Queens Dog

I pulled my hat closer to my nose and hunched my shoulders. Condensation dripped off my hat as I shivered in the bone chilling fog. The fog was thick, thick as the sludge in the Stormwind canals, but the smell of death was thicker. That was because this is Tirsfal Glades and a sorrier hole of ex-humanity has never been found in these eastern kingdoms.

The name is Noah “Dutch” O’Rourke. I used to work for SI7 when I was breathing, a fact our lovely Queen did not hesitate to use when she roped me into her service as a Deathstalker. Don’t let her beauty fool you; the Queen is a ruthless and brilliant bitch. It was in her name that I was out there in that light forsaken fog, returning to report the speedy dispatch of some joker foolish enough to make her angry.

I sighted the Tavern through the fog and my step picked up in spite of my exhaustion from the days travel. The Tavern was shoddy but warm and roach free. A fire was lighting the room from the sheer fierceness of its writhing red flames and a group of people were gathered close to the heat. The center of attention seemed to be a warrior who was telling the story of his defeat of Alliance forces against overwhelming odds. That story must have been often repeated because a skinny female corpse, whose face had definitely seen better days, was leaning against the mantle looking bored out of what was left of her skull.

The bartender was already pouring a shot of my favorite poison. I nodded my thanks and turned around to look at the crowd of rapt locals who were enthralled by the story being told. Only a few people were ignoring him, a pair of women with their heads huddled together, a man with his head bent polishing the aforesaid warrior’s armor and a man sitting in the corner with his chin on his hand, staring out of the window.

I took the bottle of rotgut with me over to the window and set it down near the pensive stranger. “Care to share?” said I. “Don’t mind if I do,” said the stranger, “Mickey Jessup is the name.” I poured Mickey a shot and introduced myself. “I am surprised you ain’t over there listening to that blowhard,” said Mickey. I raised an eyebrow and Mickey said, “Never gives the rest of his team credit, that one.” and nodded at the expounding warrior. “I should know, I am his priest,” said Mickey, “pride goeth before the fall and that one is going to fall like Lucifer himself if he don’t mend his ways. “ I nodded once and said,” That yakkity man someone I should know?” Mickey said, “The only two things you need to know is that man is Yosef Bernholt and that he is a fraud.” I thanked Father Mickey for his company and headed up to bed. I slept like a well fed baby.

I woke to a frantic pounding on the door. My tongue felt like it had been carpeted by industrious ants while I slept. “Mr. Dutch! Mr. Dutch! Wake up Mr. Dutch, please!” begged the voice at my door. I was going to ignore the voice and head back to dreamland until the voice said, “There’s been a murder Mr. Dutch!” I heaved out of bed, heaved into the wastebasket, slapped on my hat and headed out the door.

It is not every day you see a guy laying on a bed with a six foot long sword impaled through him, the bed and the floor. That is just what greeted me upon walking into the crime scene. Yosef was cursing fluently in Orcish. The stream of language would make the most diamond-faced person blush. “Can the tongue a moment, friend,” I said, “Do you remember anything?” Yosef stopped cursing and said, “Only the spirit healer and then I was back here. Do you know how much the damage to my breastbone is going to cost to fix?” Yosef went back to cursing fate, people, the situation and anyone he thought was responsible. I ignored him and let my eyes wander around the room.

I examined the window closely but there appeared to be no damage. “Sleep with your window open?” I asked the victim. “Not in this foul smelling dung pile.” said Yosef. I could see he was eager to make friends with the locals. I leaned against the bed frame and asked, “Why would anyone wanna kill a nice fella like you, what with your manners and all?” “Jealousy!” declared Yosef with a defensive hunch of the shoulders, “What else could it be?” I looked at the bed then looked up, “Well,” I said, “they were jealous enough to pry up the roof.” I picked up a sliver of wood from the bed where Yosef lay pinned. “I’ll get some locals to help you with that sword”, I said, “If you talk nicely to them they might not do any more damage when they un-steak you.”

I went downstairs to the common room and flashed my credentials. “When I find out who did it you are going to have a nice talk with our Queen. If she is in a good mood she might not give you to Apothecary Keever.” I let that information sink in a moment and said, “If anyone wants to talk I will be upstairs in my room.” I turned to the Bar Keep and said quietly, “Get me three Deathstalkers. Send two to get the sword out of the victim and send one to see me. Gimme a bottle of the good whiskey too.” Being the Queen’s dog has some benefits. I trod up the stairs and waited for my first visitor.

