The Irregulars

by Neal F. Litherland

Chapter One: The Setup

They marched like human cattle through the arid throat of the mountains. Men and women, old and young, were all subsumed into a single, shuffling, iron-bound mass. They walked with their heads down and bodies slack, broken through and through. Men wrapped in leather and steel rode snorting horses and shepherded the herd like overzealous hounds. Lashes snapped, the loud cracks of cruelty that made words unnecessary. Dust rose from bare feet and shod hooves, and the hot wind reeked like the breath of Hell welcoming new pilgrims. Just more meat for the grinder of Molthune's aspirations.

"There're more of them than when we saw them three days ago," Trilaina whispered. The scout lay on a flat rock, a rumpled, no-color cloth thrown over her and weighted down with sandy soil.

"More slaves or more guards?" Chaplain asked.

"Both," the half-elf replied, her lips barely parted enough to speak. Chain shifted below, down in the shade where the cleric was keeping out of sight.

"Torag will provide," Chaplain said.

Trilaina resisted the urge to turn and glare at the dwarf. "That's what you always say."

The cleric shrugged her shoulders again. "The day that I'm wrong, child, you may feel free to say 'I told you so.'"

The herd came close enough that shouts and cries pulled apart and became words. Trilaina saw faces over the groove of her crossbow, every one of them minted with the hopelessness a forced march brought. An older woman, her strength finally failing, fell over. She didn't move when the lash opened her cheek, but blood ran fast enough to testify that she wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway.

"Patience," Chaplain said, her words more of a prayer than a caution. "Be calm, and wait for the signal."

Trilaina's mouth opened to reply when a howl rolled the across the valley. As one, the guards looked, goggling like children scaring each other with campfire stories. A black she-wolf, silver in her muzzle and fire in her eyes, appeared on an outcrop. She growled down at the mass of men like a judgmental goddess, unafraid of their slings and arrows. One of the caravan guards cranked his own crossbow, raised it up, and shouted something to the others. The others laughed in reply. Trilaina couldn't hear what he said, but they were his last words.

A loud twang snapped like a split harp string, and a bolt skewered the would-be archer's head like a practice pumpkin. He sat his saddle another moment, blood dribbling to the thirsty earth, before falling like a sack full of meat. Trilaina took a breath, found her mark, and squeezed. It wasn't until her bolt tore into another guard's guts, right through the weak spot where his armor laced together up the side, that the others realized they were under attack.

Swords cleared scabbards and arrows were loosed into the rocks. Bottles smashed against the hills, and gouts of liquid fire spumed up like dragon's breath. In response, more shafts fell from both sides of the canyon, every one of them striking home. The imprisoned horde, scenting that its captors were wounded, woke up. They attacked in ones and twos at first, but then the floodgates opened full force. They pulled men off horses and snatched weapons from hands and belts. The guards that went down screamed and didn’t rise again. The horses, panicked by the potent combination of fear and rage in the air, bolted. The remaining slavers, facing the ragged wraiths bent on vengeance, followed the riderless mounts.

"They're getting away," Trilaina grunted. She snapped the reload lever and slipped another shaft along the groove.

"Not for long," Chaplain observed.

No sooner had the words been spoken than a thick rope leaped out of the soil and barred the way. It caught the riders and sent them flailing and crashing to the dirt. Trilaina sighted and squeezed carefully, catching the first to rise from the heap between the shoulder blades. The others chose to stay down, bellies up like dogs.

"You know, it's scary how you do that." Trilaina cocked the crossbow again. Chaplain hefted her hammer and smiled. She always looked matronly when she did that. Stern, but matronly.

"When you've been around as long as I have," the dwarf started.

"Then I'm sure I'll recognize the signs," Trilaina finished. She tried to brush some of the grit out of her eyes—returning her hair to its previously golden hue was going to take nothing short of a wish. She brought her weapon back into firing position. "Let's just get this over with, huh?"

"As you wish."

Trilaina has little sympathy for those who traffic in flesh and misery.

They clambered down the rocky slope, each watching carefully while the other descended the rough patches. It wasn't pleasant, and if anyone with ill intent had been paying them the slightest mind, they could have turned both women into pincushions. But no one was watching, and soon enough their boots were back on level ground. They took a single moment to sweep the area, then headed for the far end of the battlefield, where an interesting little group had gathered.

Four former guards sat on the ground, rusty irons around their wrists. It was amazing the difference that only a few moments made in their bearing. The wolf—Denna—stood to the left with her head down and her hackles up. Gunner sat on the wolf's back, holding the infernal collection of gears, levers, and bow strings that made up his bizarre heavy crossbow. If not for his eyes—the same verdant green as his hair and mustache—the gnome could have been a statue in woodsman's clothes. On the right, glaring over his crooked nose, stood Garm. The half-orc breathed easy, stripped to the waist, muscles like steel cables flexing under his charcoal skin. Between the two of them, facing the little crowd of captives, stood the Lieutenant.

