Chapter One

That was a mistake—shaking my head. Bolts of burning pain stormed through my skull and emerged through my eyeballs. I blinked several times before the blurry surroundings came into focus.

“He be rousing, boss,” grunted a rasping voice, letting me know I was a victim of abduction and not from a horrific hangover.

The throbbing almost obscured the pain in my tightly roped wrists locked behind my back. I tenderly lifted my head to take in my captors. Sitting behind an enormous bloodwood desk the size of a gnome’s hut was the corpulent figure of Fetterarsch, the secretive head of one of the three most powerful criminal rings in my port city of Duburoake. But for his most loyal lieutenants, few have seen him and lived. If I looked Fetterarsch, I as well would not appear in public.

Still, Fetterarsch’s distinctive features were widely known—massive in bulk and a tattooed face covered in green lizard-scales. I could now add to that description. He resembled a lard-filled jellyfish with tiny limbs; his just-as-tiny head like a wart on a troll’s buttocks.

It hurt turning to view the rogues at my sides, but I was rewarded with seeing two gnarly Blackwatch Goblins.

“Yah been troublin’ us long enough, ferret…”

“That be private inquisitor,” I interrupted Fetterarsch. “Just what are—”

I, in turn, was cut off with a cuff to the head. It hurt.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, you are a problem I can no longer tolerate,” he continued. “A trusted agent be now in the Baron’s dungeon. His incarceration would be reason enough for your disposal, but your meddling also ended the lucrative blackmailing of the head of the Duburoake Bakers Guild. And these not the first time you interfered in my business dealings.”

Fetterarsch’s Kofstamfen gang deals in blackmail, extortion and loans well above rates established by the Glavendale Royal Finance Commission.

“Hmm,” I murmured as if to myself, then scowled straight into the piggish eyes of the human blob. “Look at it in a positive light. The loss of funds could mean some needed belt-tightening—”

A nod from Fetterarsch earned me another cuff. It appeared he was sensitive to references to his waistline.

“I am no dolt, Barley,” the crime boss sneered. “It was way too easy kidnapping you. What did you plan being brought to my secret lair? To escape your bonds and turn the tables on me? Those concocted Weekly Tattler exploits have you and that Lorenzo Spasm made out to be some kind of super ferrets…”

“That be… ouch.”

“… but I know it be nothing more than absurd fantasies. What, your friend be from some other world? Such rubbish. You defeated the Dark Lords and drove the demons back to Hades? Hah! I am no fool.

“Still, reading those lurid tales was helpful. Even now you are finding your lock-picking tools no longer up your left sleeve—nor the different hidden blades. As for a miraculous rescue from Spasm, by now three of the most lethal assassins in Glavendale are discarding his body in the sewers of Old Towne. The next mention of you in the Tattler will be an obituary.”

“You forget about my agency partner, Witch Morgana,” I weakly countered, still barely able to think from either the blows to the head or poisoning. “She will curdle your innards until blood boils out your ears.”

“Again, do you think I have managed to gain the power I now hold through luck?” he snorted. “What will she know of your abduction? Nothing. The louts hired for your snatching are joining your friend in the sewer. I gave the rest of my underlings the day off. It be just you, the goblins and I.”

Damn. My picks and knives were gone. As for the assault on Lorenzo, that was a mistake on Fetterarsch’s part. My faith could be misplaced, but if past cases proved anything, there be no way just three assassins could pose a danger to Lorenzo. The assault would only result in leading him here. The question be, would he arrive in time?

I took stock of my situation. My ankles were not bound. If not for the Blackwatch Goblins, I could have stood and moved about, though my hands would still be chained behind my back. That would keep me from employing Kimchee, the ancient deadly art of thumb fighting.

I had forgotten how rancid Blackwatch Goblins smell, like the putrid odor drifting from some weedy ditch containing the maggot-covered remains of hapless roadway kill. Blackwatch Goblins are a knurly, twisted lot. Besides their poor hygiene, vile odor and scab-covered bodies, the Blackwatch Goblins are also recognized by their plaid black and grey dirty kilts.

My first introduction to the lot was when they spoiled a case five or six years ago. I was hired to solve a sinister episode in a small village outside Duburoake. I had my proof and was confronting the villain when a rabble of those dark goblins came flooding down the alley like a pack of junkyard pigs. It was obviously a hired whack. My quarry was an annoyance to many due to his lackluster social skills. Someone did not feel the need for the scofflaw’s sins to be addressed in court.

