Seven

            The last thing any kita expects when it’s the middle of the night and she’s peacefully sleeping is for the bed to start shaking.  Well, it was the last thing Thistlepouch expected, anyhow, especially seeing as how she was asleep and therefore wasn’t expecting much of anything.  But even half asleep she knew that such motion was not normal for a bed with one sleeping occupant.  She groggily half-crawled to a sitting position and blinked herself awake.  A gnome stood next to her bed.

            “Forgive me, Thistlepouch,” said the gnome -- Tusit, she thought she remembered his name was -- as he grabbed her by the shoulders and sat her on the edge of the bed.  “Are you awake?”

            “Yeah!” she replied with fuzzy brightness.  It seemed like the appropriate answer at the time.  .  .

            Tusit explained slowly, as if to a small child or an idiot, “The gods want us to leave.  Everybody has no pulse.”

            Thistlepouch took a moment to consider.  It didn’t make much sense.  Even for Tusit.  “Are you sure I’m awake?”

            “I’m positive.  Get your stuff together.  We’re leaving.”

            This, at least, she could understand.  Thistlepouch quick strapped on her pouches, grabbed her staff, and followed her friend to Orlog’s room.  Well, to the outside, anyhow.  Mica peeked cautiously in.

            “What do you think he did.  .  .  .  ?” she asked, hushed.

            Thistlepouch, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, peeked too.  It looked like.  .  .  . Orlog.

            Tusit peered hesitantly around the door.  “I don’t know.  Um.  .  .  Orlog?  I.  .  .  don’t suppose you happen to know Hades.  .  .  ?”

            “Cerebus?”  It was hard to tell if his idiocy was sleep-induced or natural.

            “Well, yes, Cerebus’s master.  .  .  .  ” Tusit explained.

            “Cerebus master?”

            “Yes.  .  .  Hades mentioned you prominently in a communiqué.”

            Thistlepouch was about to ask what that was, but Mica cut in -- probably tired of the gnome’s song-and-dance routine.

            “Get your stuff; we’re leaving.”

            Thistlepouch looked around down the hallway to make sure no one took especial notice.  All the guards were slumped over and didn’t appear interested.  “Isn’t it bad to fall asleep on the job?”

            Tusit waffled, “I don’t think they’re sleeping, dear.”

            “Oh.”  She backed up a couple steps into Tusit.

            “Yeah.”  He turned hopefully to Mica.  “I don’t suppose Athena has anything to say about this?”

            Mica shrugged.  “Um.  .  .  haven’t heard anything.”

            “Kay.  Got any talking books?”

            Mica shook her head.  “No, mostly the books are addressed to you, but she hasn’t said we shouldn’t go to the temple, so I guess it’s all right.  .  .  .  as far as I know she’s okay with Hades.”  Mica explained as they made a beeline for the gates.  They passed a couple slumped guards on their way through the raised portcullis and open gates.  Mica turned to Orlog.

            “You sure you don’t know Hades?  You haven’t done anything to him?”

            Hades?  Thistlepouch did a quick scan of her memory banks.  Wasn’t he the god of the underworld?  Well, that would certainly explain the guards.  Sort of.  None of this made sense.  Thistlepouch suspected that this really was a dream despite what Tusit said.

            She was relieved to see some motion out in the streets -- it must have been a localized death.

            After a bit of wandering -- she supposed the others knew where they were going, and anyway she’d really rather not hang around anywhere there was a localized death -- they came to Hades’ temple.  Thistlepouch was underimpressed.  Oh, sure, it had the dark, menacing thing down pat: it was a massive, monolithic, forboding thing of black marble with big flames all over the place -- pretty much what one would expect of the temple of the God of the Underworld.  The kita couldn’t help but think, though, that a little more color might not be amiss.  Evidently Orlog did not share her opinion; he was busy groveling to a ferocious-looking statue of a three-headed dog at the gate.  “Cerebus.  .  .  .  must pet Cerebus.  .  .  .  .  ”

            Thistlepouch’s respect for him lowered another notch.  She leaned on her staff and half-drowsed.  It was one thing to be awakened in the middle of the night for an adventure.  .  .  .  and quite another to have your bed start shaking and then have someone drag you from your nice warm covers and haul you to a big, boring temple to watch a half-orc drool at a statue.  And she still wasn’t sure she wasn’t dreaming.