Even in a motley crew like this, Lieutenant Sturgeon Hook was impossible to miss. An old buzzard of a man, Hook seemed to have been named for the prominent nose that jutted out like a beak over his pointed chin and wispy beard. What hair he had left was white, and his skin was the ratty testament of a violent vagabond who'd weathered a storm of swords in his day. Of all the team members, he was the only one who wore a proper uniform—the faded and dust-stained blue coat of an officer in the Andoren army—yet the real proof of his rank lay in his bearing. He glanced up at the last two members of his unit, then went back to studying the prisoners.

"Looks like you caught something, Garm," Trilaina called.

The half-orc nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Trying to decide which one to keep," he finally said in his sonorous baritone.

"I'd throw em back," Gunner grunted, gesturing with the business end of his miniature ballista. "Watch ’em try to swim."

The Lieutenant ignored the banter and leaned towards the man in the center. The captive wore no armor, but was swathed in desert robes that had probably been fine some time ago. His mustache was ridiculous, his boots were ostentatious, and his fat fingers each bore a multifaceted gemstone set in heavy gold. The Lieutenant smiled, and the man on the ground shuddered.

"Harlon Robbes," the Lieutenant croaked, the smile transforming into a sneer. "A more aptly named rut-smear there never was. Where were you planning on going with so many unwilling passengers, Robbes?"

"The South Menador Mine," the slaver said. Frightened as he was, his voice was still as smooth as oiled clockwork. "They have an iron quota to fill, and they aren't shy about how they wrest the ore from the mountain."

"And since you're a patriot, you venture forth to recruit the best and the brightest to clap in irons," the Lieutenant said. The slaver shrugged, a single, spasmodic jerk. "When are they expecting you?"

"Shortly," Robbes replied, licking sweat from his cracked lips. "I was told to expect an escort by noon tomorrow."

"Ah," the Lieutenant said, as if that single fact explained everything. One of the men moved, and Denna lifted her lips. The sharp, white fangs made him decide that whatever itch he had could wait a little while longer.

"What do you think, boss?" Trilaina glanced over at the newly freed slaves. The mob looked back, a herd of sheep that had stampeded the wolves, but which still wasn't quite sure what to do.

"I think the best cure for a blight like this is a taste of its own medicine." The Lieutenant stepped back and nodded to Garm. The half-orc grabbed the manacle chain and lifted the nearest guard like a child caught misbehaving, and marched him toward the eager crowd. Chaplain grabbed a second, and Gunner gestured at a third. Before the third man could rise though, Robbes snatched the man's belt, hauled them both to their feet, and ran.

The other captives all tried their own runs for the sun. The first man struggled, wrenching his wrists and trying to throw Garm over his hip. The guard was big and broad-shouldered, but it wasn't enough. Garm smashed an elbow into the side of the slaver’s head with a hollow crunch, and the man went down like a slaughterhouse bull. The second guard pulled, and Chaplain let go. Before the prisoner could enjoy his freedom, Chaplain rung his bell with the side of her hammer, and he sprawled out flat. The third man made it four steps before something wet and sticky exploded against his back like a resinous pustule. He tripped over his own feet as the alchemical bag turned him into another graceless lump on the valley floor. Trilaina snickered, always happy to use one of her favorite toys.

Robbes hadn't relied on his own legs in some time, and it showed. Galvanized by fear, however, and with the chill of the grave on the back of his neck, he ran fast enough. The Lieutenant swore as he snatched a vial from his belt and hurled. The explosion of the bomb sent up a spray of rocks and dirt that sent the man stumbling. Gunner sighted and fired, his hands just one more part of the complex weapon. The bolt screamed, a steel-tipped falcon that slashed along the heavy, meaty expanse of the lead flesh-merchant’s shoulder. He yelped like a stuck pig and ducked, running even faster. A horse whinnied, and by the time the dust had cleared both horse and the rider were dark smudges far down the canyon.

"I told you to miss him," The Lieutenant said.

Gunner shrugged and reloaded. "He'll run faster if he's winged."

Hook blew out a long breath and shook his head. "We don't want him running too fast."

Gunner straightened in the saddle. "Sir."

Lieutenant Hook nodded and looked around at his team. They all nodded back.

"Anyone hurt?" he asked. They all shook their heads. "Good. Fine work, everyone. Consider this a step toward the final goal."

The Lieutenant knelt down, wincing, and snatched a heavy, rusted key off a dead guard's belt. He tossed it to Garm, and Trilaina took a nearly identical key off a second's man's belt. The Lieutenant nodded and rubbed at his bad knee.

"All right, let's get to work. Gunner, round up the horses and butcher them—these people are going to need some proper meat once they're not carrying around half a measure of iron each. Chaplain, soothe them as well as you can. There's quite a bit of day left to burn, and we've got to make these people disappear. The sooner we get that chore done, the sooner we get to go and play king of the mountain. Hop to!"

Coming Next Week: Swift justice to agents of the slave trade in Chapter Two of Neal F. Litherland’s "The Irregulars"!

Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit facebook.com/NealFLitherland.

Illustration by Lindsey Wakefield

The Irregulars

by Neal F. Litherland

Chapter Two: Scouting Party

The place looked more like a kicked anthill than an iron mine. Built of heavy bulwarks of timber and stone, its arms curved out from the mountain like a mother's arms around her belly. A hundred eyes peered out of the crenelated sockets, sweeping the land. The gate was simply a drawbridge that spanned a dry moat filled with dust and splintered stakes. Pitch or filth lined the bottom—it was impossible to tell from so far away. A portcullis hung ready to fall, cutting the people inside off from anything short of heavy bombardment. Parties of guards, some on foot and some on horse, went in and out, regular as an old man on a steady diet.

"Place is a fortress," Gunner said.

Chaplain snorted. "It's also poorly built."

"A poorly built fortress is still a fortress," Gunner grumbled.

They lapsed into silence, lying or crouching along the ridge top and drawing as little attention to themselves as possible. The guards would be unlikely to notice the band unless they moved quickly, or stood out against the backdrop of the scrub trees and hardy bushes. So they sat, waited, and watched.

"Looks as if our friend Robbes gave the commander quite the earful about what we did to his little caravan." The Lieutenant barked a rough, sharp sound that was as close as he got to laughter. "They're giving us a right heroes' welcome."

"Tell me again why we want them to know we're coming?" Trilaina asked.

Lieutenant Hook snapped his spyglass closed and slid it back among the legion of pouches slung around his narrow hips.

"It's all part of the plan." The Lieutenant scuttled back from the precipice like a crab, and the others followed, slinking and scraping out of the line of sight. Once they'd slipped into a wash, they knelt and drew close. The Lieutenant brushed the sand flat and drew in the dust. "Now pay attention."

The old man laid out the mine in small lines, giving a rough distance from the front gate to the rise they'd been watching from. He mapped out the paths visible from where they'd been sitting, like veins stretching out from a hard little heart. He carefully included the hundred yards or so of completely clear land leading up to the walls. Gunner reached over and added a few branches, his lines thicker and harder. No one questioned the gnome's eyes.

"This is our position here." The Lieutenant drew an X with his fingernail, light enough that it was barely noticeable. "We've got some daylight left, and until that fades we'll be most vulnerable. So we're going to hold this position until night falls, and when it does, we'll-"

Denna growled, jutting her head forward across the map at Trilaina. The half-elf's eyes widened and she backed away, holding her hands out in front of her.

"Denna," Gunner chided, putting a hand on her mane.

That was when an arrow buried itself in the she-wolf's side, turning her growl into a yelp of pain as she fell over.

The Irregulars stood, backs together and hands on hilts. In the time it took them to reach their feet, both ends of the little ditch filled with Molthuni soldiers. The rag-tag Andoren squad stood at the bottom, looking up at a trap they'd never even noticed. The ambushers had arrows knocked, bows taut as heartstrings and eyes cold as winter wine. A man stepped out of the scrub from behind Trilaina, pulling a new arrow from a quiver on his hip.

"Put your hands up and surrender," he commanded.

Gunner and Denna make quite the team.

"I told you they'd be here!" A voice called from the left flank. "I saw the flash on the lens!"

"Now's not the time, Theron." The older man spoke without taking his eyes off the five interlopers and their wounded wolf. "If you do not put your hands up and surrender, I will have my men open fire."

The captured Andorens raised their hands slowly, gazes sweeping back and forth over the outriders that had clearly been dispatched to comb the foothills. They'd apparently doubled back. There was no give in them, and no relaxation as their prisoners-to-be showed empty hands.

"Irregulars," the Lieutenant said with a death's-head smile. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em."

Glass broke, and thick, yellow smoke rose in a plume around the little group. Both flanks of ambushers loosed, smooth and cool. The Lieutenant swore, and there was a gnome-sized thud as Gunner went down. The soldiers reached for more arrows, uncertain whether their targets were even still there.

Then the smoke cleared, and madness descended.

Twin daggers flicked through the air, tumbling end over end towards the left flank. One archer cried out, his words bubbling from his throat in a bloody spray. Another dropped his bow, clutching at fingers cut to the bone. Garm exploded up the hill, teeth bared in a tusked snarl that would have put fear into iron. Another Molthuni—the one their captain had called Theron—loosed a shaft, but the half-orc slapped it out of his path. His fist swung back like death's own pendulum, breaking bones and sending the injured bowman to join his companion.

Bowstrings twanged again on the right flank, but before they could be drawn a third time a single glass vial arced out of the vanishing smoke. It shattered, and bottled lightning crackled, snarling over the soldiers and leaving them twitching. Chaplain came on behind it, undaunted, swinging her hammer in a wide arc. It crushed leather and bone alike, doing its nasty work at a piston pace while the cleric drove the men down like tent stakes.

