There remained only to rescue Shelyid from his assailant, who was still lying upon the dwarf. Strangely, the soldier had ceased his thrashing.
“Take it easy, kid,” said Greyboar. “I’ll handle this.” The strangler reached down and seized the soldier, preparatory to committing mayhem upon his body.
But he stopped. A look of puzzlement came upon his face. I might mention, by way of an aside, that Greyboar’s frown has to be seen to be believed.
“Hell,” he muttered, “this guy’s dead as a doornail.” He lifted the soldier’s body upright. The man was clearly dead, all could now see it. His head lolled at an impossible angle.
Greyboar peeled Shelyid’s arm from around the soldier’s neck, not, judging from the look of strain on his face, without some effort. He then separated the dwarf from the corpse, and held Shelyid up before him, dangling from the great fist wrapped around the gnome’s skinny wrist. With the fingers of his other hand, Greyboar subjected the dead soldier’s neck to a professional tactile investigation.
“As neat a throttle as I’ve ever seen,” he rumbled. “Look at this, Ignace! It’s a classic choke—windpipe’s like a tapeworm, Adam’s apple’s so much applesauce, neck’s broke in three—no, four!—places—” The strangler looked back and forth between the chokee and the choker, the latter of whom was gasping from exertion, sweat pouring down his face.
“You okay, kid?” he asked Shelyid.
The dwarf gasped, gulped, swallowed, coughed.
“Yes,” he squeaked. “I’m okay. I guess.” Then, after some more gasping and gulping: “Put me down, will you? Please.”
Greyboar set him on the floor. Shelyid tottered about, his face pinched and drawn. The dwarf looked up at the corpse of the soldier, still in Greyboar’s grasp.
His face grew paler still.
“Is. Is. Is he dead?”
“Like a mackerel on ice.” And so saying, Greyboar dropped the corpse on the floor.
Shelyid started to speak, then doubled up and vomited. Greyboar knelt down beside him, wrapping his immense arm around the dwarf’s little shoulders.
“Take it easy, Shelyid,” he said quietly. “Go ahead, puke it all up.” The wizard started to speak, fell silent at Greyboar’s stare. Silence was not natural to the mage. But the strangler’s stare that moment would have silenced a babbling brook.
A minute or so passed. Then Shelyid spoke softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever killed anything before. Well, maybe a few bugs and such. Even then, it’s never on purpose. Never stepped on a bug on purpose. Don’t harm nobody, bugs.” Then he said only, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,” and began to weep like a babe. Greyboar sat on the floor and drew Shelyid onto his lap. The strangler said nothing. His face seemed, if anything, even paler than the dwarf’s. Odd, in such a man.
And there the two of them remained, for several minutes. It was a truly ridiculous scene.
The wizard apparently thought so. At length he cleared his throat, and spoke.
“I must say—perhaps—the urgency of the moment—well! That is to say, haste seems—for even as we emote, time wanes!”
“Shuddup,” growled Ignace. The agent glared at the wizard, hunched his shoulders, glared around the room, crossed his arms, glared at the universe.
“It’s a trade,” he snarled, in his high-pitched voice. “Pay’s good. Work’s steady. What more do you ever get in this world?”
But he went over and tapped the strangler on the shoulder.
“I hate to say it, Greyboar, but the professor’s right. We ought to be moving along.”
Greyboar nodded. “Let’s go, Shelyid,” he said, and rose up. He placed the dwarf on his feet.
“Okay?” he asked. Shelyid nodded. He even managed a feeble smile.
Greyboar looked around the room. Except for the two tables and the chairs around them, the room was bare. There were three doors in the room. The first was the one they had burst through earlier, leading to Inkman’s bedchamber. There was a second door on the opposite wall, normal in its appearance. The last door, on the other hand, was quite extraordinary. Located against a third wall, it was not only constructed of iron rather than wood, but was held shut by no less than four great metal bars.