            A deep voice roused her from half-sonambulance.  Once her eyes decided to find out what the voice looked like, she discovered that it looked like a tall priest cowled in black.

            “You said that Hades sent you?”

            “He’s your god, not mine,” Tusit said, opening a note, “but when you get an invitation like this.  .  .  well.  .  .  .  ”

            The priest finished reading the note and passed clean out, making an ungraceful faceplant.  Tusit pulled back the cowl and fanned the back of the head priest’s neck.

            This was far too much for the kita’s curiosity -- now that it had woken up.  “Can I read it?” she requested.

            “Um.  .  .  .  sure,” the gnome replied a bit hesitantly, handing over the note.

         you must allow Orlog to enter in.  he and I have business.

            The kita read over the note a couple times, haltingly, then turned to her friend.  “Tusit, do your books usually talk to you?”

            “Um.  .  .  no.”  He took it back.

            The nap hadn’t helped -- things still didn’t make sense.  She leaned up against a wall and tried again.  She hadn’t even gotten a good two winks in when somebody tugged on her sleeve -- they were all going inside now.  She wished people would just stay put.

            The priest led them into a large open room that looked like rough-hewn stone but was actually an artistic facsimile.  He continued through a main gallery with alcoves off to the side and torches burning on pillars, then ascended set of steps with a billowy curtain at the top.  He took hold of one part of the curtain, lifted it, and ushered the others inside.

            “Cerebus in there?”

            “I don't know, ask the nice man,” Tusit responded, a touch irritably.

            “Just pass through,” directed the priest.  “There's more there than you wish to know.”

            Finally!  Something interesting!  Thistlepouch dashed inside ahead of the half orc, who promptly let out a horrified scream.

            “What in the name of the gods am I?!?!” cried the half-orc.

            Thistlepouch thought it was an odd question, but decided to answer it anyhow.  “Well, you keep calling yourself Orlog, and you worship Cerebus.  .  .  .”

            The boar fainted.

            “Orlog?”  Thistlepouch tried tentatively, patting the most accessible portion of him -- luckily, his leg.  “Are you okay?”

            Mica’s voice called from the other side of the curtain, “Thistlepouch?  Helloooo?”

            “Yeah?” she called back.

            Mica poked her head in.

            “What do I look like?!” demanded the half-orc.

            “Well, you're big and you're wearing a loincloth.  .  .  ” the kita offered helpfully.

            Mica’s eyes rounded with wonder.  “He's speaking!  Tusit, you've got to get in here.  .  .  .  .”

            Tusit somewhat reluctantly did so, reached into his pouch, grabbed a mirror shard, handed it gingerly over.  “Um.  .  .  here?”

            “No no no, tell me what I look like.”

            Thistlepouch frowned.  “Well, you look like you've always looked.  You look like Orlog.”

            “Who’s Orlog?!”

            The kita sighed.  Really, this was so silly.  .  .  .  “Well, Orlog is a big, kinda smelly half-orc who wears a loincloth.  Well, most of the time,” she amended.

            “I'm a half-orc?  What’s that?”  He pointed to the unconscious pig.

            “That's your boar,” Thistlepouch explained.

            “Um, how is he speaking?” Tusit asked no one in particular.

            Thistlepouch let out an aggrieved sigh.  “Well, through his mouth, obviously.  .  .  .  ”

            “I'm not a half-orc,” stated the half-orc.  “You must be mistaken.”

            Mica spoke slowly.  “Well, since we've known you you've been a half-orc.  .  .  ”

            Tusit handed him the mirror again; he took it.  The half-orc sat suddenly; the kita scrambled to get out of the way before she got squashed.  The half-orc hit himself with his club.  Thistlepouch winced.  That had to hurt.

            “Where are we?” asked the half-orc.

