three days..."

"No, I'm afraid not. Sorry about that." Sam looked around anxiously. "Um...can we go now?"

The manager glared at him. "You must have known that the items would expand eventually? How could you be so stupid?"

Sam shrugged. "It's a long journey and I didn't want to make two trips. It just seemed easier to shrink everything, pay you for one slot and leave. Maybe if you didn't charge so damned much... but, well, I forgot about the part where the Gnomish Shrink Ray wears off and things re-expand. Slipped my mind I guess. Funny, huh?"

"Slipped your mind?" The manager scowled. "We lost seven brave bank tellers that day. Seven! We had to hire and train a whole new staff."

"So is all my stuff gone?"

"What?"

"My stuff. The stuff that I shrunk. Can I at least get my anaconda chickens back?"

"No, you may not," the manager replied calmly. "You are to be arrested and charged for the murder of seven bank tellers and for unlawfully defrauding the Ironforge Bank and Trust. Guards?"

They appeared en-masse this time, pushing the other customers away and surrounding the wheelchair and druid, ready to make the arrest.

"I hate to say I told you so," the druid said, shrugging at Lord Glick. "But I told you so."

Glick cursed. He was so close to retrieving the amulet. It was literally right in front of him. He needed to somehow get away from his captors and grab it. He needed to find some way of breaking free.

What he needed was a distraction.

-----

"Out!" Bernie yelled into the ladies room. "Now!"

"Just a few more minutes, please," Lucite replied through falling tears.

Bernie clenched his fists and craned his neck toward the bank. Guards flocked toward the entrance. They came from all over Ironforge, converging on the bank as if a major crime was occurring.

"We have to go!" Bernie yelled anxiously.

Something had gone wrong with the retrieval of the amulet. He needed to get over there right away. However, he didn't trust Lucite at all. And even with the endgame so close at hand, she could still poison the plan by alerting someone to their scheme.

The parade of Ironforge Guards pushed aside travelers and merchants in order to pile into the bank. A few minutes later, Glick and Sam emerged in chains. A set of guards pushed Glick's chair while Sam walked behind with his head bowed.

They had failed, and he was the last hope of completing the mission.

What he needed was a distraction.

Bernie nodded to a four foot tall figure in a dark robe nearby, who, in turn, initiated a rather drastic, yet impressive distraction. The little man in the dark robe nodded to another shady four foot tall fellow, also wearing a dark robe, who nodded to another standing in the threshold of Ironforge's entrance.

The signal had been sent.

Bernie called in after Lucite once more. "Come out, little one. This is your final warning. In twenty seconds, I'm coming in there."

"You wouldn't dare!" she yelled back. "You don't want to draw attention with all the guards watching."

"I can guarantee you that in fifteen seconds, guards will give two shits for who's hanging around the ladies room."

"What are you talking about?"

Bernie moved away from the bathroom and padded silently toward an alcove directly next to the bank. He pulled the cloak over his head tightly and scrunched himself into a little ball behind a rock facade. Waiting.

Waiting.

There was a distinct silence in the air in those last few seconds, as if the merchants, buyers, and tourists could smell something in the wind, or somehow foretell what was coming.

And then it happened.

Boom.

A deafening explosion came from the Auction House. The wall and the doorframe fell as several explosives set along the outside perimeter ignited simultaneously. A ball of fire erupted from the Auction House and granite bricks fell from the ceiling inside. Another explosion ripped the air, sending nearly twenty screaming balls of human flame running out of the cramped, destroyed area and shrieking in unimaginable pain.

The smell of burnt flesh hit Bernie's nostrils like punch to the face, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in a long time. He licked his lips and put a hand over his growling stomach.

Through the thick smoke billowing out of the Auction House, Bernie could see the snowy trees and hillside beyond. He could see hundreds of dark iron dwarves climbing triumphantly through the enormous hole in the wall that they had created.

And he could see a perfect distraction.

(Added 11 September 2007)

Buyer Beware

A Tanarian scholar once wrote that the most reinforced and impenetrable fortress can easily be conquered through patience. Once the guardians become complacent and apathetic, any properly motivated militia can move in and acquire the fortress. Ironforge was a city nearly one hundred years overdue for a good invasion. Today's invasion just happened to be at the hands of the most unlikely of conquerers: the Dark Iron Dwarf.

---

Dough lost his balance as the ledge crumbled beneath his feet. He fell and landed awkwardly on his arm. This last explosion had nearly deafened him, creating a loud ringing in his ear that blared like an untuned trumpet. He tried to stand, but merely stumbled backwards, falling on his ass against a few dead gnomes.

Up, damn it. Up!

Loose brick fell around him and smoke plumed into the main hall. He watched as the ceiling of the Auction House collapsed, killing everyone unfortunate enough to still be inside. Several bloodied arms, hands and feet stuck out of the rubble.

Dough slapped at his ringing ear again, but it was no use.

Instinctively, he drew his daggers and pushed away from the wall, between the piles of corpses.

The smoke blurred his vision, but what he could see was truly horrifying. Dark iron dwarves continued to enter the hall through the holes they created. Several dashed past him, holding sharp weapons. They killed each civilian they encountered and did unspeakable things with the dead bodies. It was like watching a four-foot deep pool of grey lava spread out from the holes in the wall and pool into the city, enveloping every living thing it touched.

Dough noticed that most folks were either on fire, missing limbs, or getting raped and killed by dark iron dwarves. He also noticed that people weren't helping each other. The center of commerce and economy had just become a free-for-all slaughterhouse. A group of human warlocks ran toward the exit carrying armfuls of gold coins. Scavengers.

And while, on any other occasion, Dough would be the first to join them in their looting frenzy, he didn't have that luxury today. His main priority was to retrieve the amulet and save the world - not for any altruistic reason, but because saving the world was the only way to save his own ass. If those monsters succeeded in reclaiming that little purple jewel, Azeroth would become a human graveyard, and - more importantly - a lot less enjoyable.

So the rogue moved swiftly forward, trying to remain unnoticed. The hall spun around him, he felt like puking, his ear buzzed and his optimism waned.

---

Yet another explosion rocked the city and Lucite nearly fell backwards into the vile muck of the plugged hole. She grabbed the partition at the last moment and pulled herself up. The entire bathroom shook, and fecal matter flew everywhere.

"I've got to get out of here," she murmured, pulling up her pants.

She had no idea what was happening, but assumed it had something to do with her captors. Lucite ran for the exit, carefully watching her feet to make sure she didn't step into anything... stool-like?

When she rounded the corner, she expected Bernie to be standing there with a knife and an angry face, but the little dwarf was gone.

Way too easy. She peeked out of the bathroom and saw the carnage. Then Lucite put her arm over her mouth and ran to where she thought the exit must be, but the fact that she was running through thick black smoke didn't exactly inspire much confidence.

Screams echoed around her. She dodged a few dead bodies and a few overly-eager dark iron dwarves before thinking she saw the exit.

Lucite broke into a sprint.

---

Dough choked and spun around, carefully dodging another burning man and backed up, making sure nobody was behind him.

And then he collided with Lucite.

She barreled into him, knocking him over. Lucite stood and tried to run, but Dough quickly stuck out his hand and grabbed her by the ankle, tripping her. She fell, her face banging on the stone floor.

"Ow!" she yelled. "Let go of me."

"I don't think so, kid."

"You!" Lucite tried to shake him off, but now Dough had her other leg as well.

"How could you betray us, Lucite?"

"Betray you? I didn't betray anyone, rogue. Now get off of me."

"I saw you with them. I saw you acting all chummy with that dark iron dwarf. Don't try to deny it."

"Let go of my legs!" she screamed. "Help! Rogue! Rape! He's going to rape me!"

"Would you please stop yelling 'Rape?' With all these dark irons around us, you might as well be yelling 'Soup's on.' Just keep quiet, okay?"

"Yeah, and by keeping quiet it'll make it that much easier to rape me, won't it? Help! Rogue!"

"I'm not going to rape you, damn it."

"I bet you say that to all your victims."

"Just tell me why you betrayed us. Clob and I trusted you, Lucite."

"I didn't betray you, I just decided to leave, that's all. I'm old enough to make my own decisions, and I thought it best to leave before you decided to kill me."

"Sure, kid."

"Stop calling me kid." She pushed his hands off her ankles. "Look, rogue, it was obvious that you and Clobberella didn't want me around anymore. So I ran away."

"Then how did you end up here?"

"I got captured by the dark iron dwarves. What did you think happened?"

"I think you've been working for them all along." He stood, and lifted Lucite by the arms. "I think you sold us out."

"You can think what you want, rogue. But if I had sold you out and told them you were still alive, don't you think the dark irons would've come after you? How is it that they still don't seem to know that you're following them?"

"They don't?"

"Duh, rogue. No. They don't."

Dough hadn't considered that.

She stepped on his foot. "Now let go of me."

Dough released her wrists, then pointed a finger in her face. "Well, if you're not working with them, then why haven't they killed you yet, huh? Why keep you around at all?"

"All I know is that one of them is a pervert. He keeps calling me Lucy and won't stop trying to touch my face all the time. It's sick. But he seems to be the one keeping me alive."

"You're talking about the guy in the wheelchair, aren't you?"

"Yes," she paused. "He seems to be in charge of this whole thing, and I can't -"

But she never finished the sentence. A dark iron dwarf bonked her over the head with a club. Lucite collapsed with a loud groan.

"Rogue," one of the attackers said, a note of surprise in his gravelly voice. "You live?"

"Last time I checked, yes."

"Then we bring you to master. Master will reward us greatly for finding you."

"Wait," Dough tilted his head. "You mean, Lucite was telling me the truth? You guys really do think I'm still dead?"

"Not anymore," the dwarf responded with pleasure. "Now we take you to master for reward."

"I think not."

Dough kicked the closest dark iron in the chest, making him double over and then he stabbed the unsuspecting dwarf next to him with the dagger in his right hand. This bought him about three seconds.

"Get up, Lucite!" he yelled, swinging the daggers around him blindly.

The other dwarves sang out some sort of battle cry, and then nearly every dark iron in the hall collapsed on Dough and dragged him down to the floor.

---

Bernie discarded the cloak and raced up the steps of the bank. Thieves and looters were already making their way to the vault, killing the bank tellers and any guards that stood in their way. His eyes danced around the counter and the floor, searching. He ignored the looters, and focused on the prize: the Amulet of Control.

Where?

He pushed aside a terrified gnome in a halter-top and began lifting bodies off the ground, checking their necks, checking their pockets. It had to be here somewhere. Was it still in the vault?

Where?!

---

"This is not the sort of distraction I was hoping for," said the druid, shaking his head. "Not at all."

"Shut it," Glick wheeled the chair around to face him. "We have to get back to the bank. We have to get the amulet."

"How? We're surrounded." The druid held up his chains. "And if you hadn't noticed, we're sort of chained up at the moment."