"Bastards!" The leader of the Molthuni outriders cried out as he drew an arrow’s fletching to his cheek. "You bastards, I'll—"

Whatever else he would have said was cut off by the twang of Gunner's infernal engine. He unleashed a full load of bolts in the blink of an eye, and they flew like darts flung by a giant, slamming into the trunk of the leader's chest with nary a finger's breadth between them. The man fell back, his arrow streaking for the low scudding clouds.

"Regroup!" The Lieutenant snarled, waving away the last of the smoke. "Status!"

"One prisoner, sir," Garm called. He marched Theron down the hill, one of the man's arms twisted up behind his back and Garm's hand around his throat, making certain he couldn't scream. Trilaina retrieved her daggers from the dead men and drug a double trench along each side of the soldiers' necks, just to be safe. Chaplain said a quick prayer, then rifled pouches and weapon belts looking for anything useful. Denna whined and licked Gunner. The gnome coughed, shifting on his back.

"Easy, girl." He grunted and tugged at the arrows stuck in his armor. The Lieutenant put a foot on the gnome's chest and pulled, the bent-tipped barbs grating on steel.

"Looks like the extra chain came in handy after all," The Lieutenant said.

Gunner grinned. "It's a heavy bastard, is all," he said. "Help me up, I need to see to Denna before she makes herself worse."

Chaplain gave him a hand and Gunner struggled back to his feet. He caught the she-wolf's teeth on his bracer and shushed her. He pulled, she bit, and the offending shaft slipped free with barely a protest. Gunner whispered, speaking in the voice of wind and rain while he dragged his fingers through Denna's fur like he was raking out a bloody burr. The wound came free, its lips sealed as if it had never been. Only a small bald patch gave testament.

"And here it was I thought she still didn't like me," Trilaina said.

Denna growled, a low rumble of thunder deep in her chest. Trilaina retreated a step, and Gunner scratched the wolf under the muzzle.

"She doesn't," he said. "Bastard's lucky he came from behind you. She started growling at Garm, I'd have shot first and asked questions later."

"Not my fault I'm prettier," Garm said.

Theron's eyes were wild, and he clawed at Garm's hand. The boy—which is what he really was, now that they saw him up close—may as well have tried to chop down a tree with his cheekbones.

"Beauty's in the eye of the beholder," Trilaina said, the words dry as hardroot cider. Garm dropped the boy, coughing and gagging, in front of the little map they'd drawn only moments ago. It was scuffed, but still legible.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it and get it over with." Theron had probably meant it to sound defiant, but it came out a gallows whisper. The Lieutenant hunkered across the map, looking at Theron as if he was an out-of-season fruit. Something to be picked when the opportunity presented.

"Whether you die here with no one but the gods to see is entirely up to you," Hook said.

Theron waited. The Lieutenant waited. It didn't take long for the tow-headed captive to crack.

"You'll never get in that gate," he said. "The mine is locked down and everyone's watching. Commander Hartwick has already sent word to the Cettigne garrison requesting reinforcements. They’ll be here by midday tomorrow."

"Fortunate we never intended on going in that gate," the Lieutenant said, half his mouth curling in a sly grin. "Show me where the Deserter's Door is, and you get to live."

"The Deserter's Door?" Theron asked.

The Lieutenant snapped his teeth, and the boy jumped.

"Everyone's determined to prove themselves a fool." The Lieutenant leaned forward, nostrils flaring. "The secret escape route discovered by a work crew ten years ago. It was closed up tight and guarded. It's been kept as a final option by the mine overseer since then in case of overwhelming assault, since it comes out the back side of that little hill from the front gate. You strike me as a curious boy, Theron. I'm sure you've seen it."

"And if I have?" Theron asked.

"Then you tell us where it is, and you walk," the Lieutenant said.

"Just like that?" Theron’s disbelief was obvious.

"Of course." The Lieutenant leaned in close to the boy. "The brand on your right arm labels you a conscript. You're a slave trying to make good. If you tell us where this gate is and you go back, you'll be killed for cowardice and consorting with the enemy. But if you walk away from here right now—well, there's no one to say what really happened up here, is there?"

Without hesitation, Theron stretched out an arm and marked a spot northeast of the mine's main gate. Lost in the crags, it would take them until nightfall to get there if they didn't want to be seen.

The Lieutenant smiled. "Good boy."

"So what now?" Theron asked.

The Lieutenant nodded, and Garm's fist crashed into the side of Theron's face. Blood ran, and the boy's eyes didn't quite know where to look as he tried to sit up. His teeth were still in place, and nothing appeared broken.

"You walk away." The Lieutenant stood. "That will swell up right pretty in half a turn or so. You walk out of the foothills toward the river. If someone stops you, you tell them you were sent running and got turned around—the bump to the head addled your brains. That bruise will corroborate your story and keep you from looking too much like a deserter. If you're lucky, you'll make it all the way out of Molthune, and we'll never see you again."

Theron sat, the words sinking in slow. Finally he hauled himself to his feet and offered a shaky salute. The Lieutenant returned it, and the boy walked away until he was out of sight.