            “A temple of Hades, because -”

            He cut Mica off.  “Wait wait wait, temple of Hades? How did I get here?”

            “Well, you walked.”  Thistlepouch decided she was the only one capable of reaching these conclusions, simple as they were.

            “Who are you?”

            The kita was pretty sure they’d already been introduced, but she figured it polite to respond.  “My name’s Thistlepouch Doorringer, what's yours?”

            “I'm not sure.  It's nice to meet you.”

            The kita considered.  “Well, Imnotsure is kind of an odd name, but I suppose it might be regional.  .  .  .”

            “Just for the heck of it, what is the last thing you do remember?” Tusit asked.

            The half-orc considered.  “Um.  .  .  standing in front of the gates to hades.  .  .  ”

            Thistlepouch piped up.  “What did they look like?”

            “Who are all of you?”

            “Well, since this is incredibly odd.  .  .  good day, they call me Tusit.  Short for 'Tusitin-sahlumcylunz ', short for something I won't go into now.”

            “Thank you,” the half-orc said.

            Tusit continued, “This is Mica, Thistlepouch, Bob, and this.  .  .  er.  .  .  was your pig.”

            The half-orc turned to the statue.  “What in tartarus have you done to me?”

            extracted revenge for your hubris.

            Thistlepouch felt a sharp tug on her braid and backed up, not paying attention to who had a hold of her.  A talking statue of Hades, she decided, was definately worth being dragged out of bed for.  “Your gods talk to you too?!” she exclaimed.

            The half-orc turned to Bob, who was busy trying to look invisible, and held out his club.  “Take this.”

            Bob took it gingerly.

            The half-orc turned back to the statue.  “Where is my cousin?”

            he too needed punishment.  this seemed more fitting.

            “You turned him into a pig!!!”  He glared.  “Why did you bring this back to my memory?”

            there are those flaunting my power more than you did.  I need you to help with this.  if you wish.  you owe a forfeit unto me.

            “What is this forfeit?”

            this is for you to decide.  a god cannot decide for a mortal -- this must be a choice made of free will.  you must offer.  what will you trade for your life and your cousin's?

            “How long to I have to decide?”

            as long as you are within the confines of my alcove.

            “What will you give?”

            your form back, as well as your cousin's.

            The half-orc looked down contemplatively and made a startling discovery.  “Why am I in my underwear?!”

            “Well, it's more than you usually wear, actually.  .  .  .  ” Mica said.

            that is a decision you made while you were otherwise.  .  .  occupied.

            The half-orc turned to the group.  “You seem to know me.”

            “We thought we did,” Tusit half-agreed from behind her.  So he was the one who’d grabbed her braid!  Somehow, she wasn’t entirely surprised.

            “Can you give me the short version of how long you've known me and everything we've done?”

            “Um.  .  .  ” Tusit considered, decided to pass it off.  “Kita, you tell him.”

            “Oh no,” Bob groaned.

            Thistlepouch beamed, ignoring Bob, delighted to be called upon to use her bardic skills.  “Well, we came into port about two days ago, I think , and then you said we should worship Cerebus and we didn't want to so you grabbed me up by my braid and -”

            “I worship Cerebus?”  To the statue, “You made me worship your dog?!”

            “Hey! I'm trying to tell my story here!” Thistlepouch cried out, indignant.  Whatever he thought he was, his manners were certainly half-orcish.

            “We found you roughly trying to convert people on the docks,” Tusit explained.  “We've been doing our best to.  .  .  well.  .  .  help you along.  .  .  ”

            minor things may be changed.  .  .  .  when you entered my realm, you entered my power.

            “Give me my memories back.”

            very well

            The pig let forth a low, pitiful cry.  The half-orc looked at him with pity.  “Ooohhh.  .  .  sorry.  .  .  .”

            it only seemed fair.  .  .  I returned yours.  .  .  .

            “The boar was my cousin,” the half-orc said, by way of explanation.

            “Really?” Thistlepouch puzzled, frowning.  “You don’t look much alike.”  She changed her mind.  This was too weird.  It had to be a dream.