Six Ironforge Guards stood in a circle around the pair. They looked frightened and confused. Not one spoke. Instead, they kept their weapons drawn and waved them around in the air as if that would somehow help.

Their fellow guards seemed to be disappearing. The ones that still had the ability to walk high-tailed it out of the city completely, leaving the inhabitants to fend for themselves. This option was not available for the six surrounding the pair of prisoners, as the sea of grey monstrosities continued to build around them.

Glick seized the opportunity, knowing he was only going to get one shot. "To me, my faithful servants!" he shouted.

"Shut it, boyo!" one of the guards whispered sharply, and raised his weapon to Glick in a threatening manner.

"Your master is in trouble!" he shouted again. "My life is in danger. Please rescue me!"

"If you don't shut it, I'll -"

The dwarves descended on the guards like a wave in the ocean, ending their lives before they could even comprehend what was happening. The guards collapsed around the wheelchair in bloody lumps, barely recognizable.

"Are you okay, my lord?" the closest one asked.

Glick nodded.

"Um," Sam said, brushing brains from his trousers with the back of his hand. "I think the one with the spilled intestines has the key to unlock our chains."

The dark iron dwarf reached down and began to rummage through the guard's pocket.

"Um, so sorry," Sam reconsidered and pointed behind him. "I meant those spilled intestines."

The dwarf turned his attention to the other corpse and removed the keys from the guard's pocket. He inserted them into the chain and unlocked the druid and Lord Glick from their bindings.

Sam rubbed his wrist. "Well, that's one obstacle overcome. Now I suppose we can go home, right?"

Glick shook his head.

"I thought not. Going back for that amulet aren't we? Glass of water first?"

"Not a chance. Move," Glick replied.

---

Bernie was crawling on the floor, rummaging through pockets when Lord Glick and Sam arrived. They were flanked by a large entourage of dark irons.

The dwarves pulled Lord Glick's chair up the steps and into the bank.

"Please dispose of our unwanted trespassers," Glick ordered the troops.

Instantly, the dark irons leapt over the counter and began slaughtering all living things within the bank. The scavengers trying to crack the vault went down screaming. Wet slicing sounds came from their general direction along with moans of passion and ecstasy from the dark iron dwarves.

Sam felt the urge to vomit.

"Now," Lord Glick said. "Guard the entrance. Nobody enters unless I give the command."

"Yes, my lord," they sang in unison.

"Where is it?" Bernie demanded, "Where is it, druid?"

Sam pointed to the lockbox on the counter.

"There?" Bernie asked, confused. "But that's just purple rock on gold chain. It not glowing."

Sam shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. That's the amulet the rogue sold me a few weeks ago. Can I go home now?"

"If this some sort of trick, druid, I'll pluck out your eyes and bury them in shit."

"Charming," Sam replied.

The room was jammed with small grey monsters that snarled and glowed with a sort of animal ferocity as they stared at the druid. Sam shuddered and removed the amulet from the lockbox, holding it out in front of him.

The purple stone spun on the gold chain between Sam's blue fingers.

Bernie swiped it away from him. "Give me that."

The leader of the dark iron dwarves held the amulet up to the torchlight.

"I don't understand," he said. "Inscription is correct. This is 'Amulet of Control', but it not glowing. Why isn't it glowing purple?"

Bernie put the amulet over his head, touching the stone to his chest. "Nothing. I feel nothing. It's just a rock."

He looked up at Sam as if the druid had somehow tricked him.

"What do you want me to say? I led you here. That's the amulet. LIke I say to all my clients: Buyer Beware."

Lord Glick's attention suddenly went from the rock to the entrance of the bank. The dwarves were parting and allowing someone to else enter.

"What are you doing?" Lord Glick asked. "I commanded you to barricade this entrance."

But the dark irons weren't listening. They continued to part, until finally, up the steps came four dwarves painstakingly carrying a woman. The dwarves tossed her onto the floor of the bank with a thud.

Lucite groaned and sprawled out defenselessly at Lord Glick's feet. A trickle of blood ran into her eyes. Glick reached over the side of the chair and brushed back her hair. Then he held up his palm and saw that it was dripping red.

"Why has she been harmed?" he demanded.

"We sorry master, she try to escape."

"If she dies, I'll -"

Bernie sneered. "If she dies, you'll do nothing." He knelt and touched the blood trickling down Lucite's forehead, tasting it with his long, thorny tongue. "Poor Lucite. Poor, delicious thing. This must be such a tragedy for you, my lord. I'm sure. Why, I suspect you are burning on the inside of your -"

The crowd at the entrance parted again, and another person was hauled into the bank, struggling and cursing. At the sight of the prisoner, Bernie dropped the amulet as well as his jaw. He moved away from Lucite and pointed as if seeing a ghost.

"-rogue?"

---

They pulled Dough into the bank, feeling at his butt and his genitals as if checking the firmness of a watermelon. Then they tossed him inside.

Sam leaned against the bank counter and gave him slight nod.

Lucite was unconscious on the cold, stone floor.

The dark iron dwarf that he'd seen earlier stood with a look of shock painted over his face.

And then he saw... Him.

Lord Glick's eyes filled with rage and contempt. He sat bolt upright as if a rod had been inserted into his spine.

"Priest?" Dough said, his brain still trying to register the shock. "Wait a minute. You're that priest from Blackrock Depths. Glick, right? Damn, how did you...? I mean, I thought the dark irons... Wait. You survived?"

Glick replied with only a stony glare, saying nothing.

"Well," the rogue said with a smirk. "Looks like half of you did anyway."

A Considerable Debt

The cheap gold chain made the back of his neck itch. Lord Glick stared down at the purple rock, dangling against his chest and groaned. A dim purple light emanated from its center, but refused to glow any brighter.

They all watched, waiting for something to happen. He'd promised them that it would light up, that it would glow brilliantly. He'd guaranteed it. And now he was beginning to doubt himself.

What if I can't control it? Glick thought.

Bernie watched with his arms crossed, his patience gone. "Why it not glow?" he asked for the thousandth time.

"Just wait," Lord Glick replied, calmly. He lifted it again and let it thump against his chest. Nothing.

Fifteen minutes. The Amulet of Control had been hanging from Lord Glick's neck for nearly fifteen minutes, mocking him with that dim purple hue.

Glick had felt such relief when the druid first opened the lockbox, revealing the Amulet of Control. His relief hadn't come from seeing the amulet, however, it came from the fact that it wasn't glowing. He hoped that this was an indication of the amulet losing its link to Dough, and that by wearing the amulet himself, he could somehow establish his own link to it.

With this kind of power, he could control the largest army in Azeroth and become king of a new empire. His empire.

Sixteen minutes passed. Nothing.

He groaned again.

Sam leaned against the counter, Lucite lay unconscious on the floor, Dough had a dwarf on either arm, keeping him at a distance from the amulet, and Bernie looked ready to leap at the word boo. All around them, dark iron dwarves watched with expectant eyes, waiting for someone to take control of the amulet and lead them to their supposed destiny.

"It's not going to work, priest," Dough said.

"You keep quiet," Glick replied, venomously. "As soon as this amulet links to me, the dark irons will have no more use for you. And then I will put an end to your life slowly and methodically."

"Look," said Dough with a grimace. "It's not like I have any place to go. I'm just trying to save you some time. It's not going to work. The amulet is soulb -"

"Don't!" Glick screamed. "Do not say that word."

Bernie's brow furrowed and he asked, "What word, my lord?"

Glick gave a half-smile and dismissively shook his head. "Oh, nothing, Bernie. Nothing." Then he turned back to the rogue. "Fine, why don't you tell me why you think it won't work."

"Well," Dough scratched at his chin. "For one thing, the amulet is only glowing because I'm in the room with you now. As soon as I put it around my neck, the damned thing will pretty much blind everybody. Sam can tell you."

At the mention of his name, Sam's head swung into motion.

"Huh, what was that?" he muttered.

"Sam, do you remember when I sold you the amulet a few weeks ago?"

The druid nodded.

"It was glowing, right?"

"Yes. Brilliantly."

"And what happened when I left your house?"

"It stopped glowing."

"Right," Dough said. "It stopped. Therefore, you're wasting your time, priest."

Bernie stepped up to Glick's wheelchair and stood on his tiptoes in order to whisper into Glick's ear, "Master, perhaps the rogue is correct. Perhaps you aren't worthy of carrying the Amulet of Control after all. Maybe we should just kill you and give amulet to rogue as we originally planned."

"Wait, I never planned that."

"No, you didn't."

Lord Glick stared down at the amulet, willing it to glow brighter, but it did not. Instead, it just sat against his chest like a lump of purple rock.

"Your time is done," Bernie said with a smirk, then quickly added, "My lord."

The dark iron dwarf turned to Dough, bent over at the waist and bowed. "You are chosen one, rogue. You are one that found the lost Amulet of Control. You are one to lead us to our destiny. And so, this amulet is yours."

Glick felt the old familiar rage building with each word. This rogue had destroyed his life, and as a reward he was going to receive the amulet and all the power and glory that came with it. This could not happen. He could not let this happen.

Bernie reached his small gray fingers for the gold chain around Glick's neck, intending to take it.

"Like hell," Glick whispered, and grabbed the little man's arm with both hands.

"What are you doing?" Bernie demanded.

Glick answered by breaking Bernie's arm over the railing of his wheelchair. The arm cracked, snapping like a brittle twig. Bernie screamed in terrible pain. Glick sat up in the chair, nearly frothing at the mouth in his anger.

And as the dwarves descended upon him in a mad frenzy to take the amulet away and tear his crippled body apart, Glick locked eyes with Dough.

Never again, he thought, staring. Never again.

And he remembered...

She was murdered on what should have been the happiest day of my life.

He focused on the rogue's blinking eyes, unable to see anything else, and once again he became lost in that terrible memory.

Ana.

---

Upon hearing the news that his wife was in labor, he'd become giddy with joy. He remembered racing through the streets of Stormwind, speculating on the baby's sex, how they were going to create a better life for themselves, where they were going to live, what they were going to name their new child. He expected his life to change for the better, for this to be the blessing and catalyst that both he and Ana had prayed for.

Instead...

Stupid boy. Stupid, naive boy.

Glick opened the door to the small room above the bakery shop. The room usually smelled of warm muffins and sweet cakes, but not today. When the door swung open, a rotten odor blew out at him. It was a stench that he would become all too familiar with as the years passed, the smell of human remains - a scent that would forevermore remind him of freshly baked bread.

Red streaks and splatter dots stood out against the eggshell white walls. Puddles of blood pooled where the wooden planks of the floor sagged. The table was upended, the chair broken.

God, I don't want to remember this...

The decapitated body of the mid-wife lay near the door as if she had tried to run away when the killing blow came. Her head was in the far corner of the room, resting against the bedpan.

And Ana...

She sat upright in bed, crying. The white sheets were matted down on top of her like a wet rag. She quivered underneath. Blood poured from her abdomen, ran down to her feet and drip-dropped onto the floor in bright crimson rivulets.

