The darkness ahead was impenetrable, and while Alan knew the route by heart even after all those years, he couldn't count on the traps having remained the same. A moment later, and a torch was produced from his pack and lit. The flame sputtered and flared occasionally in the poor quality air within those sewers. Still, the flickering glow was better than nothing, and he made his way carefully down that passage.
What was only a few dozen yards and a few intersections could easily turn deadly to a careless explorer, but Alan was expecting the place to be rigged. He proceeded slowly, keen eyes roaming the dark, stained brickwork. A loose stone to be avoided here, a hair thin tripwire there, Alan was thankful he'd chosen to go this route alone. With the others tagging along, he would have had to stop to disable each trigger in turn, rather than simply step past. Past experience had taught him that dwarves and men in armor seemed to stumble into every thing left in their path.
Then there were the rats. Most of them fled before Alan's footsteps and the sputtering, flickering flame of his torch as it struggled to burn against the foul air. As he neared that stretch of brickwork where he'd have to start looking for that telltale crack in the masonry that marked the entrance he sought, two large black rats refused to retreat before him. The sleek, well fed creatures simply watched as he approached. Cursing under his breath, Alan waved his torch toward them, but only managed to almost douse the flame. The rats seemed supremely unimpressed.
Conscious of the need for haste, and wary of making too much noise, the old rogue turned his back to the rats and studied the damp bricks before him. There was the crack in the mortar, as he remembered, but someone in those passing years had outlined it in chalk. As he muttered about the laziness of youth, Alan drew his fingers along the crevice, toward that single brick he remembered so well.
With a faint click, and a slight grinding, the wall began to pivot inward. Alan hoped the noise would scare the rats away. The beasts had unnerved him ever since the prior night. As the brick wall swung inward, revealing the brief, darkened passage beyond, the memory swam in his head, of the battle with the rat man and the thugs in the street. His eyes shot wide as the realization of what those rats could be finally hit him, and he half turned to illuminate the empty spot where the rats had been with his torch.
It was this sudden movement that saved him, for a crossbow bolt whistled out of the dark passage just revealed, and slammed into his shoulder. If he hadn't turned, it would have buried itself in his chest. Still, while the wound wasn't immediately fatal, it very nearly crippled Alan's sword arm. His torch tumbled to the ground, where it lay, fortunately not extinguished. As he ducked to the cover of the brick wall, within the secret passage a strange and unwholesome figure was illumined from below by the weird flicker and glow of the grounded torch. Like the previous evening, the sight before Alan was a twisted amalgamation of man and beast, a furry humanoid figure with claws, an over-broad chest, a long tail, and a ratlike snout.
Cursing, Alan dropped his good hand to draw the silver dagger strapped to his thigh. After last night's encounter, they'd all taken precautions, but it looked woefully inadequate based on what he now faced. The pain of the bolt penetrating flesh and bone was agonizing, and it was all he could do to keep from passing out at each accidental movement of his shoulder. If he lost it now, however, he'd be dead and his wife would be condemned to whatever her captors had planned.
He could hear the wererat approaching, but it was moving slowly, no doubt fully aware he wasn't dead from that shot. With his options limited, Alan began to back down that sewer tunnel. With the silver dagger clutched in a white knuckle grip in his off hand, he gritted his teeth against the pain blossoming from his wounded shoulder. Forcibly, he struggled to fish a glass vial from his belt with that arm, even as blood coursed down his wounded limb.
As soon as the black-furred rat man rounded the corner, Alan flung that vial weakly forward. It was a haphazard throw at best, and the forced movement of that wounded arm brought a pained roar from his own lips. He didn't hit the rat man, but he didn't need to. As soon as the glass impacted the rough brick near the wererat's head, it shattered. The fluid within splashed out in an arc from the point of impact, and where it landed, there was a smoldering sizzling. The wererat cried out in pain as the splash from the acid began to eat into its flesh.