"Conscripts," Garm said, and shook his head.

The Lieutenant jerked his chin toward the mountain. "There's more out there," he said. "Irregulars, keep your mouths shut, and your ears open. There are people counting on us in that mine, and I would hate to disappoint them."

Coming Next Week: Plotting a prison break in Chapter Three of Neal F. Litherland's "The Irregulars"!

Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit facebook.com/NealFLitherland.

Illustration by Lindsey Wakefield

The Irregulars

by Neal F. Litherland

Chapter Three: In the Black

"Are you sure it's here?" Trilaina whispered.

Chaplain nodded, thick brown braid bobbing. "See there and there, the stress fracture lines they tried to hide? And how the stone around it is worn smooth, but this one spot is chiseled? It's been here a while, but it still doesn't fit here."

"Dwarves know their rocks," Gunner said as he watched their back trail. As far as his eyes were concerned, it was still as bright as daylight, even with a sky empty of anything except stars.

"My father was a stonemason," Chaplain said, putting a glare into her voice. Gunner made a small gesture over his shoulder, a duelist conceding a point to an opponent. Trilaina shrugged and ran her hands over the rock, eyes narrowed as if she could see through the stone.

"Even if it is a door—and I'll take your word that it is—there would have to be a knob, or a trigger or something..." Trilaina trailed off and smiled. Her fingers disappeared into a hidden niche, and something clicked softly. "Looks like I found our way in."

"’Bout time," the Lieutenant mumbled. "I'm tired of standing out here in the dark."

"Details, details," the half-elf murmured. "Everybody ready?"

Tendons creaked and knuckles popped. Cold steel whispered out of sheaths and glimmered beneath the moonless sky as the team nodded their assent. Trilaina filled her free hand with a nasty little hawkbill blade and opened the door. Counterweights turned, pulleys groaned, and the hundred-stone weight swung wide.

The assault was precision-perfect, and quiet as a greased whisper. They charged into the blackness, teeth bared, ready to bring permanent silence to the dark places beneath the mountain. Instead they found an empty hallway, the door flanked by dark lanterns and lonely-looking chairs. A deck of cards sat on a scarred tabletop, dog-eared and forlorn. The air tasted stagnant, and cold as second-day stew. They lowered their weapons, and Chaplain pulled the door closed.

"Where is everyone?" Trilaina asked.

"They're watching the woods for bogeymen," Hook said. He popped a match and lit a lantern. "They're down a patrol, with one man still missing in action, and everyone up there is wondering where we are. Just as I figured. The way out is a secret, and it's one of about a hundred possible approaches. In the dark, most people wouldn't have a shot in hell of finding it."

"Where do we go from here?" Garm asked.

"You and Chaplain reconnoiter," the Lieutenant said, slinging a leather bag down off his back and reaching in to the shoulder. "Eliminate threats if necessary, but bring your mental maps back here. After that, we move on to stage two."

The soldiers nodded, and the darkness swallowed them. Trilaina and Lieutenant Hook donned stolen armor stained with blood and took seats at the table. Trilaina dealt a hand of a game called king is dead. Gunner leaned on the wall and watched the shadows. Denna lay down with her nose on her front paws. She took deep breaths and awaited the approach of strangers. Seconds turned to minutes like slow-burn alchemy, but none of them moved. They knew their work, and waiting was part of it.

On the third hand, with Trilaina dealing bottom deck, footsteps approached. They heard the soft whisper of bare flesh on the stony floor flanked by two sets of boots. Hands wrapped around hilts, and eyes turned to the shadows. A girl with close-cropped hair, strong shoulders, and a shapeless shift wrapped around her body walked out of the darkness, Garm and Chaplain on either side.

"Taking in strays now, are we?" Trilaina asked. Garm held up his right hand. The knuckles gleamed with fresh, red blood.

"There were supposed to be two guards at this post," he said. "They decided no one would come in this door, so they went off to have a bit of fun."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Chaplain's frown pulled her entire face taut, and her dark eyes simmered. Garm nodded grimly.

"I hope you didn't show them your gentle side," Trilaina said. Garm shook his head.

Chaplain is as good with people as she is with her hammer.

Chaplain gently touched the girl's arm. "Go on, Rulla. Tell the Lieutenant what you told us."

The girl stared at them, hard eyes still suspicious. She swallowed and looked back where she'd come from. Apparently she considered them the lesser of two evils.

"The guards put us all in our cells hours ago," she said. "They took every digger out of the hole and filled every bolt room. Except for Regan and Goblin, everyone else is up on the wall."

"Goblin?" Gunner raised an eyebrow.

"Ugly whoreson," Garm replied. "My guess is his parents probably saw one and decided it was a fitting name."

"Go on, Rulla, tell him the rest." Chaplain silenced her squadmates with a look. Rulla licked her lips.

"When the last guards went up, they barred the ore gate," she said. "There's no way in or out except the rear door unless that main gate is opened."