The swelling of her belly was gone - the swelling that he had come to love and tease her about. Vanished. And if the swelling had disappeared, then where was his baby?

As if in answer, a terrible screaming came from behind the open door. The ringing in his ears intensified and his forehead throbbed. He stepped further into the room, slammed the door behind him and locked eyes with his newborn child...

...being rocked in the arms of a stranger.

The man was large, beefy. He wore a fedora over a face marked with old scars and burns. A sword swung lazily from his hip in a make-shift scabbard, red drops dripping onto the wooden planks near his black boots.

Glick attempted to speak, his throat moving, but nothing came out.

"This baby is mine," the stranger said with finality.

I should have killed him right there. I should have taken my baby from him and murdered him with the same sword he used to cut her out of Ana. But I was so weak.

Glick felt the anger rise and build - completely unfamiliar. The anger was nearly euphoric in its intensity.

And now the euphoria has dulled, hasn't it? My rage is nothing, sitting in a wheelchair with dead legs. It's brought me nothing.

The baby wailed and the stranger tightened his grip.

"I'm leavin' now," he said. "You should know that the child be a girl. I was promised a boy," he paused and let the silence hang in the air, as if letting him know he wasn't satisfied. "But I'm a reasonable man. She'll do nicely I think."

Glick's eyes narrowed.

"I'm not likin' your look, boy," he said. "I don't want to cut ya, but I will. Now you just get away from that door, and let me pass."

Like hell...

"Look," the stranger said with a sneer. "You and the missus, well, you just keep pumpin' her full a' priest juice and mayhap she pop out a boyo for you, eh? In the meantime, out of my way. This one's mine."

The stranger moved toward the door, intending to brush aside the young, gaunt priest, still clutching the wailing baby in his meaty hands, but Glick was not about to let him pass. He -

He...

did nothing. Glick's adrenaline rush had expired, and his quivering legs threatened to buckle. His arms felt like limp noodles and his eyes filled with tears.

I was just a boy. A weak, naive boy.

But he finally found his voice, and it eked out of him like a whisper.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Who am I? It don't matter 'tall who I be, priest. I'm leaving with this here baby right now. Understand?"

"No," he whispered.

"No?" The man licked his lips. "You fancy yourself a fighter then? You think you have the strength and guts ta kill me and rescue your little girl?"

"Put her down and leave my home."

"Ooh," he said with a smirk. "So vicious and scary. Tell me, laddie, you ever kill a man before? Ever ended someone's life?"

Through watery eyes, Glick stared at the baby and tried to show courage.

Playfully, the fat stranger kicked the headless corpse of the mid-wife with his heavy black boot. The body toppled over on its back, the large bosom jiggling as it did so.

"That's death, lad," he said. "She ain't got no 'ead. You think you have the courage and conviction to do that to me now?"

Glick swallowed hard, knowing the answer and hating himself for it. "That's my baby."

The big man laughed, and held up the newborn. "Is that what you think?" He looked over at Ana as if it were some terrible joke that they were both in on. "Is that what this lad truly be thinkin'?"

Glick's eyes glided over to his wife. Ana didn't return the glare.

"Let me tell you a story, boy." The stranger said, joyfully. "Once upon a time, there was this little runt that thought he knew everything. Little grifter and roust-about is what he was. And he made a mistake and grifted the wrong guy, you see? He took me for a rube and he was mistaken. So now he owes me a great sum of gold. A considerable debt, ya see?"

Glick did not.

"Ah, I see you don't understand. Well, this young grifter, he couldn't pay his debt once I caught him. On account 'a he's a little street shit. Young guy. Younger than you, even. And he's flat broke. So when I asks him for the money he owes me, why, what do ya think he tells me, eh? He tells me that he can't pay back his debt. Tad ungentlemanly, ain't it?"

The baby's crying became louder, drowning out the stranger's words. The stranger rocked the newborn in his arms and shushed her until she settled down, then continued:

"So this little runt makes me an offer, see? He offers me his first-born child, in exchange for a clean slate. Debt-free, as it were."

Now Glick was genuinely confused. "I didn't...I mean, this is my first born child. What does any of your story have to do with me? She's mine. Mine and Ana's."

At this, the man laughed again, throaty and phlegmy. "Now, laddie. You think I'd be takin' her from you if that were the case?"

Ana's moaning and crying became louder.

"What?" He moved toward the bed and tried to pull the sheet away from Ana. She held tightly to the end of it and wouldn't allow him to wrest it from her hands. Glick pulled hard and the corner flew from her palm, revealing a face filled with shame.

"What is he talking about, Ana?"

She didn't reply, just sniffled.

"This is a mistake, right?"

"No mistake, lad. This baby belongs to me." He tapped the fedora with his index finger, and turned to leave the small room. "So's mayhap the little grifter got the better of the deal, and mayhap he didn't. Only time will address that. I suppose it all depends on how much gold I can get for this little minx on the black market. Seeing as how the baby's momma is a mage, and the baby's father is a...well..."

"A what?" Glick demanded.

Ana finally broke her silence and squeaked, "A rogue."

"Right-o," the stranger said with a click of his tongue. "This little baby be a mage and a rogue. That mixture, well it's not exactly a seller on the market. I might just need to keep that part a secret, eh?"

Ana reached her hand out and touched Glick's arm. Glick flinched. "I'm sorry," she said. "Truly. I never wanted to hurt-"

"Who was it?"

"Just someone in the tavern where I work," she said through tears. "He promised me lots of gold. I did it for us."

"You slept with a rogue? You trusted a rogue?"

She turned her head.

"Don't look away from me. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to hurt you. I thought maybe there was a chance that the baby wasn't his. I prayed and prayed that it was yours."

"You didn't have to -" his voice trailed off, then he tried again. "You didn't have to do that, Ana. I was working. We would have been okay."

"We're broke, Glick," she said through the tears. "We'll never have a good life with what you do. I wanted our baby to have a good start."

"Is it?"

"Is it what?"

"Is the baby mine?"

"I don't know." She closed her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

The stranger coughed and Glick realized he'd forgotten all about him. "Mayhap it is, mayhap it ain't. Bottom line, laddie, the rogue promised it to me. So by all rights, it be mine."

"No," Glick said with a quivering lip. "You're not taking our baby."

The stranger glared at the young priest. "Ya ain't gonna do nothing. 'Cept stay up here and tend to your whorish wife. Look at you, you're weak. Nothin'. I'm walking out this door with that whore's baby. You can either try to stop me or tend to her wounds. I suspect she's lost too much blood already, though. So's maybe you should just stay at 'er bedside and ease her into death, eh?"

"I'll kill you."

"You might. But not today. Rest assured that this little girl should fetch a nice price on the black market and get raised by a rich family. My advice, forget about this little bastard child."

With that, the stranger was gone, carrying the screaming baby with him. Glick heard his heavy footsteps descend the stairs. The wailing of his baby grew quieter and quieter as they moved farther away.

He watched the door, stunned, but was too frightened to do anything about it. Too frightened, too weak, too mortified.

Too cowardly. I should have stopped him

Then he knelt next to his wife.

"Ana?"

She had stopped crying, her body slackened.

"Oh no," he cried. "No."

Glick pealed the matted-down sheet from the bloody torso and saw that her stomach had been carved open. He gagged and put the sheet back down on top of her lifeless body.

Ana was dead.

Glick fell to the bloody floor and cried, refusing to believe what the stranger had told him. It didn't matter what he said, Glick knew the truth...

She's my daughter. She's my daughter. She's my daughter.

----

"Wait!" Glick yelled. "Call off your dogs, Bernie. I can make this work."

Bernie snarled at the crippled man, cradling his broken arm.

"One last chance," Bernie said, "Then I personally tear you apart."

He signaled to the group of dark irons and they backed away from the wheelchair, leaving a small halo around him. However, they seemed poised to spring at Bernie's command.

"Rogue," Glick said. "You found this amulet in Blackrock Depths beyond that locked door. You found it. That is why the dark irons think of you as their Messiah. But I was supposed to find the amulet. Not you."

Dough nodded, confused. "Is that a question?"

"No. An observation. Somehow you found the Amulet of Control instead of me. Tell me, have you ever wondered why you were hired to go into Blackrock Depths in the first place?"

Dough shrugged. "You needed someone to pick a tough lock. In order to get the Amulet of Control, you needed me to unlock that door."

"Correct. But why you?

"Because I'm the best lockpick in all of Azeroth?"

"Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. We could have hired any rogue with lock-picking talent to enter the 'Depths and open that door. But I specifically requested you for the job."

"I don't understand."

"You were supposed to open that door, and after I collected all the treasures inside, I was going to kill you and leave your body there."

"Wonderful," Dough replied, still confused. "But why are you telling me all this?"

Bernie seemed to have the same question. "Yes, my patience thins."

"Sixteen years ago," Glick continued. "Sixteen years. The city of Stormwind. Do you remember the Stormwind Arms Tavern?"

He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Sure. Lousy mead, and bitchy waitresses."

"Well," Glick continued with a frown. "There was a beautiful girl that worked at the 'Stormwind Arms Tavern' as a barmaid. Her name was Ana. Do you remember her?"

"Ana," Dough thought for a moment, then smiled. "Oh yeah, sure, Ana. I remember Ana. She had lots of nicknames. Um... 'Ana friend will get you half-off,' 'Ana happy ending guaranteed', 'Ana blowjob will cost you another copper.', 'Ana -'"

"Stop. Just stop."

Dough was laughing now. "Oh, my favorite nickname for her, 'Ana second one's on the house.' Yeah, I remember her. Why?"

"I've wanted to kill you for so long, rogue. I lost my chance in Blackrock Depths. You were supposed to unlock that door and then I was going to kill you and take whatever treasure I could find. But you..."

"Yeah, I found the amulet and spoiled your diabolical plans," Dough rolled his eyes at Glick. "But I still don't get it. Why did you want me dead that badly? Hell, I've never even met you before the little stint in Blackrock Depths."

Lord Glick stared down at the amulet, with just the dull glow. He felt nothing. No power. Nothing. His worst fears were coming true.

Well, not quite all of them.

And, just to complete his misery, Glick removed the amulet from around his neck and dropped it onto Lucite's back. For a second, nothing happened, the chain rolled over on the floor, the purple rock remaining on the small of Lucite's back. And then the rock began to glow.

And glow. And glow. Until Bernie was forced to put his unbroken arm over his eyes.

"What is this?" Bernie asked. "Why it glow now?"

"It's soulbound," Glick replied, feeling utterly defeated. "I told you I'd get it to work."

"I don't -"

"The Amulet of Control is soulbound, Bernie," Glick said. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "When the rogue picked it up in the 'Depths, the amulet bound itself to him. That means I'll never be able to use it."

"So it's soulbound to the rogue? Is that why it glows now?" Bernie asked.

Glick looked at Bernie and then back at the rogue with contempt. When he spoke, spittle flew with each word. "It's not just glowing for him, you baboon. It glows for her!"

