Twenty-One

               Thistlepouch jarred from her thoughts by the sound of splashing.  Mica drew her sword as Forge strung his bow, and both headed toward the noise.  Thistlepouch stood in stunned disbelief beside Tusit.

               “Mica!” a voice very like Katrina’s called.

               Thistlepouch scurried towards the back of the boat with a length of rope.

               Mica relieved the kita of the rope, tossed one end over the side with a shout of “Katrina!” and braced herself. Thistlepouch wrapped her small arms around Mica's waist and added what ballast she could.

               Forge nocked an arrow and took aim for where she would come over.

               Katrina grabbed the end of the rope and began climbing as Mica and Thistlepouch did their best to haul the rope upwards.  Working together, the three of them managed to get Katrina on deck.  The swordswoman was a lot heavier than she looked.  Or maybe it was just all the water.

               Forge did not lower his bow.  “Disarm yourself,” he commanded.

               Katrina did so.

               “Why are you swimming after the boat?” Forge asked levelly.

               “Gee, I don’t know,” the guard said.  She sounded exasperated.  Thistlepouch supposed she would be, too, in Katrina's boots.  Especially since her boots were probably wet.  “I got separated from the rest of the army who were getting themselves slaughtered, I saw Mica, I had nowhere else to go, and I figured maybe you could use some more people.”

               “Aw, Forge, let her stay,” Thistlepouch voted.

               “I’m just curious why she abandoned Bassano,” Forge explained in tones lighter than the meaning.

               “I don’t know where he went!” Katrina protested.

               Thistlepouch sighed. “Oh, this is going to be a fun trip,” she muttered. Already her teammates were bickering. What was it with these races, anyhow?

               All of a sudden, everything dimmed. Relief at escaping the town, fear over the elves’ attack, anger at teammates lessened -- even the cries of battle seemed quieter, and far away.

               Thistlepouch, immediately suspicious, turned to Tusit.

               The gnome began to fade.

               Thistlepouch ran over to Tusit, screaming his name.

               Distantly she heard Mica exclaim, “Aw, piss.”

               An arrow sailed past Thistlepouch and lodged where Tusit's hand should have been. Thistlepouch grabbed at the gnome’s insubstantial clothing.

               A quiet thump announced Mica dropping to her knees at Tusit's side.  She began praying to Athena for strength and power and the wisdom to keep Tusit with them. “Dammit,” she cursed under her breath, “how can I stick a fish in his underwear if he’s not here?!”

               Forge cursed, profusely and creatively.

               “Is this how gnomes die?” Mica wondered aloud.  “Did he -- he fizzled out!”

               Die? Fizzle out? Thistlepouch wanted to become hysterical. She knew she should be.  But she felt artificially calm, drugged, almost. It would’ve scared the hades out of her if it had been possible.

               Mica prayed harder.

               Tusit completely disappeared.

               Thistlepouch's emotions returned.

               Mica began swearing.  “Life-sucking little gnome bastard! If I ever find that red-headed bubblenosed little twit, I’m gonna -”

               Thistlepouch did not panic.  She stared blankly at where her friend had been.  She heard Forge uncork some ale and call over to Grog, “Hey, Grog, I’d offer you some, but you’re rowing.”

               Mica sprang to her feet and began ransacking their bags of things.  Thistlepouch distantly wondered what she was about, but couldn’t really bring herself to care.  Her family gone, Pickles gone, Tusit gone, that nice guard that had liked Mica gone, Bob gone -- though she couldn’t bring herself to feel much remorse over that last.

               “Thistle!” Mica cried, panicked.

               The kita looked up and blinked.

               “You still have the tingly stick, right?”

               Thistlepouch nodded.

               Mica calmed herself. “Okay. Things are better.”

               “Um, out of curiosity,” Katrina voiced, “where is this boat going?”

               Thistlepouch pointed.  “That way.”  Though it didn’t matter, really, to her.

               “Lowport,” Forge said with a belch, and went back to drinking.

               “Oh. Kee,” Grog said, and changed course.

                “Grog, where were you taking us?” Mica asked, probably noticing the change in direction.

               “Away.”

               “Where is Lowport,” Mica asked, “and why are we going there?”

               Forge groaned.  “You’re gonna make me think.” Thistlepouch could almost hear him force his brain into some form of slight coherency.  “My demonic asshole said to go kill the people who bring back the dead.”

               “Yeah? But you can go to Lowport,” Mica pointed out.  “Fine. We’re dropping off the dwarf.”

               Katrina slid down next to Forge.  “C’I have some?”

               Without a word, the dwarf handed her some of the strong dwarven stuff.

               Mica eventually went to join them as well.  Forge found some of the weaker stuff (he’d forgotten he had it) and offered it up.  The three of them got themselves well and thoroughly drunk.