The first visitor, visitors I should say, were the two girls who were talking with their heads together at the fire last night. I wondered briefly if they could do anything separately and then put on my nice face. In between the tears they both insisted they did not harm Yosef and treated me to an exposition of the feats and greatness of this individual. If you believed those two dames, this Yosef guy was a man of greatness rivaling Uther himself. “Oh, yeah? How come I ain’t heard of him?” I said skeptically. “Well, he doesn’t put himself forward.” said the girls nearly in unison. I showed them out. The Deathstalker I had asked for was next. I gave him a letter and told him to travel to Undercity give it to Varimathras; On his heels came Father Mickey. I offered him a drink, which he declined, and we got down to business. “Did ya do it Mickey?” I said. “I wish I had, but I didn’t” said the padre. I asked him about Yosef and his “greatness”. “He sacrificed himself to make sure a Pit Lord died and saved a whole village at Hyjal back when he was human. That makes him a big man to some. The way he describes it, his wounds get worse with each telling.” said Mickey. Then he hunched in conspiratorially, “If you ask me there is somethin’ crooked about him.” I swirled the ice in my glass and poured another drink. “Why do you work for this guy then?” I asked and leaned back in my chair. Father Mickey looked suddenly very weary, “I ain’t got no pride and he pays well. An old man like me has few options to survive. I…..I deserted during Mt. Hyjal and it is common knowledge. He’s crooked but he is damn near my only way to stay fed.” Mickey shook his head slowly, “I owe him but a man don’t like to take charity.” Father Mickey finished his drink and left with his head bowed.

I stared into my drink turning the information over in my head. I was getting ready to go get lunch when a shadow sliced along my line of sight like a blade. The hard faced woman who had been leaning against the mantle of the fire last night was now leaning in the doorway. I tilted my hat back and took a look at her. She wasn’t bad looking for a corpse. “I’m Myrna Lloyd.” she said and walked toward the table. I gestured for her to have a seat and waited for her to say something interesting. “Ain’t you gonna offer me a drink?” she pouted. I poured her a couple fingers of whiskey while keeping one eye on her. She drank it down like it was grape juice. “What do you want?” I spat. Never trust a dame, they say. I didn’t trust any words dropping from this one’s slightly mildewed mouth. Myrna broke then and said, “You don’t want to know who did this Mister. It will just cause more harm than good.” I stood up from the table abruptly knocking the chair that I had been sitting in backward. Leaning forward I snarled, “Who did it Myrna? You can save yourself a whole lot of trouble.” Myrna’s hands shot to her mouth and she said, “You don’t know, Mister! People depend on that man’s wallet! Don’t ruin us!” Ichor tears were oozing down her wrecked face now. I did not know what to say, so I said nothing, and left Myrna crying in my room.

In the common room, Yosef’s companions talked and drank while I rustled up lunch. While I was talking to the barkeep, I felt a pair of eyes drilling into the back of my skull. I turned around and saw that the eyes belonged to the man who had been polishing armor near the fire the night before. The intensity of his gaze was like a slap. It was the most concentrated and pure hatred I have ever seen present in a man’s eyes. I went to eat in the kitchen.

The Deathstalker returned after lunch with a box of paperwork from one of Varimathras’ stooges and a requisition form. I signed and then got comfortable with my new reading material. By dinnertime, I knew who put the sword through Yosef. I poured myself a drink and wrestled with my conscience. Sometimes a guy gets tired of being the Queen’s dog no matter how beautiful her face. I packed my bag and the paperwork. Then I went downstairs and told them all the case was unsolved and looked like it would never be solved. Then I told the innkeeper to bill the Queen and left. I was fifty feet down the road when I heard the Padre behind me, “What did you do that for Mickey?” he said. I turned around, “Charity is hard to take ain’t it Mickey?” I said. “You stabbed Yosef and you didn’t care how many people you hurt.” “Come on Dutch,” Mickey said, “no priest is strong enough to carry that sword.” “No, a priest is not,” I said, “but a warrior is strong enough and strong enough to pry up the boards from the ceiling. When you deserted at Mt. Hyjal, you were a Man-at-Arms, Mickey. You went into the priesthood after you died, hoping to hide yourself, but you couldn’t, and your reputation followed you. You were pretty hard up until you found a hero and his squire who took you up out of charity. They knew a jawless hero would not be able to advertise for jobs, see, so they switched places and maybe the Squire has been telling the story so much he believes it now. But you Mickey, you hate him don’t ya and if you can make them look worse then you, well, then you have a chance of getting away from being a charity case ‘cause most people have forgotten Mickey the Deserter.” I continued, “You didn’t care who you hurt did you? You didn’t care that a few people would have their lives destroyed. It was all about you Mickey. It was all about you.”

“Why you,” Mickey whined, “I oughtta….”, but I never found out what Mickey oughtta done because two Deathstalkers stepped out of the shadows and seized him to take for his audience with the Queen. “Whatever God you worship have mercy on ya.” I muttered as the Deathstalkers manhandled him. The Queen is pretty when she is mad.