(Added 28 September 2007)

LeFue

Billowing smoke came from every pore of the falling city, rising high into the night. The explosions hadn't stopped, and deafening blasts erupted from all over Ironforge. The roads were lined with people fleeing the city, trickling out through the holes the explosives created. Some of the panicked runners were overtaken by dark iron dwarves and killed, while others clambered over the bodies of the dead, trying to get as far away as possible.

The Ironforge Guards were making hasty retreats of their own, abandoning their assigned posts in favor of survival. Most had shed armor, weapons and tabards in hopes of running even faster and were dashing through the snow practically naked, save for filthy long-johns.

High above Ironforge, on a cliff overlooking the smoking city, a small battalion of thirty soldiers watched the horror transpire. They sat on horseback, in tight formation, waiting for the general to address them. The men were young, and even with their full complement of sharpened weapons and spit-shined armor, they seemed nervous and quiet.

General Felipe' LeFue clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Shameful," he whispered. "Simply dishonorable to abandon one's post."

"What was that, sir?" asked the lieutenant.

"Look at them, scrambling about like frightened puppies. They've even shed their colors and armor. Why, I'd kill them all myself if I had the gumption."

"Quite, sir. Indeed."

"I warned the commander about letting them defend Ironforge, didn't I, lieutenant?"

"Indeed you did sir. Indeed you did."

General LeFue rubbed his hands together against the cold of the night. Even with the fire and heat from the burning city, the air still had an icy bite to it.

LeFue was a tall, muscular man. His features were perfect: jutting jaw, clean shaven face and fine flowing brown hair that still seemed to flow even when tied back. General LeFue was the Alliance's poster boy - genetically perfect in every way. As such, he found himself intolerant of men that were unshaven and unkempt. He was especially intolerant of those without muscular bodies or genetically perfect physiques.

The lieutenant brought his horse up to the general's and pulled on the reigns. He looked back at the soldiers, shivering on horseback and awaiting the general's orders, then he exhaled deeply.

"General, sir," he began, "The men await your command. They grow restless, and, dare I say, fearful."

"Fearful?"

"Yes, general, sir."

"I won't tolerate fear."

"Yes, I know sir. Perhaps it is time to address them. Maybe you can put them at ease with a good inspirational speech?"

"Very well, lieutenant."

General LeFue turned to his men and puffed out his chest. These were his Elite Guard, stationed only a mile away from the city and tasked with acting as the final defense in the event that the Ironforge Guard failed in their duties. Their orders were to stop any threat, or at least hold the city until reinforcements arrived.

"Soldiers," he said. "It has come to my attention that some of you are concerned about the fighting to come. We will be marching into glorious battle shortly and, in doing so, we shall regain control of Ironforge. While it is true that some of you may die, your legacy and contribution to the Alliance will not be forgotten."

He smiled and lifted his sword high into the air, puffing out his chest until the buttons on his tunic nearly snapped right off. "Thankful citizens of Azeroth shall never forget the names of those soldiers that fall in battle today, brought to their deaths in such grisly and barbaric ways by the beasts we now go to fight - beasts that come from the fiery bosom of Blackrock Depths. And while your death may come violently by dismemberment of limbs and digits, while your penis may be torn from your nethers and bound to a necklace around your attacker's neck, or shoved into one of your fellow soldier's rectums in a fit of comedic perversity, our stories will live on. The dark iron dwarf with his sexual appetites may hold you down in a corner while three or four of his friends mount you and tear you apart from stem to stern with their love-plunketts, pausing only to get a drink of water and brag about the size of the hole they created during their 'love-making' session. They may remove the skin from your face and wear it as a mask in an attempt to entertain their fellow soldiers and make them laugh with glee while you run around in a circle yelling 'Oh, God, my face! My face! Dear god, the pain is incredible, please just kill me! Why won't someone kill me? Oh dear god!'"

He paused, staring into the heavens, and then let his voice boom.

"But all of you that die today, in whatever form your death may take - be it anal rape, bleeding out through your severed penis hole, running around in a circle yelling 'My face! My face!' Whatever the circumstances, you can be assured that the alliance will remember you, and how you died, forevermore."

He rode the horse down to the middle of the flank, wearing a proud smile.

"Now, who's with me?" he yelled.

There was silence, punctuated briefly by chattering teeth.

One of the men, a stout soldier near the back of the formation, raised his hand. "Um, General? There's a bunch of those dark iron dwarves down there."

"Yes, private. There are."

"So we're pretty much outnumbered. Um, vastly, right?"

"Yes," the general replied, raising his sword high again. "But as the bards sing, 'The fewer men, the greater share of honor. God pray not one man more.'"

"Yeah, that's stirring and everything," he paused. "I mean, I'm pepped up and inspired, sir, but.. um, we're really fewer men."

Most of the thirty soldiers nodded their agreement.

"Aye!" another soldier piped up. "And I don't wants no dark iron dwarfee shovin' my peter into private Smithy's shitter. No offense, Smithy."

Private Smithy grunted. "None taken."

"Enough talk, men," General LeFue said, pointing his sword down the hill. "This inspirational speech is over. Now, let us charge. Onward to victory! Death to the dark iron dwarves!"

-----

Dough witnessed the carnage from relative safety inside the bank, surrounded by dark irons. They weren't paying much attention to him anymore, rather they were staring at the bright amulet, casting a brilliant lavender glow that filled the area. The rogue was unable to look at the amulet himself, or at the unconscious girl wearing it. Somehow, it made him feel... bad.

That's guilt, asshole, he thought, then quickly swallowed it down.

The Amulet of Control was soulbound to him, and yet it glowed for Lucite as well. What had Glick said a few minutes ago? Something about a chick named Ana from a shit hole tavern in Stormwind? How could this guy know anything about Ana? That was sixteen years ago. A lifetime.

Yet, he looked back at the girl on the floor with the glowing amulet and winced. There was something significant about that day, sixteen years ago. It hadn't seemed so meaningful at the time, but now...

What was it that Ana had said to him on that hot, humid afternoon?

They'd fucked like spider monkeys for most of the day, and were lying next to each other in a small bed - if you could call it a bed. It was an old, stained cot behind the tavern's bar. Dough assumed that Ana entertained all of her "Clients" there. It smelled like a mixture of sweat, sex and unwiped ass.

That afternoon's love-making session was so intense that Dough could feel bruises forming on his testicles. While the rogue lay on his back, trying to regain his breath, he noticed the swelling in Ana's belly, the way she cradled her stomach with both hands as if she carried something precious inside. He could tell what it was, but turned and asked the obvious question anyway:

"Are you pregnant?" Her jaw dropped and she smiled. "You don't ask a girl if she's pregnant, rogue." Ana playfully shoved him and winked flirtatiously. "That's plain rude."

"Ah, of course, my dear," he nodded. "But seeing as how I am a rogue, and rudeness is one of the qualities that so attracted you to me, I must ask the question again. Are you pregnant?"

She patted her belly. "Would seem so, huh?"

Dough stood, the cot squeaking underneath him, and located his trousers in the corner of the room. He was trying to gauge how to ask the follow-up question - the one that always followed "Are you pregnant?" But when he turned to her, he could see that her face had turned serious - the flirting gone.

"Just ask it, rogue," she said. "I know what you're thinking anyway."

Dough looked her in the eye. "Is it mine, Ana?"

She returned the look, then averted her eyes as they teared. Ana started to speak, but then quickly closed her mouth. She stood slowly and crossed her arms over the swelling in her stomach.

"If it was..." she stopped and wiped her nose. "If it was, would it make any difference?"

"Yes," he said, the lie easily spoken.

"Why? Why would it matter? Would you take care of the baby? Would you take care of me?"

"Of course," he said, closing his eyes.

"Sure. And where's the gold you promised?"

Dough hung his head and sighed. "That again? Can't you just trust me? I promised you gold, and I'll deliver you gold. I just have to get it from someone, that's all. Can't we go back to the way it used to be? Back when we just had fun and sex and -"

"You promised. You've been promising for over six months now. I'm pregnant, rogue. I need that money." Ana closed the distance between them. She wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her head against his chest. "I need it, baby. I need it."

"Well, I don't have it," he replied, shrugging her off. "Is it mine, or isn't it?"

She dropped her hands to her sides. "I don't know. Probably. Does it really matter if it is? Do you really care? You won't stick around for it anyway."

Ana had been correct, of course. And she had pinpointed the crux of his whole problem. He didn't care. Sure, he wanted - intended- to care, but those intentions meant nothing.

So he just put on his clothes, left that tavern and never saw her again. Never returned to the tavern where he'd conceived a child, a daughter.

And when that fat bastard caught him in his grift and threatened to kill him if he didn't pay up, what had Dough done? Why, he offered up a baby, without even being positive that it was his. He'd been desperate, stupid and once again, selfish. Now, the consequence of that stupidity and selfishness was lying not six feet in front of him, hurt and unconscious because of what he had done.

Saying "My intentions were good. Honest," didn't mean a damned thing. Because that was a lie, too. The fact that he'd do it again if the circumstances ever repeated themselves confirmed that lie. Hell, in the sixteen years that had passed, he'd done far worse. He was a rogue. He was a rogue.

"Look," Dough said to Glick, putting on his best rational voice. "I'm not sure what's going on here, but -"

"I know what you did. I know you...gave...Ana's baby away to pay back a debt."

"It wasn't like that," Dough said too quickly. "I was pinned into a corner. This guy was going to kill me. I was broke and I had to offer him something."

Glick pounded his fist on the side of his wheelchair. "That man killed her. He killed my wife."

"Oh," Dough raised his eyebrow. "You married her? Most of us just banged her on the cot behind the -"

"Yes, we were married."

"She never told me," he said. "But then again, we never talked much."

"I'm going to enjoy watching you die."

"Right. I think we've pretty much established that. But you need to understand, I never really had a choice. I had to give him something, and I didn't have any gold to pay him back with."

"So you told him he could cut the baby out of my wife?"

"No, well...yes. But I used nicer words. You've got to... you don't want to be in debt to guys like that. He would've killed me. So I saw a way out and I took it. I knew the barmaid, your wife, at the Stormwind Arms Tavern was pregnant. So I told him that she was carrying my baby."

"You knew that it was your baby the whole time?"

"Well, no. But I knew it might be my baby. Listen, I don't want to spoil your memory of her, but Ana slept with lots of people. I knew there was a chance that the baby was mine, but I wasn't positive."

Sam clucked his tongue and shook his head.

"Shut up, Sam." Dough spat in his general direction. "Like you wouldn't have done the same thing."

Glick leaned forward and yelled, "But you told him the baby was yours! Did you also tell him where Ana lived? Did he follow her around, just waiting for the right time to cut her open and take the baby? He didn't even care who the father was. He just cut Ana open and ripped the baby out."

Dough shook his head. "I know," he muttered. "Guys like that, they don't care. That fat bastard just wanted a baby to sell on the black market. I gave him what he wanted."