               Molly found an unused space of deck to use for a bed.

               Thistlepouch sat, hugging her knees, against the mast where she had last seen Tusit, and stared out into the star-filled night, remembering.

*                            *                            *

               “Get up.  Thistle, get up, there’s a boat.”

               “M’up, m’up,” Thistlepouch muttered, and heard footsteps thump hollowly away.

               The kita blinked muzzily.  The first thing she noticed was a warmth curled up around her.  She smiled.  Thistlepouch cautiously peeked over to the warmth, and got a close-up view of her dragon.

               Murfle!

               He licked her face, then somersaulted backwards and disappeared over the side of the boat.

               The little bard dashed to the side of the boat and looked over to see her friend swimming effortlessly a foot or two below the sea’s surface.  A couple bubbles floated to the surface, and she heard them release a distinct Murfle! as they burst.  He dropped further into the sea.

               Though still upset over her gnome-friend’s disappearance, the reunion with her dragon cheered the kita considerably.  She looked over to where Mica was poking Forge with the toe of her foot.  Thistlepouch couldn’t blame her. From her experience, dwarves didn’t wake up good.

                Forge's eyes peeled apart like Velcro.  Katrina had one arm draped over him and was snoring gently.

               “There’s a boat on the horizon,” Mica told him.

               “Uh,” he grunted.  “Burn it.”

               “We can’t reach it yet! Wake up! There might be fighting,” Mica enthused.

               Forge groaned and went back to using Darwin for a pillow.

               Mica pried the empty bottle out of his hand, filled it with water, and returned it.  “Here you go.”

               “No more,” Forge moaned.

               “Hair of the dog, man,” Mica encouraged.  “It works.”  She strategically moved to the other side of the boat. Thistlepouch didn’t blame her for that, either.  Forge wouldn’t be happy drinking water.

               Forge sipped it. And started to cry.  “Water.  Stupid hooter bitch.”  He crawled out from under Katrina's arm and across the deck.

               Darwin cocked an eye open.  “Um, no.”  He closed it again. “Forge, what in Neptune’s ‘nads did you give me last night?  And can I have more?”

               “We’re out,” Forge informed him mournfully.

               “Piss.”

               “If you really want some.” He tossed over a bottle of elf piss.

               It landed in Darwin's lap.

               Katrina almost cracked her eyes open. She croaked for water.

               Mica brought some over.  “There’s a boat on the horizon and there might be fighting. You need to get up.”

               “Crackers?” Katrina croaked hopefully.

               “Crackers?” Mica repeated in disbelief.  “Are you pregnant?”  But she went to paw through their supplies in search of something gnaw-able.

               Once everyone was coherent enough to take an intelligent look at the boat, they did so.  It looked like a standard merchant’s ship.  .  .  except there was no activity on the deck, and the sail blew limply in the wind.  Either it had been cut loose or it hadn’t been set up right, but there were no signs of attack. The longboats were all attached, still, too.

               “Let’s row around the boat and see if there are any marks or anything,” Mica advised.

               “Kee.” Grog put himself to the task of masterfully sailing around the strange ship, though the reconnaissance didn’t provide any answers.  There weren’t even any symbols... though the absence of the sigal of flames surrounding both the broken sword and the crown above it was a relief. So was the absence of the sigal of a cracked egg resting in a crown, all surrounded by flames, like they’d seen on the breastplate of unholy Knight’s breastplate. The boat’s only marking was its name: The Kit’s Claw. 

               “Who goes there?” Forge bellowed.  .  . and held his head, probably regretting his volume.

               No one answered.

               Forge tied a rope to an arrow and fired it at the boat, keeping hold of the end until Grog had rowed them close enough for boarding.  Thistlepouch scrambled three-quarters of the way across, Forge behind her, before she smelled the stench of rotting.  She made her distaste known to her party, tried not to breathe (or retch) and peeked over the side of the boat.  Many dead bodies littered the deck, all in pretty much the same state of decay.  Although she’d recently gained quite a bit of experience in dead bodies, she hadn’t gained much in dead bodies behaving the way dead bodies should, so she couldn’t tell how long they’d been in their current state of lifelessness.  All she could tell was that they were dressed in sailors’ clothes, caught in mid-motion of typical boat tasks, had no visible wounds, and stank.

               “Ew-yuck! There’s a bunch of dead people on this boat!” Thistlepouch complained.

               “All dead?” Mica inquired from their boat.

               “I don’t know too many live people that smell this bad,” she returned.

               “But we’re supposed to seek out the undead,” Mica pointed out.

               “They don’t look like they’re about to get up and start moving,” the kita returned.

               “Will you get up there?” demanded Forge crossly.

