Cassius Lange
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Midnight Bounties 4 - Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2025-05-01 11:00:10 +0000 UTC“The song of the Ashpit,” I mumbled, lying in bed with my eyes open and staring at the ceiling.
“Go fuck yourself, you black-helmed piece of troll dung—ouch!” a voice from the square below the window cried.
Though I was used to the rumbling cacophony of the square, that morning seemed to be a bit too much even for the spectacularly low standards of courtesy. The shouting voices aside, it’s when I heard the clank of steel that I realized something was different. Despite this, I still tried to recapture sleep, but after some tossing and turning I finally gave up and headed over to the window to see what was going on.
I cursed under my breath.
“So much about keeping your end of the deal, Lord Watcher,” I muttered, seeing what was going on in the square.
A company of blackhelms was rampaging through the newly established market. Overturning carts, tearing down tents and stands and dragging away every man, woman, or tall child they could catch. Several large horse carriages stood off to the side, already half-filled with civilians. Their belongings, together with what little inventory there was, ended up in big burlap sacks that the blackhelms piled onto tired donkeys. Orclings ran about, stealing what ended up on the ground, while vultures swooped down to pick what the little orcs missed. It was chaos beyond even what the Ashpit usually offered.
People ran over each other in order to escape the City Watch, but the blackhelms came prepared. They had guards blocking every single street leading into the Ashpit. I did a quick guesstimate headcount and the ballpark figure of blackhelms was about five or six hundred. Which meant that the Lord Watcher had brought about the full force of the garrison down on our home.
“Motherf—” I hissed through clenched teeth.
I dressed and mnade my way downstairs as quickly as I could. Before I even reached the ground floor, the banging began. Just as I entered the club, I saw Korvan leaning against a trembling and using his weight to keep the guards outside. A flurry of banging fists from the outside told me they’d been trying to make their way inside for a while.
“Hey, Korvan? How can you just sit there? And you guys!” I snapped, but Fey and Rot just looked at each other and shrugged.
“We’re having breakfast, Frank,” Fey said. “What are we supposed to do? Go fight the guards?”
“No, but you’re seeing what’s going on outside, right?”
“King takin’ them refugees to war,” Garfor said casually. “Better they go fighting than just sitting there eating pigeons. Orclings go hungry because of them.”
I sighed and glanced toward Korvan one more time, then walked over to them and grabbed a piece of pie from Fey’s plate. I bit in and made for the door.
“Hey! Did you even wash your hands? That’s my pie!”
“My club, my kitchen, my pie,” I said and nodded at Korvan to open the door.
He grunted something unintelligible, all while looking at me drowsily.
“You sure, boss?”
“Just do it, Korvan.”
The door swung open and the banging stopped. I strode out, biting into my pie. As soon as the people of the square saw me, a crowd gathered in front of the club, shouting and crying for help. Each of them looked more destitute than the next. Some were black market traders too, their fake golden jewelry ringing as they shoved past barefoot children and mud-smeared mothers.
“Lord Ashpit! Save us!” I held my hands up before they crashed into me, though I wasn’t sure it’d work. It did, and they stopped a few steps away from me, all yelling at the same time.
“Calm down!” I barked and to my own surprise, most actually did. “Can someone tell me what in the Dhozen Fires is going on?”
“You wouldn’t believe it, Lord Ashpit!” a light skinned trader began, barely able to catch his breath. “They’re rampaging through the market and taking everything we have!”
“They took my son!” a woman cried, cutting the man off.
“Your son? Why?”
“I had necklaces with Hinbergian gems directly from Hinbergia! Original pieces, if you have to ask! All gone!” I didn’t have to ask. Hinbergian gems were even more rare than an elf who actually worked for a living.
“You!” I said, pointing at him, “Shut up! And you!” I pointed at the woman again, “Why did they take your son?”
“They said it’s for the war effort. They said the Third Army needs every able body. He’s only twelve! How is he going to help?”
“Did they say where the Third Army is going?”
“Drowtomb,” a balding, one-armed man said as he leaned theatrically on his weathered cane. “The Quinta are moving south. The king’s looking for bodies and us homeless farmers are apparently it.”
He spat on the cobble and cursed. I slowly moved through the entrance and closed the door behind me in case any of them thought it a good idea to try and get inside. The news struck me like a slap to the face. After taking Gander’s Rest, the Quinta hadn’t moved an inch in months. Nobody even expected they’d dare to make a move against Drowtomb. The fortress was impregnable. There wasn’t an army in the world which could breach it without suffering massive losses. What the hell was going on?
“You have to do something, Lord Ashpit. They can’t just take our people!” the woman continued.
“Lady,” I said somewhat absently as I saw a squad of blackhelms move our way. “I’m not really a lord, and even if I were, if those are the king’s orders, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You can! You can let us into the club! Hide us!” Another woman yelled, pushing what I understood was her husband at me. There it was. Just as I thought. I had to cut that idea in the roots.