The Irregulars looked at each other for several long moments, letting the significance sink in. The Lieutenant smiled, and his troops smiled back. He stripped off the stained leather and tossed it aside. Trilaina slit the lacing and peeled her disguise off like an unwanted second skin. Garm lit the second lantern and handed it to the half-elf.

"New plan, everyone." The Lieutenant rubbed his hands together. "Gunner, get outside and watch the hilltop. If someone realizes the mountain's bleeding out the rear passage, they're going to stopper us up from both ends."

"Consider it done." Gunner mounted up, and Garm opened the door far enough for the duo to slip back into the dim night. He closed it without letting the door catch.

"Garm, did you get the keys from the guards?" Both the half-orc and the dwarf took out two sets of well-used iron keys. The Lieutenant nodded approvingly. "Rulla, is everyone down here a slave?"

"Yes, sir." Her eyebrows drew together. She looked unsure, but she also clearly knew it was too late to stop, even if she wanted to.

"Good. Are there any hard cases we need to know about?"

Rulla shrugged. "I suppose."

Hook nodded, stroking his chin. "Anyone that belongs in this hole?"

Rulla narrowed her eyes. "You're just trusting me? Just like that?"

"He does that," Garm said, looking back into the darkness.

"And you'd just leave them in those cages?"

"Probably not," the Lieutenant admitted. "But I might make sure they went last, after everyone else got a head start. That would make them the most likely to be caught, and it would give everyone else more time to get away."

"No," Rulla said. The Lieutenant raised one bushy eyebrow. "No, there's no one that I think will make trouble. No one wants to be here, and if they were given a choice, they'd run till their feet bled."

"Hopefully it won't come to that," Chaplain said.

"There's only two keys, but we have to be fast." The Lieutenant sucked his teeth, glaring at the imaginary clock in his head. "Garm, you and Chaplain unlock the cages and send people back to this room. We'll make this our jump-off point. Small groups, easily mobile. Look for night-sights and moonbeams, spread 'em around as necessary so we don't have a bunch of scared people stumbling around in the dark and making all kinds of noise. We can't give them lights, much as we might like to. They're a high priority, but not number one."

"What are you going to do?" Trilaina asked.

The Lieutenant pointedly sat down in the chair he'd vacated a moment ago. "I’m going to supervise. From here, I can bottleneck either way, and keep a leash on this whole thing."

Garm, Trilaina, and Chaplain nodded, then scattered. Silence rolled in like an ebb tide.

Rulla looked at the Lieutenant, who took out a long-stemmed pipe. At last, she could stand it no more.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

The Lieutenant slowly crossed his good leg over his bad one, then lit the pipe and puffed. "Why are you here, Rulla?"

"I was sold to a slaver by my husband to pay gambling debts to a bookie in Laekastel." Her tone was flat, yet the Lieutenant could still hear coals burning beneath the ashes.

"Cheliax." The Lieutenant turned the nation's name into a curse. "Molthune is a small man with big plans. It has everything it needs to become an empire: ore, timber, fertile soil, and a defensible border to keep it safe from invasion. But you can't fight wars without soldiers, and you can't reap or sow without farmers. It’ll take too long to do it the old-fashioned way. The saber rattlers want to be kings now. So they buy slaves."

Rulla nodded. The Lieutenant blew a smoke ring, then cocked his head and listened. He stood, holding the lantern high.

They appeared like bog ghosts—filthy, pale will-o’-wisps with wide eyes and bent backs. Most were human, but an occasional dwarf or half-breed stood out among them. Down in the darkness, they'd all become one, and it was as one they came to escape. The Lieutenant looked at them and grinned, tapping out his pipe as he blew the remnants through his nose like a dragon scenting prey. He glanced at Chaplain and jerked his head.

The dwarf stood up on the rickety chair, facing the room. The assembled slaves stared at her with red-rimmed eyes.

"Prisoners of Molthune, listen close." Chaplain was never loud, but when she spoke people listened. A murmur went through them, and they shuffled forward to hear her. "You have been bought and sold. You have been brought to this place and turned into little more than cattle that can swing a pick and carry stones. Today that life is over. Today we’re giving you back the freedom that never should have been taken from you."

A soft, furtive cheer went up, as ragged and dirty as the men and women that offered it. Chaplain held her arms out, quieting and embracing them all as she continued.

"The night is long and the mountains are treacherous. You need to move quickly and quietly. You’ll have to help each other get away. Eagerness will get everyone caught, so listen carefully and do as you're told."

Trilaina and Garm took charge, dividing the escapees into small groups. They went quickly, quietly, slinking out of the mountain as Gunner led them to safety. One group left, another got ready, and soon the numbers dwindled to nothing.

"Good speech," the Lieutenant said.

"Thank you sir," Chaplain replied.

The Lieutenant flipped the flap on his bag of tricks and dug down deep. He pulled out a wooden cask, stoppered with cork and smelling strongly of sulfur. Then another, and another, stacking them nearby. He eyed every member of the team, lips peeling back in a wolfish grin.