"'Guys like that,'" Sam clucked his tongue again. "You mean, 'Guys like you.'"

"I'm not proud of what I did, you fucking druid. Hey, can we all just get back to focusing on the real villain, huh?"

Bernie was grinning from ear to ear.

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" Dough asked.

Bernie's smile grew. "Ah yes," he said. "I had my doubts about rogue. But now, I see that he may have what it takes to lead us. He is worthy leader."

"Shut up, you disgusting thing. That was a long time ago."

"Sixteen years, rogue," Glick said. "Not so long for me."

"Sixteen, seventeen, whatever. The fact is that I was just a kid. Come on, you were a kid once, weren't you?"

"You destroyed my family."

Dough rolled his eyes.

"How dare you?" Glick pointed at him angrily. "How dare you roll your eyes at me."

"Sorry, it's just that, maybe you should have spent some time in the tavern with Ana before you married her. She pretty much married half of Stormwind."

Bernie put a dirty grey finger to his chin and nodded. "Of course."

"What, Bernie?" Glick asked, keeping his eyes forward.

"Lucite is most surely the rogue's daughter. You lied to me, Glick. I tortured you for days and you say that Lucite your daughter. You lied."

"But she is my daughter. You can't possibly believe this rogue. He's deceiving you. He -"

"She is not your daughter," Bernie said calmly. "Did you know that Lucite concocted the poison we used to paralyze Clobberella?"

"Wait," Glick yelled. "You never told me that. Why wouldn't you tell me that?"

Lucite groaned and turned over on her side, coughing.

"I was saving it," Bernie replied. "Lucite created poison, and only a rogue has ability to brew poison that powerful. Am I correct, rogue?"

Dough felt his legs buckle at this information.

Bernie nodded. "I'll take that as a yes."

"That doesn't mean anything," Glick said with desperation. "But you should have told me."

"Fair enough," Bernie coughed. "And maybe you should've told me that Lucite wasn't your -"

"Wasn't your 'what'?" Lucite broke in.

As they watched, Lucite sat up on all fours. The amulet slid off her back and landed next to her. She picked it with a frail hand, studying it. The glowing increased in brightness.

"Wow, this thing is beautiful," she said, turning it over in her palm. "What is it?"

Glick reached out and touched her tangled hair. He brought his face close and whispered, "Put the amulet on, Lucy."

"Don't touch me, pervert. And don't call me Lucy." She glared at him, but put the chain around her neck anyway. As the jewel bumped against her chest, the lavender light collected around her like a halo.

"You were all talking about me, weren't you?" Lucite asked, crawling up to Sam at the counter and plopping down so that she could face everybody. "What were you saying about poisons? Something special about me being able to make a good concoction? I'm just good at brewing them, that's all. It doesn't actually mean anything."

They were all staring at her now.

"What?" she asked.

"You poisoned Clobberella?" Dough asked. "You?"

"No," she replied defensively. "I brewed the Poison of Paralysis for the dark irons, but they didn't tell me they were going to use it on anyone. I was as surprised as you were when we found Clobberella poisoned in her cottage."

Dough closed his eyes. "You could've said something -"

"I couldn't say anything to you. You would've killed me. Or worse, considering the fact that you're a rogue and all."

"Would you cut that out, please?" said Dough. "You've got a very poor image of rogues, my dear."

"Sure, and you've done so much to improve that stereotype, haven't you?" Now she looked around the room. "Why are you all just staring at me? And why is my headache suddenly gone?"

"So many questions, " Bernie said gleefully. "Such inquisitiveness."

Another set of explosives rocked the city. Dough could see the roof caving in near the front entrance, dust and brick raining down.

"This place is falling apart," he said.

Glick tapped Bernie's shoulder. "Bernie, we need to get out of here before we get trapped in the rubble."

"And," Sam contributed, "You should also realize that the Alliance can't be far away."

Bernie turned to Sam. "The Alliance? Phooey on them."

"Phooey? Look, you may have a real fight on you hands when they send their Elite Guard to find out what's going on."

The dark iron dwarf laughed, sparking the other dwarves to laugh as well.

Sam tilted his head, "I don't get it."

Bernie laughed even harder at that. Then he pointed to the crumbling ceiling outside of the bank, created by the dark iron's massive explosives. The trees and snowy hills were visible as well as the night sky.

"Yes, it's night," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "Why do I feel like I'm still missing something here?"

But Dough wasn't. He finally figured out what Bernie was pointing at and his jaw dropped. "Oh no," he muttered.

When he was stuck in Blackrock Depths months ago, the dark iron dwarves had told him a few details about the Amulet of Control:

"The sacred text says to slaughter every living thing and retake the kingdom," one of the dwarves said. "How the hell are you going to manage that?" Dough asked.

"The stone. The stone magnifies our strength once on surface. The light will glow a hundred times as bright. Make us a hundred times stronger. That's reason you lead us out of Blackrock Depths - the amulet less powerful here."

Since leaving the 'Depths, he'd kept that amulet hidden - inside a fanny pack, in a lockbox - always inside something.

He'd thought that the dark irons were setting off explosives all over the city in an attempt to seize the amulet, to create distractions. He'd only been half-right.

Now, looking up through the shattered ceiling, Dough could see the other reason for bringing down the ceiling: the moon. Or, more accurately, the moonlight.

Bernie was still smiling. "You tell me to worry about Alliance and Elite Guard? We are powerful now. Not as powerful as we will be once moon is completely full, but powerful enough to destroy an army. Bring it on."

"Lucite," Dough whispered. "Take it off. Take it off now"

"Pervert."

"No, damn it!" He started running toward her, but the dark irons held him back. "Take off the amulet!"

Before she could even answer, a ruckus came from outside the bank. Grunting and calls of "Look out," and "Move!" could be heard. All eyes went in that direction.

"My lord," a dark iron called. "My lord!"

"Yes?" Bernie barked.

"Make way, make way."

The dark irons at the entrance parted hastily and allowed a new set of their brethren to ascend the stairs and cross the threshold. They carried something large, wrapped in a blanket. Each held a section and brought it before Bernie, plopping it down in front of him.

"What is it?" Bernie asked, disinterested.

"We find this in snow," one said, unraveling the blanket. "We get reward now?"

"Doubtful," Bernie replied. "Maybe if you show me what it is?"

The dark irons unwrapped it starting from the top. Clobberella's face appeared from underneath.

Bernie looked up at Dough with delight. "The woman?" he said. Then, "Your woman?"

Dough raised his eyebrows.

Lucite knelt down next to Clobberella and touched her cheek. Then she narrowed her eyes at Dough. "Her face is freezing."

One of the dark irons nodded. "Yes, we found her outside, face down and tied to a horse."

Lucite's cheeks flushed. "Face down and tied to a horse?" she asked.

The dark iron nodded.

"Rogue!" she screamed. "What did you do to her?"

Cuts and Bruises

"What did you do to her?" Lucite shouted. "You did all your nasty rogue things to her and then, when you were finished, you left her to die?"

The lavender glow coming from the amulet was so brilliant that it was impossible to look directly at Lucite. The dwarves were becoming stronger, more confident every second she wore the beautiful gemstone, and the rogue could only stand and watch helplessly. He needed to make himself focus - focus on persuading Lucite to remove that gold chain from around her neck.

"I didn't do anything to Clobberella, damn it," Dough said. "Now take off that amulet."

"I don't trust you, rogue," Lucite said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Why did you leave her out there in the snow?"

"We don't have time for this. Take the damned amulet off."

"I'm not taking this off until you -"

"Enough!" Glick shouted.

Glick wheeled the chair close to Clobberella. His brightly colored robe draped over her cold cheeks. Dough stepped forward and was again restrained by the dark irons surrounding him on both sides. Their skin felt like solid granite on his arms.

"I want you to suffer, rogue" Glick began. "I want you to suffer greatly. This woman means something to you, doesn't she?"

"Not really."

"Oh, you put on a brave front, but I can see right through your facade. She has meaning to you."

"No," Dough shrugged. "Honestly, not that much."

Glick touched Clobberella's face with the back of his hand. "She is dying right before your selfish eyes, and do you know what she's dying from?"

"The stench coming from underneath your robe?"

"No. She's dying of Bricklebrack poisoning."

"Bricklebrack poisoning?" Dough's eyes widened. "How did she -?"

He caught Sam looking up at the ceiling.

"God damn it, Sam," the rogue said. "Did you do this to her?"

"I didn't have any choice, Dough. I thought she'd try to kill me once she found out that I was the one responsible for sending the dark irons to her cottage. I just needed some insurance, that's all."

"So you poisoned her with Bricklebrack? What kind of twisted logic -?"

Glick cleared his throat, trying to get Dough's attention. "Rogue, I think you'll want to listen. As you know, Bricklebrack poisoning can be cured with Bricklebrack Root in pill form. I just so happen to have the root here, in my front pocket."

Sam inched forward. "Then give it to her, damn it."

"No," Glick said, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "I want the rogue to beg for it. Beg for the life of another human being. Beg as if he actually cares for the life of another human being. Maybe then I'll feel compelled to give her the pill. Maybe."

"Beg?" Dough asked.

"Yes, or are you too proud for that?"

"No, not too proud. It's just that somehow I can't see you curing her no matter what I do. Come on, just give her the pill, okay? She's dying."

"Yes, just as my dear Ana died after her baby was ripped from -"

Dough rolled his eyes again.

"Damn you, rogue," Glick said. "If you truly want this pill, then...wait a minute...where -?"

Silence. Glick's fingers went into his pocket and dug around feverishly. Then he checked a different robe pocket, and another. All the while, the uncomfortable silence loomed.

Dough raised an eyebrow at Sam. Sam shrugged. Dough looked back at the frantic priest, "You were saying?"

But Glick's monologue was over. The pill box wasn't in his front pocket or any other pocket for that matter. It was gone. Vanished. His face turned a brilliant shade of crimson.

"Um," Dough finally said, "Why do you have that 'Oh, shit, it's gone' look on your face? Did you lose the pill? I mean, I don't want to embarrass you again, or give you another reason to want me dead, but..."

"No," he muttered. "It's impossible. I've been carrying it in my front pocket the whole -"

Lucite reached into her front pocket and produced the pill box. "Are you looking for this?" she asked, holding it in her palm.

"How did you -?"

"Oh, I stole it from you in the carriage when you thought I was sleeping," she said proudly. "Didn't even feel me doing it, did you?"

"You picked my pocket?" Glick asked, his bottom lip hanging.

Lucite smiled. "Yep. Another talent I like to keep to myself." Then she frowned quickly. "Wait. Why is everyone staring at me again?"

Dough shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe because I've never met a mage that was so good at brewing poisons and picking pockets, that's all."

"Shut up, rogue," she said.

"Fine," replied Dough. "I'll shut up if you take that damned amulet off your neck. And give the pill to Clobberella while you're at it, okay?"

Bernie stepped forward, his nasty little fingers drumming against the cleft in his chin. His face held the sinister expression of a predator growing bored with its prey and deciding to finally move in for the kill.