               “No! It smells icky!”

               “Then move out of my way so I can get up there!”

               With an aggrieved sigh she immediately regretted, Thistlepouch climbed the rest of the way up.  Forge followed, and the kita immediately shimmied back to her own boat to ask Pickles’ opinion.  Once she was on board of A Big One, Mica, then Katrina, then Molly climbed up to Kit’s Claw.

               Thistlepouch sighed.  Well, if all those sailors had died of plague, her friends would be bringing it back with them.  She might as well get some exploring out of the deal.  Thus decided, she climbed up and followed Molly into the hold.  A calico cat twined affectionately around the kita’s legs; Thistlepouch picked it up. A cursory survey of the hold’s contents revealed barrels of water and foodstuffs which were open or burst.  One dead body, unchewed, lay sprawled on the floor.  Rats skittered in the darkness.  Further back were teas and badly spoiled fruits.  Thistlepouch went topside. At least there was fresh air up there.  She found Forge just putting away some papers he’d been reading.

               “Forge, why is everybody dead?”

               “I’m trying to find that out,” he told her.

               “What did the papers say?”

               “I’ll tell you in a bit; let’s try and get everyone around, okay?”

               The ringing impact of metal on metal rang from below decks.

               “Hope they’re not breaking any kegs,” Darwin grumped clearly from their smaller boat.

               Thistlepouch skittered towards the hold, Forge ambling more slowly behind.

               “I’m looking for a key,” Mica informed them on her way out of the hold.

               “Ah,” said Forge. “Have fun.”

               Mica got a weird look on her face. “There’s dead rats floating in the beer,” she informed him.

               Forge shrugged it off.  “Okay.  Adds flavor.”

               Thistlepouch decided she would never, never understand dwarves. And that maybe she didn’t want to.

               Mica gave him a Look and continued above-decks, muttering.

               The kita went over to the still-locked trunk.  She picked up a metal bar lying discarded nearby.

               Forge held out the keys.

               Thistlepouch gave him puppy-dog eyes.  “Please? Just one try?”

               “Sure.”  Forge stood back, probably figuring after once or twice she’d get tired and he’d get to use the keys.

               She’d show him.

               Thistlepouch took aim, bit her lip in concentration, and swung.

               The bar hit the lock with a clang! that sent painful vibrations all up her arms.

               The lock, seeing the error in its logic, dropped to the floor.

               Thistlepouch grinned, triumphantly but with a little modesty thrown in.  She didn’t want her friends to feel bad for not having been able to open it.

               Forge put the keys away with a look of respect on his face.

               Both boxes, now that she had time to look at them, were full of various bric-a-brac. There were carved and painted boxes, stones with no apparent purpose, tiny bells, scarves, and some little paper-wrapped tubes that Katrina picked out right away. She handed one to Thistlepouch.  “Here, you’d like these.”  The swordswoman took one for herself and pulled on the trigger. With a loud pop! it exploded in a cloud of blue sparkles and little paper ribbons.

               Thistlepouch lit with wonder.  “Neat!”  With studied concentration, the kita held hers the way Katrina had and triggered it.  This time the sparkles were orange.  “I think we should keep these.”

               “Told you you’d like them,” Katrina said with a grin.

               Thistlepouch wished Mica had been there to see it.  “Maybe we should take this stuff back to our boat and get going?”

               A general round of consensus.  Thistlepouch started shoving random stuff in her pockets.

               Katrina looked at her oddly and picked up the first chest.

               The kita helped lighten the load of the second chest and went up to find Mica, who was actually heading towards the party as the party was heading out of the hold.  They amassed their stuff near the rope and began the tedious process of getting it onto their boat.

               “Did you find any ale?” Darwin called.

               “It’s bad,” Forge answered.

               “But you found some,” Darwin prodded.

               “Yes, I found some. It’s worse than elf piss. You don’t want it. It’s weaker than elf piss, and dead rats are swimming in it.”

               “So?”

               “It tastes like water!”

               “Oh.  Piss.”

               Forge looked to the holy warrior.  “Hey, Mica, by the way -- don’t piss off the kita. She broke open the second chest.”

               Mica grinned.  “Neat.”

               Thistlepouch grinned back.

               After lowering their stuff down, they had to lower themselves down, and then it was time to set rowing (Grog was the only one who knew how to set sail, and he was asleep) on the three-day journey to Lowport.

               Thistlepouch went to the nearest chest, opened it, and pulled out her tingly stick.

               She was delighted to find that most of it tingled.

               This was going to be one fun trip indeed.

               If only Tusit was here.  .  .

            Oh, well. She’d have lots to tell him when he showed up again. After all, he always came back. Eventually.

Disclaimer: Several thousand air fresheners

were needed after the creation of this chapter.