"Now comes the fun part."

Coming Next Week: The explosive final chapter of Neal F. Litherland's "The Irregulars"!

Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit www.facebook.com/NealFLitherland.

Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit facebook.com/NealFLitherland.

Illustration by Lindsey Wakefield

The Irregulars

by Neal F. Litherland

Chapter Four: Out with a Bang

They moved silent as breath through the empty tunnels, tucking charges into crevices and butting them against wooden support beams. The devil's scent of saltpeter made the caverns smell like Hell, ready to burn with a single, ragged spark. Fairy lights danced in the deeper darkness where the Lieutenant and Trilaina licked wicks and set fuses, making certain everything was perfect. Up near the ore doors, Garm and Chaplain laid their casks with held breath. They were so close they could smell the sweat of the Molthuni regulars on the other side of the barred doors.

The cleric tapped Garm on the shoulder and pointed to the columns that framed the entrance. Garm set the keg down like it was made of glass, gently turning it back and forth to set it in the dirt. He was repeating the process with the other side of the door when something caught his ear. He cut his hand through the air and crept closer, pressing a tattered ear to the central crevice.

"You heard from either of them, though?" A man's voice. "They haven't come up in hours."

"Probably off with that girl Goblin's always talking about," another voice answered. The second voice was deeper, harder, with something inhuman in its accent and ancestry. "He won't shut up about her. If'n she wasn't a slave, I think he'd try and marry her."

"If she wasn't a slave, Goblin would have been clapped in irons by now," the first voice answered.

"Truth," the gruff voice answered. The first said something else, but Garm couldn't make it out. When the conversation picked up again, the words were more intelligible, and they sent a chill down Garm's spine.

"Still, it's strange that they haven't even checked in." Leather creaked and chain rustled as the other guard shifted his feet. "Maybe we should go and take a look?"

"I see enough of those two as it is."

"Maybe it's time for them to take a turn up here." The first voice stifled a yawn. "Got to change posts, make sure everyone stays sharp. I'd rather be down there than up here."

"You go check, I'll keep eyes up here," the other guard said. "You've got fifteen minutes. After that, you're not my problem."

Garm jerked his head at Chaplain. They grabbed the last three casks, using the noise of the door as cover while they sped around a corner. Chains tightened, and the bar lifted out of its brackets with a groan. One door creaked, and weak lamplight slipped into the underground. The door shut with a hollow boom. Chains rattled, and the beam dropped back into place.

"Your loss," the first guard called back through the door. Garm and Chaplain flattened themselves against the wall as the man approached the turn, but he stopped and turned back the way he'd come. His spear clattered against the wall, and a moment later the rain gutter sound of an emptying bladder filled the cavern. They heard him kick dirt over the puddle, then the lantern creaked as he lifted it up. "What the hell?"

Garm's soles made no noise on the smooth stone as he slipped behind the man and wrapped an arm around his neck. The half-orc wrenched, and the guard's neck snapped like a dry-rotted twig. The rank smell of excrement filled Garm's nostrils, and he dragged the corpse as quietly as he could. He looked at Chaplain, who made the sign of the hammer over the dead man.

"I think we're out of time," Garm whispered.

"Agreed."

Chaplain grabbed the lantern, and Garm tore the lids off the remaining casks. Black powder glinted in the lantern light—sand with the breath of a volcano buried inside. Chaplain started down the hall, and Garm followed a moment later, leaving a trail of powder to the others kegs they'd already placed. Chaplain started humming an old dwarven tune the rest of the Irregulars would recognize, just in case someone got jumpy and started shooting at anyone carrying a lantern.

The Lieutenant is a little crazy, but all good officers are.

"What went wrong?" The Lieutenant stepped out from behind a pillar.

"Guard got curious." Garm poured out the remainder of the last cask. "His partner gave him fifteen minutes before he had to be back, and half of that's already gone."

The Lieutenant nodded. "All right, then. I'll slap the trigger together and hope for the best." He reached into a side pocket of the bag and pulled out three stoppered clay flasks. Fragile at the best of times, they'd do well enough for a timer. The Lieutenant laid the alchemical fire-flasks flat on their sides, and uncorked one more bottle. He leaned it carefully, the thick slosh of the caustic contents enough to give anyone pause.

Somewhere above them, an alarm bell brayed its single, brassy note.

The Lieutenant glared at the ceiling, then at the others. "Well? What are you waiting for, a bloody invitation? Get the hell out of here!"

They ran, but even the hard pounding of their footsteps and the muted call to arms overhead couldn't block out the pop of the cork, and the steady drip-sizzle of acid as it poured out onto the clay. They sped past supports and stress fractures, packed and fused, everything ready to blow at the first breath of flame. Garm slammed his shoulder into the exit door, sending it squealing open on its hinges. Trilaina leaped over the threshold, hair flying in a fan behind her and color riding high in her cheeks. Chaplain burst out last, boots dragging into the dirt as she tried to slow her forward momentum.