"I think not," Bernie said. "I've been standing here, listening. Evaluating. I've heard enough."

His broken arm - the one that Glick had shattered on the side of the wheelchair - pounded with a dull ache, but he ignored the pain. The adrenaline rush he received from the glow of the amulet numbed the broken bone just enough, and allowed him to concentrate on more important matters.

Bernie nodded to a set of dark irons near Lucite and they grabbed the girl by the arms, dragging her away from Clobberella. "Hey!" she yelled. The amulet still glowed brilliantly as it teetered around her neck.

Bernie held out the palm of his greasy grey hand and said, "Give me that pill."

"No," she yelled defiantly, trying to shove the box back into her own pocket even with the two dark irons holding her arms out.

"Then take it from her," Bernie said with a maniacal grin.

One of the dark irons grabbed the pill box, squeezing Lucite's wrist to make her release her white-knuckle grip on it. Humbly, the dark iron carried the pill box to Bernie. Bernie snatched it out of the minion's hand and opened it, examining the pill inside.

"Bricklebrack Root," he observed. Then to Sam, "How long does woman have to live?"

"Just give her the pill, Bernie. There's nothing you can gain by holding on to it."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Bernie said with a grin. "How long?"

Sam looked at the floor. "Not long. Hours, maybe. She could already be dead for all I know."

Bernie nodded to the dark irons holding Lucite.

"Beautiful," he said. "New plan."

"New?" Glick asked. "This is my plan, Bernie. You can't -"

"Yes, new plan. Enjoy your last minutes of breath, priest, and listen. You want to watch rogue suffer. On other hand, I find great joy in watching you suffer. Oh how I miss our days in 'Depths. Torturing you was so delicious. I plucked off all your toes, one by one, then made you eat them. And you did, didn't you? Remember how scrumptious your big toes were? I just had to steal a few bites for myself."

"I swear, I'll -"

Bernie giggled and then snapped his fingers at two of his minions. The dark irons stood at attention.

"Take the amulet away from girl," he ordered.

One of the dark irons wrapped his arm around Lucite's head, bending her over at the waist, while the other pulled the amulet from around her neck. As they separated the jewel from Lucite's chest, the lavender glow decreased. And when they finally took the amulet away from her completely, the glowing became nothing more than a dim hue once again.

"What are you doing, Bernie?" Glick asked.

"Oh, I think you know."

The dark iron holding the amulet with its dim light looked to Bernie, concerned. "But aren't our armies vulnerable while amulet isn't glowing?"

"Stow your concern, my brother," Bernie replied calmly. "The amulet will not be away from a rogue's flesh for long."

But they could all feel it, the hot blood coursing through their dark iron veins, the artificial adrenaline rush caused by the glowing of the amulet - all of that was gone the moment the amulet dimmed. The dark irons felt themselves becoming weaker, even weaker than they'd been before Lucite put on the amulet, and Dough could see it in the way they suddenly slumped their shoulders and gasped for breath - they were indeed vulnerable.

Bernie nodded. "Give it to him. Give it to Lord Dough."

"No," Glick said. "No! You can't give it to him. At least give it back to Lucite."

"Methinks your use has expired, my lord," Bernie said. "I allow you to live a few moments more, so that you may bask in glory of our new messiah, Dough."

"I'd rather die now," he replied. "Just kill me. End my life."

"Wait," Dough said, confused. "You mean you're just going to give me the amulet?"

"Yes," Bernie's eyebrow raised. "Don't you want it?"

"Well, yeah. But only so I can destroy it."

"You won't be doing that, I can assure you."

One of the dwarves tried to put the amulet around Dough's neck. Dough wrested his arm free and swatted at the dwarf, causing the little monster to flinch.

"Put it on," Bernie commanded, a little uneasily. "Put the amulet on now."

Dough shook his head. "No."

"I offer you deal: you wear Amulet of Control and I give Bricklebrack Root to Clobberella. I know you care for woman."

"Not that much."

"Different deal then? How about this: If you don't wear amulet, we put it around Lucite's neck and bring her back with us to Blackrock Depths. She's much easier to control than you, anyway."

Dough looked at Lucite, still being held by both arms. He looked at Glick, seething in the wheelchair. Then he looked back at Bernie, who was smiling smugly.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine. I'll wear the amulet."

"Good," Bernie said.

"Now what?"

"Now?" Bernie said with a shrug. "Now we put amulet around your neck and finish destroying Ironforge. We destroy any army foolish enough to try and stop us, then we...well, you probably not want to hear rest of it."

Dough sighed. "I might as well."

"Then we permanently graft amulet to your body, my new lord." Bernie licked his lips. "I think we sear it into your forehead, make it permanent fixture so it may never be removed from your flesh. Jewel is not supposed to hang from cheap gold chain. It is meant to be part of wearer. I promise you pain, rogue. But your glory shall be timeless, and your head shall glow brightly forevermore. A beacon of hopelessness to your fellow man."

"I don't think so."

"No?" There was impatience in his voice now, and the other dark irons were looking out of the bank entrance uneasily, knowing that they were in a vulnerable position.

"No," Dough answered. "No deal."

"You are tough rogue to bargain with. Fine, you've made your choice. So here is what's going to happen. I will destroy Bricklebrack Root, dooming your precious Clobberella, then my army of dark irons will put amulet back around Lucite's neck and take her with us to Blackrock Depths. We'll commit 'unspeakable atrocities' - as we like to call them - to her, and finish by grafting amulet to Lucite's forehead permanently instead of yours. Does that sound like better option to you?"

Dough bit his lip. Sadly, it did.

"Oh," Bernie added. "I should also mention that if we do these things, we'll simply kill you now as well. We'd have no more use for you, so there no reason to keep you alive."

Now that was incentive.

"I can't argue with that," Dough said, holding out his hands. "Fine, put the damned thing over my head."

Bernie, his broken arm beginning to throb with pain once again, smiled triumphantly. All was well, and he was confident that this plan was the correct one. Dough would wear the amulet permanently, and they would use him to take over the entire -

"I can't let this happen," Glick said. "I won't let this happen."

"Yes," Bernie said, touching Glick's hair. "I think you will. I think you will most surely 'let this happen', my old lord. Everything is gone now, isn't it? Lucite, amulet, your plans for revenge. You have nothing left. Nothing to live for. Nothing to die for."

One of the dwarves attempted to put the amulet around Dough's neck again, and Dough swatted him away once more.

"Rogue," Bernie said with directness, "We not have time for games. You made deal. Now you must wear amulet around your neck, else we are weakened."

Dough saw little choice in the matter. If he resisted, they would kill him. There was no way he could take on this many dark iron dwarves all by himself. But if he put the amulet around his neck, he would pretty much be writing his own obituary. Tough choice.

Glick's crippled body quivered with rage. And his eyes never left the rogue.

"This isn't right," he muttered.

Bernie laughed. "No, not for you. Put the amulet on, rogue. Now."

Then it happened. It might have been one of Glick's synapses exploding, or his sanity failing, but whatever the reason, it happened. And the timing for the dark irons couldn't have been worse.

Glick wheeled the chair around to face Bernie. Bernie gave Glick a look, half quizzical, half amused.

"I won't let this happen," he said again with finality.

With that, Glick locked the wheels on the chair, braced his arms on both sides of the railing and thrust himself at the dwarf. He didn't make it too far forward, but since Bernie wasn't expecting it, he was close enough. Glick landed hard on the stone floor, clutching Bernie's legs, He dragged Bernie down, and Bernie hit the side of the chair, dropping to the floor next to Glick, grabbing at his own head.

The pill box fell from his hand and bounced next to Lucite's feet.

The priest worked his way up to Bernie's neck. Bernie kicked him once in the stomach with his short legs, but Glick ignored the pain, focusing on the little monster's windpipe.

A few of the dark irons rushed toward them.

"No, you idiots," Bernie squeaked out through his constricted throat. "The amulet! Put amulet on Lucite or Dough. Quickly. I can take care of priest."

Dough knew an opportunity when he saw one. He nodded to Sam, who grabbed the lockbox and used it to clock one of the dwarves over the head. Dough took a weapon from one of the dark irons next to him, a long blade, and waved it wildly, making his captors back off a few inches.

The dark iron still holding the amulet ran at Lucite, attempting to drape it over her head. Her two captors gripped her left and right arms even tighter.

"Don't let him put that over your head!" Dough yelled.

"Duh, rogue," she shouted back, "Like I haven't figured that out yet. But there's not much I can do about it."

Dough waved the sword threateningly to make the other dwarves back off.

"Kill them, my brothers! Leave only the girl alive!" Bernie screeched, trying in vain to pull Glick's hands off of his windpipe. "They can't stop you all."

Sam picked up a knife and held it out in front of him like an amateur.

Dough stabbed the dark iron on Lucite's right side directly through the heart. The other one let go of Lucite's arm and went for his axe, but Dough swung the blade in the air and brought it down over the dark iron's arm, severing it completely. The armless dwarf ran around in circles until Dough finally punched him in the face and knocked him out.

Lucite rubbed her wrists where the dark irons had been holding her.

"Lucite," Dough said without taking his eyes off the massive amount of dark irons standing in front of him, "Get Clobberella out of the way."

"I'm fine," she said sarcastically. "Thanks for asking."

"Please, kiddo. Just get her out of the way."

She was shaken, but nodded and grabbed Clobberella's feet, dragging her into the corner under the counter.

Sam looked back. "And administer the Bricklebrack Root, if you please?"

Lucite nodded again, still struggling to pull the motionless body into the corner of the room, away from the battle. As she did so, she bent over and picked up the pill box that Bernie had dropped. "Got it!" she yelled.

Glick drove Bernie's head into the stone, still choking him.

"Help me," Bernie said as his face changed colors. "My brothers, why are you not attacking them?"

"No one is coming to help you," whispered Glick.

"If you kill me..." he gasped for breath, but could feel the windpipe cracking under the crippled priest's hands. "My brothers will tear you apart."

Glick tightened his grip. "Let them come."

The dark irons had been whispering to one another in some dialect that Dough couldn't understand. They finally stopped chattering amongst themselves and looked at the rogue.

Dough raised his sword high. "Um, are you guys going to attack us, or what?"

A dark iron near the back finally spoke: "We not care if lieutenant dies. But we still need you or girl to wear amulet."

"Yeah," another one said. "Put on amulet, okay?"

Dough looked at Sam, confused. "Well, I think we've pretty much poo-pooed that idea, haven't we?"

From behind them, they could hear Bernie's head being pounded into the stone. The sound started as a "Thud, thud, thud" but suddenly turned into a "Squish, squish, squish" - the sound three watermelons might make when tossed from a four-story window onto solid granite. Then Glick pulled a knife out of his robe and plunged it deep into the dark iron's dead chest. Then he did it again. And again.

"I imagine that's an unnecessary expenditure of energy," Sam offered. "He seems quite dead to me."