I barely escaped by way of rooftop. Goblins hate heights. By the time I gained a secure vantage, there was nothing left of the rogue but a bit of gristle, scraps of rag and a scattering of gnawed bones. The goblins were hungry. Their volatile nature and rude appetites usually keep them barred from the fussier establishments where eating other patrons be frowned upon.

I could not present the culprit, and my client would not accept a bucket of bones, so I was out the time and expenses.

I took a deep breath and spoke to my two scabby captors, “You two are as putrefied remnants of half-digested liver flukes. I’d rather smear my body with rancid goat butter and jump into a colony of army shrews than smell your slime-encrusted feet with nails like rotting clam shells and hair that sprouts from your hide as maggots erupt from corrupted flesh. Your mothers, in their blind hound-like heat, fornicated with the most simple-minded of mates, so they begat even dimmer-witted goblins.”

A shocked silence filled the room, with even Fetterarsch appearing stunned—and probably expecting to see his prisoner impaled upon the rusty blades of his hirelings.

The goblin to my left spun about, raised his hand and… slapped me upon the back in what was a pat for the goblin, but nearly knocking me off the chair.

“Hah-hah,” he roared. “Yah be all right, for a scrawny human.”

“While my gristle and sinew may be stringy, its flavor would be ambrosia compared to your pestilent-ridden carcasses that even the vilest cesspool maggot would scorn in favor of a ten-day dead, gaseous bloated corpse of a sewer toad,” I continued with more fervor. “I am sure your own mothers, as dimwitted as they had to be, first believed they passed a rotting turd before finding they had given birth to you malformed monsters.”

I flinched as the second goblin gave his slap of approval, sending another searing wave of pain within my head.

“Hah, me would not have believed a scrawny human could be so courteous,” he grunted in what was goblin mirth. He looked to his comrade and yowled his approval that sounded as from a dying creature being disemboweled in a hellish abattoir.

“Stop that heinous yapping at once,” ordered Fetterarsch.

“Ah, take yore wagging tongue and shove it up my arse,” the lead goblin rudely replied. “We be just welcoming a new comrade.”

The reply definitely surprised Fetterarsch. He looked from me to the goblins as if they were pulling a jest.

“Ah, though it be a repulsive experience for me to come into the odorous proximity of your pestilent-ridden presence,” I addressed the two. “I must be going.”

They appeared confused and looked to Fetterarsch, who angrily shouted, “I will have you two flayed and staked on a lava ant nest. You know your orders.”

Blackwatch Goblins might appreciate a good insult/compliment, but threats are a different matter.

They scowled at the sputtering gang leader, though the goblin to my right grumbled, “He did promise us this meal after this be done.”

“I know the way a simple meal can be turned into a great feast,” I quickly replied, guessing I was the intended snack.

It only took a nod of my head in the direction of Fetterarsch for the goblins’ eyes to light up and a bit of drool to seep from their blubbery lips.

It was challenging to ignore the following ruckus—a nauseating combination of wet gurglings, snapping bones and quickly ending screams and whimpers. Skirting the voluminous flow of blood and other body fluids, I made my way to where my belongings had been carelessly thrown. It was a great relief to find my picks and blades, including my trusty saber.

My bonds cut, I cautiously opened the stout doors to his study and surveyed the empty hallway. A following search proved Fetterarsch did actually send his minions away. Despite my pounding headache, there was no way I could let such a rare opportunity slip away. Working my way from room to room, I came upon a closet-sized vault.

Tsk-tsk. What hubris. Maybe Fetterarsch thought that because the vault was the property of the feared Kofstamfen gang, there was no need for the latest in security. The heavy iron door was stout enough, but the combination lock was outdated before I was born. It took but five minutes to be gazing in amazement at what could only be the Kofstamfen’s treasury. Bowls of rare gems and jars of gold coins laden the shelves lining the small room.

My eyes were drawn from the sparkling glitz to several lidless chests filled with papyrus sheets. A closer examination showed it to be the criminal organization’s files detailing its finances and how much and to whom bribes were paid. There was also a list of all Kofstamfen’s employees, from street thugs to its upper echelon—many thought of as stellar members of Duburoake society.