Gunner emerged from his post behind a nearby stone, Denna at his side. "What happened?"

"Lieutenant had to improvise the detonator," Trilaina panted.

The gnome's eyes shot wide. He swung into the saddle and put his heels to the she-wolf's ribs. Mount and rider took off like they'd been fired from a siege engine, vanishing down into the obscured path along the ridge.

"You'd think he would have waited," Trilaina said.

"Did you forget what happened last time we tried this maneuver?" Garm asked.

Before the half-elf could reply, the Lieutenant burst from the tunnel entrance, his bad leg making him lope like a retired race horse.

"I would suggest we run now," the Lieutenant said. He emptied a flask down his throat, the contents syrupy slick and reeking of corrupt sugar and fermented poison. His lips drew back, and a shudder went through him as everything in the old man cranked a notch tighter. Joints popped, tendons sprung to attention, and his skin creaked like leather as the formula took hold. "Race you!"

They ran, hell hounds that had slipped their leashes and had no intention of ever going back. They skidded and tumbled, leaping over rocks and dodging over smooth patches that cut corners around switchbacks. One step ahead of a broken neck, they made it to the gentler foothills and ducked behind an outcropping. Before they could draw more than a single breath, the fuse hit home.

It started small. A rumble shook the earth, like the snore of an ancient colossus rolling over in its sleep. Stones that had sat in the same place for centuries jumped and bounced, falling over one another in their hurry to escape the fury boiling inside the mine. Everything went silent. After a few more breaths, the squad peered out to look at their handiwork.

The mountain exploded.

The hidden door splintered as fire and flame belched from the stone throat. A choking cloud of dust followed, tinged red by iron dust. The valley shook, and a roar like a beast in agony echoed across the crags. The surrounding hills gave back the cry, turning it into a chorus of rage and pain. Then, like a child calmed after a nightmare, everything fell silent again.

The squad looked to the Lieutenant. He shrugged. "Let's circle back around, make sure all the slaves got clear and that we really did what we came here to do."

They took formation, and looped a wide circle back to the front of the mine. They obliterated tracks where they found them, and kept to the rocky areas where they could. They tried to stay low, crawling through ditches or ducking into dry ravines where they could move quickly without the risk of anyone seeing them.

Gunner was the first to break the silence. "Guys," he said, peering over the lip of a sheltered ridge. "Get up here. You're going to want to see this."

One by one, they crept over the natural wall to see what they'd done.

The mountain was the same, reared up squat and wide against the sky. The road up to the mine was still there, as was most of the geography they'd spent all of yesterday studying so thoroughly. But the mine itself was completely unrecognizable. All that was left was a depression filled with crumbled rock and the remains of a few structures that had fallen down into the hole when their supports collapsed. One defensive wall had been shaken out like loose teeth, and the other clung on, nearly pristine despite the destruction that had reshaped the landscape in a moment. Nothing moved down among the destruction, except the odd tongue of fire that licked across smashed beams or broken doors.

"I told you it was poorly built," Chaplain said.

The others grinned, and at a hand signal from the Lieutenant dipped back down out of sight. They hunkered close together, eyes combing fore and rear to make sure no unexpected outliers took them by surprise again.

"Everyone, listen up," the Lieutenant said. "We did good work. But this is just the tip of the iceberg."

He smoothed the settled dust and laid out the countryside all around him and his squad. Mountains to the east, flat countryside broken by cities and rivers to the west. With precise measurements he drew three more X's along the mountains.

"We've made a good start, but a few escaped slaves and a single collapsed ore pit aren't going to slow down the war machine that Markwin Teldas and his ilk have built in this little place," the Lieutenant said. "The plan right now is to stay one step ahead of the reinforcements that will be combing the mountains, and make sure we have a few encore performances before we head back home to Andoran, where I'm sure we'll be welcomed with open arms and enough medals to tear your tunics."

The Lieutenant put his right hand out over the map. The others did the same, gripping tight to each other. The Lieutenant smiled, and his troops returned it.

They were the best of the best of the bottom of the barrel. The bloody hands that broke locks and necks with equal aplomb. They had their mission, and nothing would stand in their way. Gods above and below help the poor fools who chose to try.

"Gunner, take point," the Lieutenant said. "If Trevon is to be believed, then we're going to have company very soon, and I doubt they'll be as thrilled with our night's work as we are." He rose stiffly to his feet. "All right, Irregulars, let's move out."

Coming Next Week: A sample chapter of Chris A. Jackson's new high-seas Pathfinder Tales adventure, Pirate's Honor!

Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit www.facebook.com/NealFLitherland.

Neal F. Litherland is the author of several other stories, including the novella "Summer People" and the short story "Heart of the Myrmidon," part of the post-apocalyptic romance anthology End of Days. He holds a Bachelors of Criminal Justice from Indiana University. For more information, visit facebook.com/NealFLitherland.

Illustration by Lindsey Wakefield