Chapter 3 - Part 3

The Iron Orphan paced in his cell, puzzling over the biology book he was reading. He now understood that many of the races of this world - and indeed there were an astonishing number of races that were considered sentient and living – had an appreciation for art. The Orphan was not sure what art was, although he knew which pictures he liked. He was trying to figure out what part of the organic body produced a need for art.

He heard footsteps, trying to move quietly. Two sets of feet. Down the hallway he saw torches go out, apparently by themselves. Then the light by the mithril-clad one winked out.

“Hey!” snarled that warforged. “Who turned it off?”

A bolt of something came out of the darkness, slapping into that warforged with a sucking sound. The Orphan heard a thump as the mithril one fell over, silent.

The footsteps grew closer, and he heard chanting. The light Pienna had cast went out. The darkness was total, and The Iron Orphan could see nothing.

But he could hear a clicking at the lock to his cell. Not the sound of a key, but the sound of something being opened.

By memory alone he picked up the lamp that his cape-clad visitor had left him, the one he had hidden behind a stack of Pienna’s books. Covered by the sounds of more clicking he struck a piece of flint and produced a spark, lighting the taper.

The sudden light showed two figures, humans presumably, clad in black wool and black leather armor. They had goggles over their eyes, and masks on their faces. One was kneeling and working at the lock with thin sticks of metal, and the other had a crossbow.

The crossbow fired, but The Iron Orphan was already moving, and human had shot before aiming. The bolt went wide, and it slammed into the wall, producing a furious, tearing sound as it burst apart the stone.

The Orphan lunged, reaching through the bars, and grabbed the kneeling human’s shirt. He jerked the lockpicker forward so that his head banged on the bars. Dazed, the human offered no real resistance when the Orphan took his goggles.

The other human had backed up and was rewinding the crossbow. It was one of the larger kind, and it was taking him a great deal of time. The Orphan noted that the human’s hands were shaking.

“Will I know why you attack me?” asked the Orphan, tying the goggles on. He was astonished to find that they let him see farther than the lamp. His vision was in back and white, but otherwise he could make out full details in the darkness for some distance.

The human did not answer, but loaded another bolt and took careful aim. The goggles let the Orphan see the runes painted onto the bolt. The warforged grabbed the other human through the bars again and held him up as a shield. The crossbowman hesitated.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” the Orphan said, putting an arm around the human’s throat and applying pressure. “Please put your weapon down.”

The crossbowman lowered it, as if acquiescing, but then raised it quickly and fired. Somehow the Orphan intuitively knew that the man was not going to disarm and he dropped himself while letting his captive go. The bolt hit the bars, and the detonation blew a long hole in the metal.

The human who the Orphan had released drew a dagger from his boot and threw it skillfully between the bars. The warforged shuddered as his senses informed him of the pain in his midsection. The crossbowman was winding up for another shot.

“No,” the other human said as the Orphan yanked the dagger out. “Those are too expensive.” He pulled out a scroll and began to read from it.

The Orphan jumped to the side, somersaulting with his hands without even thinking about it. No need to reject all of my programming, he thought, even as fluid flew in a spray from his torn midsection. It still hurt very badly. Even before he landed upright and threw the knife, flames burst out from the scroll, creating a giant fan of fire where the Orphan had been only a second before. The edges of it caught him, searing his body, but his scream was for his book, not himself. The precious tomes of knowledge burst and burned, their contents obliterated.

He felt the knife go, and he knew it was perfect. End over end the dagger flew, and it sank into the arm of the crossbowman. The man shrieked, but held onto his weapon.

“You have spent much magic to get me, much worth!” shouted the Orphan in a desperate and bitter voice. “You have destroyed books, damaged House property, and for what? Why am I your enemy?”

He did not expect them to react, but they did. The one who had used the scroll pulled his dagger from the crossbowman’s arm. That human yelped, and fumbled about for a potion bottle. The first human gripped his dagger in a ready-to-throw position, watching Orphan.

“It’s nothing personal,” said the human with a dagger. “We were hired to do a job.” He feinted a throw, but the Orphan was watching his eyes and did not fall for the bluff.

“House Cannith can destroy me any time that they wish to,” the Orphan answered, tensing his feet. He saw the wounded one finish the potion and reload the crossbow as the gouge in his arm closed up. This bolt had no runes on it. “They want me alive. If you kill me, they will come after you.”

The one with the crossbow hesitated, looking at his companion. The Orphan never took his eyes off of the knife-thrower’s eyes.

“Not everyone in Cannith agrees with each other,” the man laughed. He threw the knife in a quick motion.