Bad Hand

The city of concrete, the bustling hub of commerce, the great grand city of Daggard Keep in all its monument to the Onokrin Empire. It was here that the humble origins of the Blackwood Abbey began and where an unknown street urchin came to be known as the lord of coin, Bagman Herod. How he became such is a subject of legend, a tale filled with half-truths and lies and grander and grander renditions trying to outdo each other with every telling. What is true and what is false is known only to Herod himself and no one is a greater liar of his legend than the lord himself. Herod only knew for sure that the secret to his success was his uncanny and almost fate defying luck. He was always in the right place at the right time, he always made the right bet, he would always succeed when anything was left to fate. It was this control of his luck, for chance to always resolve in his favor, that made him the lord he was today.

Yet, it also made him arrogant, prideful, to know that fate favored him and that every fight, every encounter, every challenge down to a meaningless coin flip to an assassination attempt he would always be simply too lucky to lose made one feel like they were unstoppable. Such arrogance cannot live forever, it engenders ire and resentment from those who were forced to rely on or work with Herod. This problem only grew as the abbey grew, a criminal empire of smuggling and racketeering that nearly every noble paid into for any number of reasons. Herod’s reach extended across not just the federation he hailed from but to the Onokrin and even the Steel Legion. His criminal empire was one of envy and the greedy eyes saw what he built and began to plot against him.

-

Herod walked with hands in his pockets, watching the lazy morning play out across the streets of Daggard Keep. He was in the merchant district, near the taverns and redlight houses, strolling down the concrete sidewalk while he watched wagons rolling slowly across the cobblestone roads. What few people were about sleepily walking to their day jobs paid him no mind, those that noticed who he was offered a respectful nod, yet the haze of the sun only just peeking over the clouds made for a quiet and uninterrupted stroll through the streets of the keep. Herod himself was in his usual good mood, his clothes a fine set of black pants and a finer brown coat with orange trim and onyx crystal buttons. A flat cap adorned his head between his saucer-like rodent ears, his tail decorated with a fine golden bracelet and emerald inlaid stone to match his emerald rings on each finger. He was dressed as gaudily as possible, more than his usual far humbler attire, because he was going to a big meeting today. Various crime lords, both under his payroll and from syndicates he had a decent enough relationship with were all meeting to discuss recent events. A shake up had occurred, a plan gone awry. The lord of ash, Tarkus, had recently been deposed by casus belli, a fight between lords to settle grievances. What few knew is that this had been a set up to shuffle the land into another lords domain, one by the name of Linebreaker Toragg.

The problem now, as Herod saw it, was that Toragg had fucked up. Perhaps fearing the ash lord Toragg had sought the aid of wolf king Rannick, a far more unpredictable and savage lord. From what Herod had read in the reports, Rannick was the only lord that Toragg could petition for aid, else he would have chosen one loyal to the same syndicate paying the libebreaker. The result was when the duel took place Tarkus had lost his second in command before the fight, something Herod was sure was caused by foul play but had no confirmation on, yet instead of Rannick joining Toragg for an easy kill he backed off stating some nonsense about fair honorable fights. Unfortunately for Herod’s associates, who wanted to have Toragg take Tarkus’ land after killing him and thus be indebted to them, Tarkus killed Toragg and then Rannick defeated Tarkus. Now the three fiefdoms and the proverbial gold mine of wealth was under Rannick’s control and reports stated that the first syndicate envoy to approach the wolf king was fed his own entrails before being beaten to death. What happened to the syndicate assassins sent in revenge Herod did not verify, but it was likely an even worse fate.

Now this meeting to discuss what to do was one Herod stood to gain a lot from, as no doubt everyone wanted Rannick dead and Herod was the only one with a direct line to Boss Yaga, his second in command and the lord of assassins. As he viewed her, she was his enforcer and a murderer without equal, but even his reckless nature was not foolish enough to ever take her for granted. He was not even sure that he could convince her to try and kill Rannick. The wolf king was a dangerous man, enough that even Herod wondered if he would be risking too much by asking her to try. But it was worth it to show up to this meeting, to see what the other syndicates were up to and, more importantly, hear how much they were willing to offer him for Yaga’s services. So here he would come, larger than life and dressed to impress, his wrapped footpaws plodding up to his favorite bar, the Silver Iscariot. The only problem so far is Yaga was not with him, urgent business called her elsewhere but that was hardly unusual.

Seeing old bar that was the Iscariot and this street on such a dreamy morning made him reminisce about the old days, back when he had started his criminal enterprise nearly twenty years ago. Back then he had just been a rat with a dream, a measly six shooter and a plan as half-baked as it’d ever get. Yet still he had stumbled, cited by many of his detractors, dick-first into success. It had begun with a string of robberies to secure funding, obtaining the aid of a few local street thugs looking to make a name for themselves just as Herod was. Alley-way muggings, most against drunken louts and on very rare occasion a lesser noble or merchant. The money came in, slow and in small amounts, but tarnished knives and rusted revolvers soon became finely edged blades and professionally smithed firearms. His racket of muggers did not go unnoticed, other gangs began to muscle in on what they felt was Herod’s up and coming business ventures.