            The half-orc resumed conversation with the statue.  “If I do something to help you, you must give me my form back, first.”

            yes, I shall give you your form back while you aid me.

            “And after?”

            that depends upon the service.  do you offer me whatever service I need?

            “As long as it does not involve injuring more dwarfs or joining the likes of orcs.”

            granted.

            The statue reached down to the half-orc; Thistlepouch yelped in pain as she felt a yank on her braid and tumbled back through the curtains after Tusit.  As soon as kitaly possible she managed to extract herself and wriggle around to get a better view.  A dwarf stood where the half-orc had been. He had a mop of redish brown hair extending to the middle of his back; his beard of equal color fell in a braid to his belt and was neatly tucked in.  Nondescript clothing in different shades of brown covered his four-foot stature.  He a husky look, due to long hours spent in the halls of a blacksmith if the stories she’d heard as a child were correct.  His dark brown eyes glimmered with suppressed wrath.  Another dwarf lay on the ground where the boar had been, dressed similar but a little shorter, and with matted and dirty red hair and beard.

            Thistlepouch had the sneaking suspicion she’d missed something big.  Again.

            “What about my son?” asked the half-orc-turned-dwarf.

            I am sorry, but no one who has been within my realm may return.  I cannot surrender him.

            “Give me the power to slay those who slayed my son.”

            for how long do you wish the power?

            “Until the leader of the raiders is dead.”

            granted, with a price, which shall be extracted upon the death.

            The dwarf’s forehead began to glow, then faded.

            Tusit, now free of the curtain, sidled up to him and asked in a hushed voice, “Um, not to be nosy, but what did you do to piss him off?”

            “Will that be all?” the first dwarf asked of Hades.

            believe me, you have promised enough.  your task is simple.  you shall find those who are detaining those who would be going to my realm and kill them, also releasing those who should rightfully be mine.

            “So who are these people?”

            foolish people.  studiers of dark magicks.

            “Necromancers!” cried the kita gleefully.  She’d never met one of those before....

            The dwarf who was laying where the pig had been moaned as he sat up.  “Oh, I just had the worst flaming.  .  .  .  son of a bacchae!!!”

            “That’s not quite right,” Thistlepouch mused aloud.  “I think it was more of a son of a pig -”

            The second dwarf winced. “Sow, really.”

            The kita’s eyes went wide with sudden comprehension.  “Oh.  Um.  Eew.”

            Tusit went over to offer some pain-numbing herbs.

            “Ale,” the dwarf said shortly.

            “Hold on a sec!” Thistlepouch called, riffling through her pouches, and found a little jar of something and handed it to the dwarf, who chugged it in one gulp and began to splutter.  It was only then that she remembered where she’d last seen it.  .  .  at the dressmaker’s store.  It had probably been dye.  “Oops.”

            “Last question,” the first dwarf said to the statue.  “Where's the first one?”

            barnicus.

            “Figures,” Thistlepouch said with an ironic half-grin.

            “I want my symbol back.  I have yours on my forehead -- I want mine on my chest.”

            oh, he will answer your prayers, but for things that follow my command, you would better off asking for my aid.  if you wish a symbol of his, I would advise you to find one.  I have no power to change things to his form.

            The dwarf turned and walked away without another word, his cousin stumbling after, shaking his head in shock.  The others followed close behind.

            “So, what do we call you now?” asked Mica.

            “Oh, I'm Forge,” said the first dwarf.  “This is Darwin.”

            “Hi,” Darwin said.  “Need ale.  Lots.  .  .  and lots.  .  .  of ale.”

            Soon they reached an inn near the docks: The Buxom Wench.  Thistlepouch decided that what the name lacked in creativity it made up in accuracy.  A large number of buxom wenches either served ale or sat on laps.  .  .  sometimes both.

            Mica averted her eyes.  “This is  embarrassing, you know?”

            “Well, would you rather be a bit embarrassed or found by the guardsmen?” asked Tusit.

            “Gee, how many other taverns are in this town?” Mica shot back sarcastically.

            “None that give us a closer means of escape to our boat,” the gnome pointed out.