“What do you people think this is? I’m running a club here, not a charity!” There was no way in hell I’d risk the lives of my family for a couple of scared farmers.
Before they could continue their protest, the squad of guards reached us.
“If it isn’t Lord Ashpit himself,” the captain of the blackhelms said, and as soon as he did, the small crowd around me disappeared like an audience at a fautar poetry reading.
I looked around and back at the plump-faced captain.
“Where?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Midnight. We all know who you are,” he said and flicked the rim of his helmet. “You better not harbor any of the recruits.”
“What recruits, blackhelm? You mean scared farmers and their children?”
His mood went from sour to acid.
“King’s orders, Lord Ashpit,” he growled, stressing lord part. “You have a problem with that? We can remedy it quickly.”
I grinned at that, and it was kind of readily available knowledge I wasn’t too keen on saving the people as a whole. I didn’t care too much when the refugees arrived and cared just as little when the King decided to take them to the frontlines. However, I couldn’t stand idiots like him who actually enjoyed causing all this misery.
“The Lord Watcher told me to observe your work. Make sure none of you pack any of those trinkets into your pockets,” I said.
Pig-face’s eyes went wide, and his cheeks became even redder than they already were.
“We didn’t—I mean, no, of course not.”
He looked to his men who seemed equally flustered.
“You know all the loot belongs to the King, right? You know what would happen if you stole from the King?”
The red covering his big round cheeks vanished only to be replaced by a graceful white.
“Let me put it this way, captain. I’m a forgiving man, if a coin or two somehow, by accident of course, landed in your pockets, then perhaps it’s best you leave it with me. Maybe that way we can forget about it.”
The captain pulled his black helm off and combed his receding hairline with his fingers before turning to his men. He bit his lip and nodded in my direction. All five of them suddenly realized that indeed they had some goodies ‘accidentally’ fall into their hands. Twenty-two gold, a couple pairs of fake silver earrings and bracelets. A bundle of carrots for some odd reason, a pouch of marbles, and three golden rings. And if that wasn’t enough, a small chime rang through my Deeproot.
[Adept Persuasion skill increased by 1 level]
[ADEPT PERSUASION: 3/10]
“There we go,” I said, packing it away and slapping the captain on his shoulder. “No harm done, right? Now before you go, tell me something. Is the Lord Watcher anywhere close by?”
“I thought you said—”
“He told me yesterday, now is he here or not?”
Pig-face pointed towards the western edge of the Ashpit close to where the horse carriages were getting stuffed with civilians.
“He’s over there and he doesn’t look very happy. I’d be careful what I say to him.”
“Who’s happy nowadays, anyway,” I said and pushed past the soldiers, making my way over to the man.
Several people ran up to me as I trudged through the square. Blackhelms were dragging people around as they flailed and screamed. Others were stuffing bags full of family belongings and when they thought nobody looked, lined their own pockets with whatever would fit.
A goblin was pulling a finely-weaved blanket away from one of the guards, screaming theft from the bottom of his small lungs. Three blackhelms were trying to subdue a large farmer who was holding one of them in a deathgrip with one hand while denting another’s helmet with his naked hand.
A disgusting bunch, our venerable city guards, but nothing new or unexpected in Sankta Varath.
Sitting on a large white horse and overseeing the mayhem was Winston Hightop the Lord Watcher. Dressed in black and gold with his sword sheathed to his right and his dragonhead cane tied to his left, he looked like a general from a painting. And what a general he was, commanding armed men to plunder honest working people. Well, not that honest, but working, nevertheless. He was chewing on a piece of dried meat as his glacial-blue eyes wandered from the Ashpit to the carriages and finally landed on me.
His retinue of large, veteran blackhelms walked out to meet me before I could come closer, but with a wave of his gloved hand, they moved to the side.
“Lord Watcher, what a pleasure to see you in these parts of town,” I said with a fake smile.
“What do you want, Frank?” he said with a voice full of bile.
The man barely even looked at me, but that was to be expected. After all, the only thing that differentiated me from the poor sods tied up in those carriages was the fact I had enough coin to build a ladder reaching deep into his asshole.
“Absolutely nothing, Lord Watcher. I just came out to greet you. It’s not every day that the venerable Winston Hightop graces us with his presence. Well his and the presence of his entire garrison.”
“King’s orders, Midnight,” he said and swallowed the dried meat. It got stuck in his throat, and he quickly unpacked a flask from the side of his saddle and took a sip. Finally, he spat it out and looked at me.
“Yes, I’ve heard. The Quinta are moving on Drowtomb and the Third Army needs auxiliary troops. A good, tactical decision by our great King.”
Hightop blew air out his nose and rolled his eyes.
“What do you want, Frank, and don’t make me ask again.”
A runner suddenly came up to us, panting hard. He doubled over to catch his breath.
“The carriages—Lord Watcher, the carriages are full.”
“Good Alfah that took long enough. Alright, tell the troops to move out. I don’t want to waste another second in this shithole,” he said, rubbing his white beard.