Glick released Bernie's throat and rolled over on his side, sweat pouring down his face.

Dough cracked his knuckles. He needed to buy himself more time: more time to think things through. There had to be a way out of this mess.

"You need to wear amulet," the one holding the jewel said. "Or we kill you and put it on the girl. Okay?"

"Fine," he said, "I'll wear the amulet. Just give me a minute,"

Sam looked alarmed. "What are you doing?"

"Shut up, Sam. Just do what I tell you." Then he addressed the mob of dark irons again, "Give me a minute?"

"No, rogue," the one holding the amulet replied. "We are weakened and need the strength to fight approaching army. You put on now."

Dough held up a finger, "I'm just asking for one minute."

The rogue walked to the corner of the room and knelt down next to Lucite and Clobberella. Clobberella was still motionless, as if dead. But bringing his hand close to her mouth, he could feel her breath on his palm, cold but at least it was there. Lucite pulled Clob's face away from him.

She cradled Clobberella's head in her lap, trying desperately to transfer some of her warmth to the helpless woman.

"Did you give her the pill?" Dough asked softly.

"Yes," she said, brushing back Clob's long dark hair. "I put it in her mouth and made sure she swallowed it."

"Good."

"Rogue," she looked him in the eye. "They said that the amulet would only glow for you and me. Why are we the only ones that can use it?"

Dough waited a little too long before answering. "I don't know. Luck, I guess?"

And because I banged your mother on a cot behind a bar, got her pregnant and then sold you to someone in order to pay back a debt, he wanted to add.

"Weird," she said.

"Yeah, weird. Hey, can you sit here and take care of Clob until she comes around?"

Lucite looked at the impatient mob. "How are we getting out of here, rogue? This whole place is coming down around us. And these dark irons aren't going to let us just walk out of here."

"I know. I haven't thought that far ahead yet. But I'll see what I can do. Just take care of Clob, okay?"

Lucite nodded and brushed back Clobberella's hair.

"Um, Dough," Sam began. "I know this probably isn't the most appropriate time, but -"

"Yes, Sam." he said, walking back to join the druid in front of the gathering mob. "The answer is yes."

"You don't even know what I was going to -"

"You were going to ask if Clobberella will kill you when she wakes up and finds out about the Bricklebrack poisoning, weren't you?"

"Well, yes. The thought has been nagging me lately. Seeing as how I was the one that poisoned her and all."

"I doubt you'll even have enough time to say hello to her, Sam."

"Oh," he sighed. "I suppose you wouldn't let me walk over there right now and kill her, would you? It would definitely put my mind at ease."

"Not hardly. I can't allow that to happen. Not after all we've been through the past few days. And if you're thinking of killing me to get to her? Well, that would be a very bad choice of action."

"Oh. Well, maybe if I just sit down with her and explain it all, she'll listen to -"

Dough shook his head.

"Okay, okay," he shuffled his feet. "Then what about Lucite? Seeing as how she created the Poison of Paralysis that started this whole affair. Won't Clobberella want her dead as well?"

"Yeah," Dough said, looking forward. "I'm a little worried about that one myself."

The dark irons moved toward them, holding the amulet up to the rogue. They had their weapons drawn, just in case a trick was being played on them. Which, of course, it was.

"Time to put on amulet now, master," one said, holding it up.

Running out of ideas...

Dough looked around for anything he could use to buy more time for himself and failed. This was it. They would kill him if he didn't put the amulet around his neck.

Then he heard a booming voice from outside the bank.

"That's it, men!" came the authoritative yell. "Forward. Forward!"

Dough couldn't see out of the bank from his vantage point, but from the look on some of the dwarves' faces, a major disturbance was happening. The group of dark irons in front of Dough, numbering at least thirty standing shoulder to shoulder, looked nervous and frightened all of a sudden.

They muttered to themselves in that foreign dialect, then shoved the one carrying the amulet forward until he was a few feet in front of Dough.

"Here," he said. "You put this on quick."

Sam and Dough exchanged glances. Then Dough said, "Um, no?"

From outside, "We've got them on the run, men! Let's take back the bank."

There was a loud "Hurrah!" and then some of the dwarves standing in the threshold emptied out with their weapons at the ready.

"Put it on, or we kill you."

Dough shook his head. "I think you might have bigger problems right now..."

---

General LeFue and his men worked their way through the rubble of Ironforge's front gates, tearing through the army of dark irons so easily that LeFue thought it must be a trick of some kind.

Suddenly, the demons weren't as invulnerable as they'd been only moments ago, when their skin was as tough as solid stone. It seemed that their power was coming from some artificial source, enhancing their strength dramatically. But now their skin broke away like paper with the slashing of the Elite Guard's blades. It was as if that artificial power source had stopped working altogether.

Along the way, patrons of the city, including merchants and tourists, offered their services to turn the tide of battle. The steady stream of humanity exiting the city stopped and actually reversed flow. Now they re-entered Ironforge, armed and ready to fight. This make-shift militia, led by the Elite Guard and General LeFue himself, was successfully taking back the glorious city. Even the Ironforge Guards had joined the battle, seeing as how the dark irons were weakened and this would be a victory that they could all take credit for once the fight was over.

General LeFue's forces, Elite and makeshift combined, were beginning to slowly outnumber the dark irons'.

"We've got them on the run, men! Let's take back the bank."

"Hurrah!"

---

The snarling grey abominations came at Dough so quickly, he didn't even have time to properly plant his feet. They grabbed at his body, trying to force the amulet over his head, desperate to get the rush of power the amulet's brilliant glow would provide.

Dough kicked with his large black boot and drove a few back. They grabbed his arms and he flung them around, head-butting the dark iron closest to him. Sam contributed with his blade as well, though he didn't seem to enjoy getting his hands dirty. His contributions leaned more toward the "slash, raise hand in air, say 'ew, yucky' and make a funny face" variety.

Dough stabbed the dwarf holding the amulet, pierced the end of the sword through the gold chain and lifted it high into the air. Several dark irons jumped up and down trying to grab it. Like an adult holding a chocolate dipped banana over a group of children, Dough taunted them, then he let the necklace slide down to the hilt of the sword and he removed it, stuffing it into his pocket, the gemstone completely out of sight in his leather pants.

"This is absolutely disgusting, Dough," Sam said, wiping his hands on his shirt.

"Shut it, Sam. Just keep killing stuff."

"Where's the amulet?"

"I've got it," Dough replied, patting the jewel in his pocket while slashing at another approaching dwarf.

General LeFue's men worked their way through the dark iron warriors at the bank's entrance. Dough and Sam took care of those still remaining inside.

"Help!" Lucite's voice rang through the confined area.

"I'm kind of busy right now," Dough responded, planting his elbow into a dark iron's face.

"Help, rogue!"

Dough ventured a glance behind him and saw a trail of blood leading from Bernie's body, across the floor and ending at Lucite and Clobberella.

Lucite continued to cradle Clob's head on her lap, but now Glick was a few inches away from both of them, a pointy dagger drawn.

"Get away from them," Dough called out.

"You took everything from me," Glick spat. "Now I take everything from you."

Glick raised the dagger and plunged it into Clobberella's shoulder. Clobberella let out a whimper and recoiled against the blade's sharpness, her arms flopping around, eyes still shut. Blood pooled around the wound.

Lucite kicked at him frantically, still holding Clob tight. "Get off! Get off!" she yelled.

Glick lifted the dagger out of Clobberella's shoulder, the resistance from the bone he'd hit making the knife harder to retrieve. Then he swung around and looked at Lucite.

"Move away from here, Lucy," he said. "You shouldn't see this. No little girl should have to see -"

Lucite tugged at the colorful robe Glick wore and tried to pull him away from Clobberella. Glick lifted the dagger to initiate the killing blow on Clob. Lucite grabbed his arm, pulling back with a considerable amount of leverage, her torso leaning the opposite direction, her feet firmly planted.

Glick shook her off and Lucite landed on her butt. When she tried to grab his arm again, Glick swung the blade at her, connecting with her face. It sunk into the flesh next to her nose, a swath of about two inches. Blood formed around the horizontal line, and then trickled down her face.

Lucite touched the flap of skin on her cheek, confused at first and then horrified.

Glick's eyes widened and he dropped the dagger. "I'm sorry, Lucy..." he trailed off.

"Get away!" she yelled. "Please, just get away."

Glick's eyes glazed over and he shook his head at her. "I wasn't...I mean, I'd never hurt..."

And then Dough's boot was smacking his face, knocking him to the ground. It connected with his jaw, spinning Glick's head sharply to the left and causing a few teeth to go flying across the room. His head hit the floor and he looked up at Dough with unimaginable fury.

"Is Clobberella okay?" Dough asked.

"I think so," she said. "Look what he did to my face."

"It's an improvement. Just try to stop Clob's bleeding if you -"

Before he could finish his sentence, a strong set of teeth tore into his ankle and he shrieked in pain. He looked down to see Glick biting hard through his leather pants into the soft flesh of his leg.

"Ow!" he yelled. "Ow. Ow. Ow."

Glick grabbed at the rogue's other leg and knocked Dough over, still biting.

"Help," Sam called. "I can't hold them off any longer."

The druid was swashbuckling his heart out against the few dwarves that remained. The rest seemed to have exited the bank to join the fray outside the entrance.

"Fuck, Sam, there's only two of them left. Can't you just finish them - ow! - off?"

Dough finally worked his other leg free and kicked again at Glick's face. Glick stopped biting, grabbed the dagger and plunged it into Dough's thigh. The pain was tremendous, but Dough reached down, pulled it out and threw it into the corner of the room behind the priest.

Dough yelled and kept kicking. "Ow! Damn it, can someone get me a weapon please?"

Sam leaned down and picked up a sword, then tossed it at Dough.

Dough caught it and raised it in the air.

He brought the blade down on Glick's head. He raised it again and brought it down on his arm. Glick backed away, grabbing at the wound.

And then the deathblow came.

Lucite picked up the bloody dagger, got up on her knees behind the unsuspecting Glick and plunged the blade deep into his back, between the shoulder blades. A perfect strike. A perfect backstab: the trademark of any established rogue.

She yelled as she twisted the blade, blood running over her pale white hands. Glick had one chance to look behind him and see his assassin, the innocence lost in her eyes, the wound he'd inflicted upon her youthful cheek, and the way her face looked so much like Ana's, but no, that wasn't quite right anymore, was it?... Now, with her face writhed and wrinkled up, using all of her strength to twist the blade, she looked exactly like Dough. So much like Dough. He closed his eyes and fell forward.

"I'm sorry, Lucy," he whispered. "I never should have let him take you."

But his dying words went unheard. His lips moved on the stone floor and all that emerged was a low rattling.

And then he was gone.

---

When General LeFue entered the bank, he dismounted from the horse and led it up the steps by the reins. Carefully, he walked through the mass of dead bodies, trying his best to keep his boots from getting too bloodied. When he looked up, his head tilted in surprise.