            Mica gave up.  “I'm gonna go check on the boat.  Bye, guys.”

            Tusit meanwhile escorted Forge and Darwin to the bar and slapped down two guilders, requesting of the barkeep, “Would you get these two gentlemen drunk -”

            “Very drunk,” Darwin added.

            “Let's talk while I drink,” Forge offered.

            Thistlepouch sighed.  This looked like it could get boring real fast.  She went off to sample the barkeep’s wares.  Ale, ale, typical.  Another mug looked a little too full and she thought she ought to take a sip before the owner spilled it on himself -- hey, that one was pretty good!  It surprised her that someone hadn’t downed it yet, but there was no accounting.  .  .  .  she decided she’d better finish it before a fly dropped in it or something; it would be a shame to spoil that lovely.  .  .  .  woah.  The room spun a little.  She meandered back to her friends at the bar.  She heard Tusit speaking to the barkeep:

            “What I offered you.  .  .  would that be enough to cover a room or two?”

            “How long?” asked a rough voice.

            “A night.”  Tusit again.

            “Well.  .  .  very well.  One room.”

            Thistlepouch arrived just as Tusit took off to the stairs, a large key under one arm and Forge hanging on the other.  She looked to see where he was going and the room caught up to her.  She sat down abruptly.

            Bob leaned over and extended a hand.  “Come on, let's go to bed.”

            She peered up at him fuzzily.  “You're not really my type,” she said in all earnestness.

            Bob let out an aggrieved sigh.  “Let me help you.  You’re drunk.”

            Thistlepouch wasn’t sure she trusted that line either.  “I’m quite comfortable on the floor, thanks.”  She watched as Bob shrugged and headed upstairs, passing Tusit coming down.  The gnome made some sort of arrangements with the barkeep; she didn’t pay attention to what exactly.  She was too busy entertaining herself by shaking her head and watching all the people spin ‘round.

            “What have you been doing while I’ve been gone?” Mica accused.

            Thistlepouch looked up guiltily, three excuses on the tip of her tongue.  She was quite thankful to see that Mica’s attention was on the gnome.

            Tusit gave Mica a mischievous smile.  “Matchmaking.”

            Mica dropped her head into her hands.  “You're really disgusting.”

            A buxom wench next to Darwin grinned seductively.  “I've always liked them short.  Come along, little friend.”  Darwin turned, reached to the one on the left, to the right, found the one in the middle and got a hold.  The harlot led him off.

            Tusit tried to lift Thistlepouch and made a face like he’d just about ruptured something.

            The kita looked at him in fuzzy bemusement.  “What are you doing?”

            Mica bit back a grin.  “He's trying to sweep you off your feet.”

            Thistlepouch cocked her head to one side.  “That's awfully sweet, but I think I can make it up the stairs on my own.”  Which she did manage, though leaning heavily on her staff.  Once upstairs, she found the nearest available spot on what passed for a bed and hoisted herself up onto it.

            She didn’t remember much after that.

*                      *                      *

            Morning -- and an enthusiastic pounding on the door -- came far too early.

            Thistlepouch kept her eyes firmly closed and refused to acknowledge reality.

            The pounding continued.

            “Thank you!” Mica called blearily, just to make it stop.  Thistlepouch heard her roll over.  Then, fuzzy-sounding, “Oh, gods, there's a dwarf in my face.”

            Forge belched.

            Thistlepouch wrinkled her nose.  With how much he’d drunk last night, the kita was glad there weren’t any lit candles nearby.  She heard Tusit stagger up and half-tumble down the steps.  She was glad someone else was motivated this morning because she didn’t feel like being it.  They all had begun to stir, however, by the time Tusit came back with some meat and bread.

            “We might as well start the trip right,” he said to his bleary companions.

            “Could we stop and get some weapons?  And clothes?” requested Forge.

            Tusit handed over two florins.  “I hope this covers it; it's about all we can spare right now.  I’m off to the boier/fletcher's.”

            “May I accompany you?” the dwarf requested.

            “Wanna go shopping?” Mica invited, turning to the kita.

