[Here continues the story of a bag of holding known as Cordelia, attempting to stay alive and sane as she is dragged along for the intended looting of a wizard’s residence.]
The sharp glass shards whiz back through the broken window toward us, and I brace for impact, trying to put as much of Iago as I can between myself and the razor-edged chips of pain. The others tense also, but to my surprise at least, the fragments of glass hone in on Vlad and pelt him largely. He staggers back with a cry as blood speckles through the air, and then the shards fall to the ground with a crystalline clatter. Vlad, wincing and cringing, begins to remove any bits of glass that had embedded themselves in his flesh. Most of the others stare at him, but Iago unexpectedly and rather forcefully shoves his fist inside of me. He gropes around in his impatient way, and a sickening spreads through my threads.
Before I suffer an unpleasant involuntary action all over Iago’s shudder-worthy crotch, he yanks his fist back sharply, fingers clutching onto a small vial, filled with a healing potion. He hands this to Vlad, who finishes plucking the glass shards out of his skin like he were a twitchy chicken before downing it. Slowly, his wounds heal over.
The others approach the window, led by Iago. They peer out the window as if worried some other force would assault them as suddenly as the glass shards had zinged back at Vlad, but all that can be seen through the window is a very damaged chair, lying pathetically on the hard ground of the courtyard.
Taking this as a sign of safety, Iago clambers out the window and, after a moment, the others follow.
The courtyard itself is rather dull and large, extending toward the far wall where a door indicates an entrance, but completely devoid of anything else. I assume Greenor must think empty or near-empty areas are simply one large joke. At the far end of the courtyard, near the door, several dozen weapons of various sizes and styles zip about in midair, buzzing faintly.
“There,” says François, pointing. “That door.”
The assortment of swords and daggers turns and swims through the air toward our group as though just noticing us. The group scatters, the assassin, Sylvia, and François falling back to the wall, Vlad and Iago bolting to the side. I am jostled along, staring up at the quivering weapons, which now are zipping through the air where we were just moments ago. They seem confused for swords and daggers, sweeping back and forth as though trying to sniff us out.
Iago exchanges a look with Vlad, then glances over at the others. Then, before I can do a thing to stop the idiot, he shouts, “Run for it!”
“Right,” says Vlad in agreement, and dashes toward the door while Iago drops to the ground. I am surprised at his brief surge of intelligence, but he is clearly still a bastard—the weapons fly through the air above us, targeting Vlad.
Safe for the moment, the bastard jumps up and dashes toward the door. The assassin, Sylvia, and François make their way silently along the wall to the far door while Vlad staggers along, battling the flying blades as he goes.
We reach the door and clumsily filter through to the other side, Vlad stumbling through last, weapons thudding into the wooden door behind him.
The group turns around to somewhat of a sudden peaceful scene. A green, well-maintained lawn slopes lazily down to a river that sparkles cheerily with the reflection of sunlight. A short distance away, a simple wooden bridge links our side to the far one, and another wall with a door can be seen beyond. They freeze, taking in the scene. I freeze, too, waiting for them to befoul the scenery.
Iago takes the lead and we proceed down the slope awkwardly. After the animate weapons, everyone seems to be eager for conflict.
And then they begin to rise from the water, and my drawstings tighten in shock and disgust. The members of the group ready their weapons as Iago gawks at the figures emerging from the river. They are fishlike, humanoid, but warped in a disturbing way, like they are some kind of twisted cross between a fish and a human. I shrink back as Iago moves forward toward the nearest one and opens his despicable mouth.
“Good day,” says Iago in his slimmest voice, moving toward the bridge. “You won’t mind letting us pass, I’m sure—Greenor sent us, you know.”
The creatures, the merfishmen, do not seem to acknowledge his words. Several of them blink oddly at Iago, and more clamber out of the river, silently surrounding us in a smelly, fishy horde. Iago hesitates for a moment, mutters, “ah, fuck it,” and dashes for the bridge. He can at least run faster than an overwhelming amount of fish people.
I bounce along at his side, and we clear the bridge and approach the door. The merfishmen have already forgotten us, instead focusing on the others, surrounding them with scaly limbs and bulbous eyes. I watch as the others carve their way through them, hacking and stabbing, slowly proceeding toward the bridge. The creatures offer up no resistance, only crowd around, waiting to be dropped. The bastard is clearly bored with all of this—he shuffles back and forth impatiently.
Finally Vlad, François, Sylvia, and the assassin cut their way through the horde of fishy bodies, stumble across the bridge, and come to a halt near Iago. The bastard stares largely at Sylvia, then points to the door. She steps forward, rolling her eyes, and proceeds to look the door over for traps. This takes longer than Iago cares for, and he crosses his arms and leans over her as she works, as though his grotesque stare could hurry the process along.
The door opens and we enter into a long, dark, enclosed space—a corridor of some sort. The door swings shut behind us and even Iago is still as we attempt to adjust to our new surroundings. Someone invades my bubble of personal space in the dark and brushes up against me, and I wish I had teeth to bite them.