Enraged, the rat man abandoned all pretense of using that crossbow for another shot. It tossed the mechanism to the ground with a noisy clatter, then charged Alan. The old thief ducked under the first swipe of its claw, and pushed past it, causing those jaws to snap on air just where his head had been. The second of the brute's claws impacted his side, sending him into the wall. By the gods' graces alone, its claws didn't manage to penetrate the tough leather that sheathed his form.
With his earlier acid attack still boiling away on the creature's flesh, Alan stabbed his silver dagger up toward the creature's throat. The beast raised its arm in time to avoid a deadly blow, but the blade still sunk deep into the rat's forearm. The silver sizzled and burned against the shapeshifter's flesh, and with a quick twist and yank, Alan pulled the blade free.
Grievously wounded by acid and blade alike, the werebeast began to back cautiously up, retreating toward the darkness beyond the edge of that torch's dim illumination. Unable to let the thing flee to potentially warn others, Alan followed it along, his steps careful on the slick brickwork. When the creature hesitated but a moment, he took another swipe at it with that silver blade. The dagger's point found its way through the creature's defenses, and the wererat sank to the ground, its lifeblood seeping across the brickwork to join the trickle of filth coursing down the center of the tunnel.
With his foe vanquished, Alan wiped the silver blade on the beast's fur, then slipped it back into its sheathe. He didn't have time to pause and catch his breath, he had to get out of the sewer and up into the house. Besides the others waiting on his infiltration, the filth of the sewer was perhaps the worst place to take a wound. No doubt he'd have to have Garthur tend not only to the damage the bolt inflicted, but any vileness that had settled into the blood from the nature of his surroundings. Stumbling back toward the secret passage, he swept up that torch and stepped within. The brick wall slid back into place behind him with a solid grinding, and an audible click.
The wererat had been a walk in the park compared to what followed. After some inspection, Alan ascertained that the bolt had been barbed, and thus opted to leave it in the wound until Garthur could tend properly to it. Thus he doused his torch, and was forced to climb the rickety ladder up into the safe house one armed, in absolute silence. The pain faded from a constant torment to a dull throb, exacerbated by the occasional lancing agony when he moved the arm in question. It made it difficult to do what needed to be done, but somehow the old thief made his way from the hidden passage and into the halls above.
He crept down well kept halls decked in finery, only to pause from time to time to listen for the movements of those within the structure. From what he could tell, there were only two watching the front door, but as he crept toward them, a familiar cry sounded from behind one of the doors he was set to pass. It wasn't his wife, no, but something about that voice caused him pause. With the help of his friends no doubt but a few paces and a short fight away, Alan hesitated, then carefully cracked open the door from which he heard that woman's cry. What he saw turned his stomach.
Somehow, the young priestess Charity had been captured. Within the ornate room, the young blonde was shackled to a wall, the cruel iron suspending her wrists above her head. Her clerical robes had been rent from her form, exposing her lush curves to any who might view her. Clad only in the remnants of opaque white stockings, her body was displayed enticingly, from smooth thighs to the curves of her hips. Her slick folds were bared, that mound dusted by light blonde curls. Her taut belly strained, and her pale flesh glistened with perspiration. Full, pert breasts heaved with each quick breath, and those lips of hers parted to offer another cry, only to still when her eyes caught sight of Alan. The delicate blush which rose upon her cheeks at the sight of him was as alluring as anything else displayed there.
She wasn't alone. Before her, a dark haired man stood, wielding a whip. As he caught Charity's gaze, he began to turn. In a split second's decision, Alan acted. He never paused to draw his sword, he just sprinted forward, and wrapped his good arm about the man's neck. The muted struggle lasted but a little over a minute, as he choked the fight from the man without a word, then lowered the stilled body to the floor. Only then did the old thief draw a dirk from one boot to finish the job.
After his grim work was done, he snatched the keys from the man's belt, then rose to his feet and approached Charity. His eyes met hers, and she offered a shy smile.
"Alan," her tone was breathless, and the lack of formality brought a gentle smile to his own features.