“Yes, me lord,” the runner replied, wiping sweat off his brow.
He took a moment to gather his breath then sprinted off again. I watched him go for a moment, thinking about how fragile and unprepared the City Watch truly was. Considering what kind of things went down on an average day in Sankta Varath, you’d think the guards would be absolute beasts. These guys wouldn’t survive a day in the battlefield. The King was smart to take on farmers instead of the blackhelms, at least those weren’t out of breath crossing the street.
Hightop spurred his horse on, ignoring me, so I had to act quickly.
“Lord Watcher, may I ask,” I began, and he faced me with an exhausted look on his face.
“If I wanted to talk to Shieldmother, who would I have to go through?”
The question must have struck a nerve with the large head of the City Watch. He stopped his horse and eyed me curiously.
“What would a hore-slinger like you want from Shieldmother?”
“Hore-slinger? I’m not—Never mind, I have some questions I think only she could answer, but as you can imagine, contacting one of the Three of Steel is somewhat difficult for a man of my…stature.”
“Hah!” The Lord Watcher bellowed, “I imagine it is, Frank. Shieldmother has better things to do than talk to your ilk. Besides, I heard you’re a lord now. Lord Ashpit,” he said and spat on the ground. “Why don’t you go to Queen’s Street and just ask around?”
There it was. That stupid title biting me on the ass, just as I thought it would.
“Yes,” I said, trying not to show the anger bubbling up in me. “The farmers and traders call me that. A funny thing, truly. I, of course, am no lord nor do I pretend to be one, Lord Watcher. Someone like me couldn’t even dream of becoming one.”
He seemed somewhat pleased with all the shit I was eating right in front of him.
“However, I do need to talk to her. I would of course compensate a Lord like you for the trouble. Perhaps my next payment could have some additional weight to it?”
Hightop’s smile vanished and turned into a sneer. Lords didn’t like being offered bribes, well, not in the open and not by people like me. They had to stress that every time. However, speaking from experience, they did accept them. Every time.
“You make that payment extra heavy, Midnight,” he hissed under his breath, then looked around. “But even so, I do want to know what the lord of shit wants from one of the Three of Steel.”
There was no way I could use persuasion on him. A lord in a position like his had at least expert level in his pocket so I went for the cold, dry truth.
“I need her to tell me how I can find Snowdog and once I do…well, how I should approach him so I don’t lose my head.” The Lord Watcher looked at me for a long-drawn-out moment.
He suddenly laughed.
“Midnight, what the hell are you up to? Finding Snowdog? Are you mad? Not even the King himself wants to find him. Snowdog is a renegade. The only reason he’s still part of the Three of Steel is because nobody can replace him.”
“What about Castelian?” I blurted out.
“Castelian? That honorless bastard can’t even spell loyalty! Bah, finding Snowdog. What would you want with him anyway?”
“It’s a long story, Lord Watcher,” I began. “You know the Grimy Dead? Those bards and entertainers? Well, their singer is related to him and they have this song Spellmonger. And apparently it was Snowdog who told them the story. And as you might have heard my class is Spellmonger so I was thinking I’d find out what that was all about.”
I wasn’t lying, and it wouldn’t help if I was. He’d see through it. I just tried to tell him the truth in the drabbest possible way I could think of so it wouldn’t raise any of his white eyebrows. It seemed to have worked because halfway through my explanation, the Lord Watcher had lost interest.
“Fine, whatever. Go to Queen’s Street, Midnight. Find Loris Maddog. He’s supposed to be her steward or something. Maybe he’ll get you a meeting with Shieldmother, but don’t count on it. Maddog isn’t as forthcoming as I am.”
“Few are, Lord Watcher,” I said and he snickered.
He turned his horse about, and then headed out of the ashpit. His veteran retinue and most of the blackhelms together with the horse carriages and the loot-packed donkeys, followed after him, making their way back to the sunnier parts of Sankta Varath. I watched them leave behind a silent square full of terrified faces, torn tents, and looted belongings.
Women and children sat around the fountain, holding one another and crying. Old folk paced about, trying to comfort those who had lost everything. Twice. Vultures sat on top of the roofs around the Ashpit simply watching. Even they seemed to have more compassion than our great King.
A great commotion coming from Gank Street, the orc main street and several others, grabbed my attention. Swaths of green folk suddenly flooded into the Ashpit, and I let out a long breath.
“Not right fucking now,” I muttered, shaking my head.
Luckily, my fear was unfounded. On the contrary, the orcs carried tents, blankets, baskets of food, and clothing items with them that they handed out to the destitute farmers. Saying that I was in shock was an understatement.
“A gift from Nergat,” one of the orcs said, handing a basket of fruit and vegetables to an old man sitting on the floor. The weathered farmer seemed terrified at first, but took it with just a silent nod.
“A gift from Nergat,” I muttered to myself. “What the hell is your plan, warlord?”