And then, emerging out of the silence is the curious noise of something or things being launched, forcefully, from in front of us. The assassin breaks silence to mutter something about shurikens and then orders us all to the left. I find myself relieved when Iago actually follows the advice, and the sound of something, perhaps two somethings, sharp, metallic, and deadly coming to rest brutally in the door behind us echoes down the corridor back the way the objects came.
We move forward then, cautiously in the dark, the assassin directing us as we go—right, then middle, then duck, then left and duck…The corridor is long, and we seem to be having difficulties making progress. As we near the source of the bits of flying death we have less reaction time, and the patterns become more difficult. Every fiber for my baggy body is tense, expecting at any moment to be torn to shreds. And then we are told to duck and jump at once.
Iago apparently can force himself to be coordinated when necessary, but as we land a cry of pain cuts through the air. François. Jumping was too difficult a task for the silly idiot, and he is lying on his back in a pool of blood, legs completely parted from the rest of him.
“She said jump,” says Iago as he shoves his fist suddenly and disturbingly deep within my folds. I feel near to passing out but manage to hold on somehow, concentrating on Vlad while Iago attempts to fix François with a potent healing potion.
Vlad jerks ahead, seeing the end of the corridor is close, and runs up to one of two mechanisms. With a mighty bit of strength, he jams the bit that flings the weapons back in on itself. He then disappears through a door, likely to attempt to locate and break the device from behind. The others move through the door too, and Iago, in an uncharacteristic move, helps the mage to his newly attached feet. As we exit the door, François last, the mechanism fires one last time. The broken part of the device shatters the shuriken, peppering the poor fool François with sharp bits of metal.
He staggers through the door. Iago reaches inside me again, causing me to shudder, and brings forth two healing potions. He hands one to François and then backs away, leaning to the side to hide himself from view as he drinks the other. The bastard must like how they taste.
Vlad returns, and the group proceeds forward, stopping at the far door of this room to peer into a barrel like thoughtless kittens. Iago lets out a cry of triumph and snatches up the contents before anyone else can. Wanting to keep his prize—an immovable rod—to himself he immediately reaches for me and thrusts the rod violently inside me, no concern for how rough he is on my tender fabric.
I hate him.
We proceed through the door to find a room containing nothing more than a pit. At this point I think I can safely assume Greenor must live solely within the confines of one room; all others in this place are entirely for his twisted amusement.
The group determines Iago’s collection of immovable rods should do the trick, and I decide it’s not enough just to hate the bastard. The rods are horrifically obtained and awkwardly used, then horrendously hidden away again. We are on the other side of the pit and on our way.
The next door opens up to a staircase and another corridor. I hope with all my might that they will continue up the staircase and end this madness as quickly as possible.
“Well?” asks Vlad. “Do we go up?”
“There might be some interesting things to loot on this level yet,” says Sylvia, her eyes darting off down the corridor. Her fingers twitch with eagerness.
“I agree,” says Iago, and I groan. “We shouldn’t pass this up. And we can return here when we’re done.”
Two votes for presumable loot and the group is hooked. I dangle helplessly as we pass by the stairs and continue down the corridor to where it ends in two doors. Vlad chooses the door to the right and we proceed.
The door opens into a room with a deep, rectangular pit in it resembling a pool. It appears empty. The group approaches, curious, and François produces a pebble from his pocket. He holds it above the pool and releases it; it plummets only a short distance before encountering a kind of gelatinous resistance, then is slowly sucked in.
The group exchanges glances.
“The other door, then?” asks Vlad. The others agree. I sigh, somewhat pleased they didn’t try anything idiotic.
The second door leads to a small, completely empty room. At the far end is an entryway into a familiar-looking room...Iago shuts the door.
A gusty wind whips out of nowhere and batters the group. François is immediately caught up and pushed backward through the entryway and into the room beyond, where he begins dancing like mad. The others have enough sense to attempt to make it back to the door, but one by one they are driven back. The assassin is pushed backward into the room, and then the bastard, arms flailing dramatically, me at his side.
This dance floor seems stronger than the last; even I cannot fight back the urge, and as the bastard jerks about, I am compelled to swing on my drawstrings rhythmically. The assassin is not an awful dancer, but clearly François’ legs did not reattach themselves well, for every time he moves he looks about ready to fall flat on his face. Even Vlad is almost at the dance floor by now.
The wind stops suddenly, and, through a haze of dance moves, Sylvia approaches, rope in hand. She had made it to the door and re-opened it; thankfully Greenor had not been clever enough to set a safeguard that would negate such a simple solution. Vlad assists and we are pulled from the room, dancing. Iago is panting.
“So,” says Vlad. “The staircase then?”
“Fuck, yeah,” says Iago, sounding vaguely annoyed.
We proceed. I try to think of inventive curses to wish upon the group as we retrace our steps. I could strangle them all with my drawstrings for taking such a pointless, time-wasting detour.
The stairs loom upward, shrouded in darkness. Whatever is at the top casts no light, and the group is silent for a moment, hesitating perhaps, as if taking one last collective breath before continuing onward into whatever may come.
The darkness waits patiently for us.
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