He saw a woman with a gaping wound in her shoulder being held on the floor by another woman with a gaping wound in her cheek.

He saw a blue-skinned druid sitting next to them, trying to catch his breath.

He saw a human rogue leaning against the counter.

"Howdy," Dough said with an absent-minded wave.

"Rogue," the general replied. "What happened here?"

Dough looked back at Lucite and Sam. Their faces were as blank as fresh parchment.

"We were just minding our own business when the dark irons attacked us. That's all."

General LeFue cocked his head suspiciously. "I don't trust rogues."

"Good," Dough said with a half-smile. "You shouldn't. Are they all dead?"

"Hmm?" General LeFue stopped, then nodded. "Oh, yes. All are dead or on the run. Crazy thing though, they were so powerful for a while there. I know they caught you and everyone else in Ironforge by surprise with the explosions and their sheer numbers, but for a while they were absolutely unstoppable. They plowed through civilians, and killed some of my best men. Even our weapons couldn't penetrate their skin. Then..."

"Then?"

"Well...it's crazy, but it's as if they suddenly became completely defenseless. What do you think of that?"

Dough made sure the Amulet of Control was still in his front pocket, then he shook his head. "No idea."

"I suppose you'd best get out of here before the ceiling collapses around us," General LeFue looked up. "I think we've seen enough death today."

---

Epilogue

In the months that followed after the attack on Ironforge, there were great changes in Azeroth. Amazingly, all the changes seemed to revolve around making those few horrible days appear to have never actually happened. This was supposed to help the citizens "heal" from their individual traumas.

The remaining dark iron stragglers were located and shipped back to their home in the Blackrock Depths, where their leaders were compelled to draft a new contract with the Alliance, indicating that they would never again venture outside of the Searing Gorge or Blackrock Mountain.

It was basically the same contract that they'd violated only months before, but this time they promised to abide by it. Needless to say, most Azerothians were skeptical.

Ironforge was in the process of being completely renovated and rebuilt. Curiously enough, the Alliance seemed to have learned very little from the experience, and the "new" design plans were the exact same as the layout plans from hundreds of years before - only with thicker walls and more solid stone. The Auction House was to be built with the same dimensions and location across from the bank. It was to go back to the way it had once been, as if there had never been an attack on the city at all.

---

Sam was fairly good with carpentry and had decided to rebuild his home in Lakeshire, rather than relocating altogether. He liked the relative calm of the lake and the idea of community, even if his fellow residents were eager to get him evicted from their neighborhood.

So he started the rebuilding project in the kitchen. He planned to do the ceiling at a later date. The home had been demolished by the dark iron's explosive backpack, but he felt that rebuilding it himself would give him a strong sense of accomplishment. Of course, he suspected the project would take him years to complete, given his dislike of germs, dirt and hard labor. Every time a speck of dust got on his hand he'd cleanse it with a solution of mana water and salt.

It was on a warm day that she found him working on his kitchen, shirtless and sweaty, his blue skin glistening in the afternoon sun. She came up behind him and cleared her throat.

"Sam."

When he heard the familiar voice, he dropped the hammer and it landed near his foot. He turned around slowly, knowing that this confrontation was inevitable, and long overdue.

"Morning," Sam said cheerfully. "I'd offer you a glass of water, but the pumps are...dirty. Still rebuilding, and all."

"That's okay. I'm not thirsty."

"I have some gouda in an ice chest if you want to -"

"I know what you did," said Clobberella.

Now that Sam had turned completely around he could see her, standing in leather pants, wearing a white t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a pony-tail and her cheeks flushed with anger. She was holding something behind her back.

"Clob," he started. "It's been months. Months since that... unfortunate series of events."

"Uh-huh."

"How's your...uh...?" he pointed to her shoulder.

"It's fine," she absently put her hand on the wound. "It's healing."

Sam had prepared a speech long ago, knowing that this day would come, but he'd hoped that with the passage of time she might forget all about it. Then he realized with the planning of his house, he'd forgotten his prepared speech entirely. He just hoped that she didn't know everything. That she only knew part of what he'd -

"I know you poisoned me with Bricklebrack," she stated.

"Oh," he said, relieved that she only knew part of what he'd done and not -

"And I know why you poisoned me with Bricklebrack."

Damn.

"You sent them to my house, druid. You sent them to poison me."

"No, it wasn't like that."

"You knew that I would kill you for sending those monsters to my home, so you - what? - poisoned me with Bricklebrack to make sure I wouldn't? And after you cured me of the Poison of Paralysis? How dare you."

Sam just stared at her. "So are you going to murder me now in cold blood, or what?"

"I don't see any alternative. Do you?"

"Um, I see one. You could let me live?"

"I have a reputation, Sam. I have to live up to it."

"Can't you just give me a harsh warning? Maybe tell me to disappear and pretend I'm dead and never come back? One of those, 'If you ever show your face around here again, I'll kill you myself' type warnings? And then I'll go live happily ever after somewhere. I'll be a hermit and change my name to something like Sammy and disappear completely."

Clobberella shook her head.

"Oh," Sam replied.

"However, you did keep the Bricklebrack Root with you the entire time you were in the dark irons' custody. I suppose you had the intention of curing me. Eventually. That earns you a point."

"Is a point good?" he asked hopefully.

"Not really. No points means a quick death. One point means, well..."

"No death?"

"It means as close to death as I can get you without actually killing you. If I think you're dead and I leave you for dead and you somehow live despite my best efforts, well...my reputation won't be so badly damaged, will it?"

"I see," Sam frowned. "Perhaps you should just kill me then."

"Tell you what," she said producing a very sharp cleaver from behind her back. It glinted in the afternoon sun. "I'll do my best."

"I guess I don't have any options, eh? I can defend myself against you and try to kill you instead of letting you disembowel me with that cleaver, but -"

Clobberella shook her head and smiled. "That would be...unwise."

She held the cleaver up to the light and turned it into the sun. Then she looked back at the druid.

"Oh, one more thing," she said. "I'll need to bring home a trophy. You know, just in case anyone shows up at my doorstep doubting my reputation. I'll need something to show them. So, I guess my question to you, and the last words I will speak before we begin this unfortunateness is...Are you left or right handed?"

---

Dough woke up in the gutter...again. This time with a stinging pain in his left cheek.

It was early afternoon and the sun had dried most of the vomit on his chest, but his head pounded incessantly. Carriages and horses passed by as citizens went about their daily business.

How did I end up here? he thought.

Then a second slap struck his right cheek.

He looked up to see Lucite's face, blocking out the sun. He squinted.

"Oh, you," he said. "What a lovely morning."

She slapped him again and he winced. Oh well, better to get a slap from her than the soldiers patrolling the streets or the merchant whose establishment he'd been puking in front of all night.

"You're drunk," she said.

"And you're observant," his eyes focused a bit so that he was able to see her with more clarity. The cut on her cheek had been sewed up and looked much better, even though her physical appearance was still as uncomely as ever.

"I know what you did, rogue," she said, plunking herself down next to him and putting her elbows on her knees. "I know all about it."

Dough squinted at the sun. He'd been dreading this and had practiced the speech a number of times. Of course, he'd hoped she would just never bring it up, so he'd forgotten most of his prepared speech completely.

"Which part," he started, then reconsidered. "I mean, what do you think you know?"

"I know what you did with the amulet."

"Oh," he looked at her curiously. That wasn't what he'd been expecting.

"Clobberella told me."

"Oh," he coughed, spitting up a wad of blood.

"That's disgusting."

"Yeah, it is. So you're talking to Clobberella now, huh? You two talk about me a lot?"

"Not really," she said, kicking at some loose dirt.

"Did she ever find out it was you that concocted the poison the dark irons used to paralyze her?"

"Nah," she said with a shrug. "I blamed that one on Sam."

"Oh, I see. Very sneaky of you. Very roguish."

"I'm living with her now, did you know that? Helping her clean up her cottage and get organized. She's really nice."

Dough laughed. "Yeah, I'll bet."

"Anyway, I know what you did with the amulet. I think it was very brave and selfless of you. Clobberella didn't want to come here because she thinks you're bad luck."

"I am," he said with a shrug.

"Yeah, I figured. Anyway, you did the right thing, rogue. I never thought you'd actually do anything good, being a rogue and all. Just rape people, murder anyone that got close and basically just ruin lives. But you finally did something good."

"Thanks."

"Clobberella told me that she watched you throw the amulet into the lava pit in Blackrock Mountain a few days ago and destroy it. That must have taken a lot of courage."

"Yes, it did. But I did it for the two of you, Lucite. I made a promise to Clobberella, and I always keep my promises."

She cocked her head at him suspiciously when he said this. It seemed a little...out of character?

"Well, anyway," she said uncomfortably. "You stink. You smell like rotten fish and old cheese, so I'm leaving now. Just wanted to let you know that I'm proud of what you did. Okay?"

"Okay," Dough waved her off weakly.

"And," she said, standing and backing away from him. "Try to take care of yourself, alright?"

"Yep," he replied, falling over on his back as the world spun around him. "I'll do that."

Lucite walked away, disappearing down the main street. He watched her leave, getting smaller and smaller as she vanished over the horizon.

And as he watched her go, Dough reached into his pockets, allowing his fingers to wrap around the many gold pieces.

Then he laughed to himself.

Little Lucite, he thought, shaking his head. So naive...

Of course, Clobberella had been harder to fool. But as they were standing over the fiery pit in Blackrock Mountain a few days ago, Clobberella insisted that he be the one to throw the amulet into the lava pool. She wanted to watch him destroy the Amulet of Control himself. Clob had watched him carefully, but not so carefully that she could see him loosening the tiny screws on the amulet's cheap gold chain.

And when he threw the amulet into the lava pit, Clobberella's eyes followed the arc of the amulet down into the fiery pit below, like pretending to throw a ball for a dog to chase, and the dog chases it even though you're still holding the ball in the palm of your hand.

The gold chain flew into the fiery pit, and Dough quickly shoved the Amulet of Control into his pocket before Clobberella looked back at him.

"There," she said, satisfied. "You made the right choice. It needed to be destroyed. Now we can all move on with our lives."

"And the other thing?" he asked, a grave seriousness to his voice.

Clobberella's eyes narrowed. "I don't get it, rogue. Why do you care so much about what happens to the girl?"

"That's none of your business, Clob. Are you going to live up to your end of the agreement? We had a deal, didn't we? I destroy the amulet, and you -"

"Yes," Clobberella rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll let Lucite live. But only because you honored your part of our agreement."

"Good."

"Damn it. I hate you for this. Oh well, maybe I'll just take my frustrations out on Sam when I pay him a visit."

And with that, Dough had moved on. He sold the amulet to a fence in Stormwind for a good 5000 gold pieces - gold pieces that he'd been squandering on booze and women. But no matter...once he ran out of gold, he would simply break into the fence's house and steal the amulet back, then sell it to some new sucker in another town.

This grift was brilliant. And this time it would work for sure.

-End.