I filled a satchel with the most important and damming records. There was no sense in not depleting some of the gang’s wealth. All the jewels and some of the coins quickly filled a second cloth bag. There would be quite a surprise for those arriving the next morning. Because of Fetterarsch’s efforts at secrecy, none would be the wiser to who was behind their leader’s horrid death, nor the vault thefts. I could only imagine the ensuing panic at the news of the missing files.

It was nearing sunset when I exited the dark, brooding building that had served as Fetterarsch’s hidey-hole. I did not recognize my immediate surroundings but could tell I was in the ancient quarters of Duburoake known as Old Towne. Having donned a cloak found in one of the rooms, I pulled its hood low and stepped into the empty street.

“I met your friends,” an unnerving voice from behind made me jump in startlement. “I must say they were an ill-mannered bunch.”

“You should have met the ones upstairs,” I replied after turning to see Lorenzo. “What took you so long?”

~ * ~

“So, there you have it,” I incompletely filled in my half-brother, Examiner Hald, one of the Baron’s constables. “I found Fetterarsch dead and here are his gang’s files. This should cause a stir in Duburoake.”

Of all my half-siblings, he is the most orthodox with his well-groomed countenance. Though we run very different quarters, I cannot help but look at his neatly trimmed brown hair and square chin and feel affection. I know the feeling is returned.

Father might not have been a very good parental figure for his numerous offspring, a downright miserable one since he did not remain to see even one of his many offspring birthed, but he did leave behind an expansive network of kinship for his whelps that transcends the usual social and economic barriers of a provincial capital like Duburoake.

Father was impartial when it came to pretty women, whether they be scullery maid or duke’s daughter. His whereabouts and state of health remained a mystery through my youth since many good fathers and husbands of the berg nourished ill feelings. Many believed he fled to a far realm to ply his talent among a less suspecting populace.

My Frajan sister be among the few half-siblings who know of our true parentage: King Garsten Stee Hragen. We discovered our father’s identity on a trip to the Glavendale capital city of Stagsford. We met Baron Garsten Stee Hragen on the way through the Megaoulas Mountains. I did later play a part in his assuming the throne from the depraved King Kenton.

In other principalities, such birthing might be of some import, but given the formidable proclivity of our father’s youthful indulgences, it mattered little. So, we all kept silent on the riddle of our siring. I did like to believe my fleeting times with Garsten through the rather perilous ordeals did endear me to him. It was a card I preferred not to play unless faced with the direst of dangers.

“I, I can hardly believe this,” Hald spoke with difficulty, staring at the documents spread across his desk.

He nervously glanced at his now-closed office door. “Speak of this to no one. These documents prove what I have always suspected; there are many within the constabulary on the grift. Our lives would be worthless if they found we had these documents.”

“We cannot ignore them,” I protested.

“Let me think,” Hald groaned. “Also mentioned are agents in the Clandestine Information Authority.”

That was a problem. Normally the CIA could be counted on to not be involved in local affairs.

“What?” he asked as I straightened up and smiled.

“Problem solved if this were to become common knowledge,” I answered.

~ * ~

“No worry,” Sergey Varvervane, publisher of The Weekly Tattler, assured me for the tenth time. “I can have the Tattler distributed throughout Duburoake before the villains get out of bed.”

“Are you sure you can trust your typesetters and printers? What if one were to leak this before you publish?” I worriedly asked again.

Sergey sighed at my apprehensions. “As I said, they are a trustful lot. But as added precaution, we will hole up until the Tattler hits the streets. Quit your worrying.”

While some might be hesitant to deal in such dangerous knowledge, my friend was ecstatic at the thought of breaking such a momentous exposé. Normally, The Weekly Tattler prints the likes of youths raised by savage chickens in the sewers of Duburoake, a hybrid child known as Bat Lad, swine mutilations perpetrated by denizens of the moon and reports that the deceased minstrel Elfin Pulley is alive and flipping muskrat paddies at a mineral springs spa. He be a faultless news scribe in that his creativity often surpasses his flair as a fact gatherer. Sergey has also published accounts of my exploits, such as “The Case of the Dark Lords Conspiracy,” “The Case of the Seven Dwarves” and “The Case of the Temple of Dorga, the Fish-Headed-God-Of-Death.”

“Three days from now,” he concluded, “your worries will be over, and they will just begin for these scofflaws.”