“Don’t worry about it,” rumbled the strangler, “I’ll make sure the wizard doesn’t lose his precious bag.”
“Oh, thank you!” cried Shelyid. A moment later, he and the snarl disappeared.
“Good luck, Shelyid!” shouted Ignace. Turning back, he said: “Well, let’s hope he makes it. Come on, Greyboar, pick up the sack and let’s get out of here!” The agent grabbed Zulkeh and shoved the still-wheezily-denouncing mage ahead of him into the corridor.
Greyboar bent over, reached down a hand, seized the sack, and flung it over his shoulder.
And collapsed to the floor.
“What’s in this thing,” he complained, “lead bricks?” The strangler rose again and lifted the sack anew, this time firmly braced and using both hands. His knees bent, his great thews rippled with effort. The sack now on his shoulders, he stooped and entered the tunnel, grumbling: “How does that tiny little guy manage to carry this thing, anyway?”
* * *
The events which now followed caused such excitement and consternation among the Alfredae as to completely overshadow the fierce debate which had erupted among us not more than a few minutes earlier. The debate, of course, centered on the proper significance to be given Shelyid’s defiance of his master. Was this, as some argued, the first act of rebellion in his life? Or rather, so countered others, but a continuation of the insolence which had first manifested itself in Shelyid’s behavior at the tavern and been shortly followed by his refusal to heed Zulkeh’s commands to cease and desist his murderous attempts on the person of Ignace?
As the Alfred, it was naturally left to me to decide the issue. At the appropriate time I did so, coming down firmly on the side of those who advanced what came to be known as the Thesis of First Revolt. For ’twas clear, I explained in my authoritative judgement, that Shelyid’s earlier acts of insubordination occurred while the gnome was incapacitated due to strong drink and frenzy. Whereas in this instance, we had to deal with conscious and sober insurrection, committed by the dwarf in full possession of his faculties (such as they were).
All this, however, came later. For no sooner had the debate begun to wax hot, than the events which piled upon us swept all other considerations aside.
In the official annals of the Alfredae, it is known as The Snarlrun, but noble and common louse alike invariably refer to it in the vernacular: “Shelyid’s Wild Ride.”
The madness began at once. For no sooner had Shelyid and snarl entered the main corridor than they ran right into a squad of soldiery—a platoon, I should say. These wights were hastening forward, led by a leftenant with drawn sword, who was even at that moment shouting:
“Faster! You all heard the alarm! Someone’s—”
The leftenant’s speech ended, as invariably happens when a speaker’s head is bitten off by a snarl. A snarl in full fury, as the soon-decorating-the-walls-of-the-corridor entrails of half a platoon attested. The other half retained their innards by utilizing the classic methods of rout and stampede, though ’twas clear from the smell that these innards were no longer continent.
Even then, there is little doubt the snarl would have hunted them down with ease save that Shelyid restrained the great beast, not without difficulty.
“Stop! Stop!” he cried, tugging at the monster’s ears. This availing little, the dwarf leaned over the snarl’s forehead and slapped the horror’s snout.
“Cut it out, dummy!” The snarl stopped in its tracks, whether out of obedience or out of astonishment that a bite-sized idiot would slap a snarl on the snout even while the snarl is rending flesh, it is difficult to say.
Shelyid hopped off the snarl and raced back to the corpse of the leftenant. A moment of groping, and the dwarf was racing back, holding up a large key ring.
“See? See?” demanded the gnome. “I had to get the keys—we’ll need them later!” He leapt back aboard his huge mount. “Okay, let’s go!”
The scenes of carnage which followed appalled even the hardened scribes of the Alfredae. Limbs strewn about like confetti! Torsos severed! Skulls shattered like melons! Blood pouring down corridors like a river! Intestines flowing down staircases like a mudslide! Grue and gore—gore and grue!