            “Sure!” Thistlepouch grinned.  She felt much perkier after the food, and being able to run a brush through her hair didn’t hurt, either.

            “Can I borrow that?” asked Mica.

            “Sure!”

            “Thanks.”  It was silver -- probably from the duke’s.  “Nice brush.”

            “Yeah, I couldn't believe the duke didn’t mark it!  He must not have liked it very much.”

            “That's right!” Mica agreed solemnly.  “It's a good thing that it's in good hands.”

            “Yup.  I’m taking care of it.  I’ll give it back to him as soon as I see him.”  She hopped out of her seat.  “Wanna go?”

            Mica and Thistlepouch found the nearest functional clothing establishment, which turned out to be at the docks.  Not surprisingly, the outfits were designed with the sailor in mind -- lots of canvas.

            “See if you can find anything you wanna buy, okay?” Mica suggested to her smaller friend, infering from Thistlepouch’s posession of the brush that there was no one to help accessorize quite like a kita.

            “Okay!” she agreed brightly, and while Mica haggled with the tailor Thistlepouch went off to explore.

            She soon found that a tailor’s shop on the docks wasn’t an interesting place after all.  Everything looked the same and was made out of the same stuff.  Canvas, canvas, canvas.  Not even any interesting colors.  She was dangerously near the brink of boredom when she heard Mica call, “Thistlepouch, you ready?”

            The kita turned, quite relieved, from her explorations.  “Yup!” she replied sunnily and trotted outside after the human.  Thistlepouch noticed she had a couple large canvas bundles under her arm -- clothes for the dwarves.

            “You find anything?” Mica asked.

            Tusit looked through her pouches and found -- to her great surprise -- thimbles, a couple wrap scarves, and a couple pairs of mittens besides the treasures she’d noticed earlier.  “Must’ve fallen into my pouches -- I’ll give them back next time we’re there.”

            By that time they were near enough the boat that Forge caught sight of them, hailed Mica.  She turned to the dwarf; Thistlepouch went off to make the boat ready to sail.  After a bit, the kita saw Mica hand over the cloth bundles; Forge trundled off to the far side of the boat to change.  Thistlepouch chuckled at the look on the girl’s face -- major denial.  She’d lost the half-orc, which was good, but she’d gained a drunken dwarf and another one who was changing in front of her.  Thistlepouch shook her head and started looping some rope.

            “Gods-tainted cursed flaming orcs and their vile ways!!!!!  Burn you, Hades!!!!”

            That sounded interesting.  Thistlepouch looked up to see Forge howling to the skies.

            Tusit went to his side, put a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “Calm yourself, have some dwarf spirits.  .  .  come along.  .  .  ”

            Forge, apparently, did not want to be calm.  “Damnation!!!”

            “Are you all right?” asked Tusit, deciding maybe this was important.  “Are you missing anything?”

            Forge regained himself.  With effort.  “Remember those scrolls I was asking you about?  I found them.”

            Tusit winced.  “Ooh. I’m afraid to ask where.  .  .  .  ”

            “I was using them.  .  .  as my loincloth.  .  .  .  those were my spells!!”

            “Eeewww!  Time to get some new spells,” Tusit declared.

            Thistlepouch collapsed in a fit of helpless giggles which she tried desparately to muffle.

            “Do they still work?” asked Mica helpfully.

            “Can you read them?  I can’t comprehend them the way they are, and I used the last one I had memorized on that stupid chase through the gods-be-farted warehouse breaking down doors and hurting my shoulder!  Damnation!  Loincloth!  Shag!”

            “You made your club glow?” Thistlepouch asked, amazed and disappointed.  “And I missed it?”  It figured.  Whenever anything interesting glowed or blew up, she would have to be somewhere else.  And she was still sore about missing the lightning bolt that splattered Keystake.

            And so they rowed out of the harbor to the accompaniment of Forge’s dwarven cursing and Darwin all the while moaning, “I can’t believe I shagged a pig.  .  .  .”

Disclaimer: Darwin's libido was harmed

during the creation of this chapter.