Those were the days, Herod thought dreamily, before he had Yaga to take care of his killing. Back when he was knuckle deep in the action, his revolver flashing, his hand fanning the hammer as six shots became six lead clots and men fell before him. Ducking and weaving through flashing swords and the thunder of bullets sending death whizzing past his head while he reloaded for another six rounds of killing. Herod’s group of toughs grew from a few random nameless street thugs to an organized gang and by the time they had killed and absorbed the territory of four other gangs they had expanded from merely plain robberies to protection rackets, gambling clubs, and smuggling. When they purchased their first headquarters, however, that was when the ball really got rolling.

Gangs are small time, common and often coming and going so rapidly that few syndicates or organized crime will bother taking notice. Herod’s operation was growing to the point that it was no longer capable of being ignored. This came with attacks from all directions as one thing syndicates can agree upon is that competition is bad for extortive business. Local police began arresting his men with half the charges about as real and believable as wooden teeth. Fires broke out in the back room gambling halls, smuggled goods disappeared enmasse, and worst of all was the handpicked enforcers and made men were being killed off. The largest bounty, naturally, had gone on Herod’s head but by then he had started to become something of a legend. His operation grew fast and exploded in wealth, that alone swelled his ego, but it was dealing with the assassins that truly made his name known. If they hadn't tried to go for him, if they had just gone for what he built, he might never have become a lord.

Herod was not really a fighter, at least not in the conventional sense, he was no empire legionnaire fighting and dying on the front lines of war. He was not a professional officer, a mercenary, not even a ship captain or hunter. Yet he was no slouch in a fight, he knew how to use his highly customized revolver with an efficiency and lethality that kept him alive all these years. When bounty hunters and would-be assassins came to collect, he stacked piles of their dead with ruthless efficiency. The first few, the weakest, he killed with ease. The later ones, ones who came only when the price on his head rose to be worth their talents, those were a challenge. Yet every time he came closer and closer to death he escaped, he avoided it by the skin of his teeth and put an end to the problem with a single bullet. Herod soon had a body count of some of the best killers felled by his revolver and soon it brought the notice of Boss Yaga.

Boss Yaga, the woman he now considered his right hand, a towering lagus of good looks and full figure marred only by the plain quality of her appearance. She had her own legend, a lord outright, the master of shadows and the butcher of men. Her long and storied tale of blood was well known to Herod when his contacts revealed that his rivals had commissioned her to come and kill him. At the time, Herod had not yet become a true lord, but he felt he was on the verge of it. Deep down, he knew that this fight against Yaga would determine either his final rise into legend or his death.

In the end, it resolved in his favor, Yaga was a strange and mercurial woman. In a way and even after decades of knowing her he did not truly understand how her mind worked or why she did what she did. In many ways, he was not sure why she had betrayed her employers and joined him, he knew that they had planned to pay her a pittance for what they would earn if Herod died but beyond the money he could never quite tell. None the less, to not only live when the lord of assassins had come to kill him but to convince her to betray her employers and join him? That secured his legend, that made him a lord, from that point forward he was known as Bagman Herod, the lord of coin. His operations went into overdrive then, with Yaga at his side as his enforcer and people lining up to join his ranks. His businesses and ventures were quite literal money mines. Within a few years, everyone paid into the abbey, everyone was either on his payroll or paying him to even operate. Those who caused problems were easily killed and anyone who even got close to rising against him was struck down swiftly and mercilessly.

But that was years ago now, Herod rarely tried to expand his business these days. He enjoyed the fruits of his labors, his success, the unshaking fist he had upon the criminal world rarely ever needed to squeeze now. Hell, just looking down the street to the Silver Iscariot he could note that nearly every business was paying the blackwood protection money. From the Iscariot itself to the two-bit thugs lurking in the alleys, Herod was getting his due. Why bother trying to make all the money in the world when he had more than he could ever spend? Just a shame he could never really own the Silver Iscariot, that special place that was held by a family far older than his syndicate.

For a tavern and gambling hall, the Silver Iscariot was one of the best, owned by an ogre who catered almost exclusively to the upper echelons of society. It was high class, flashy, the type of place you needed a reservation to get a reservation unless you were a lord. Lords could get a table, a seat at the bar, a drink and a meal for free any time any day because it was the one place a lord could drink among only the finest of society. The nobles and tittering sycophants that attended to be among these lords, desperate to make connections and curry favors, paid their weights in gold to simply have a chance and more than made up for whatever a singular lord’s appetites were. Herod liked the place, but he did not attend it much, he learned long ago the best way to keep his reputation was to be enigmatic and let his legend proceed him. Now, on such an auspicious morning, he walked up to greet the lone doorman.

A massive orc, almost as big as a small ogre stood guard at the reinforced steel door, dressed in a fine cut leisure suit that looked almost expensive enough to buy a house and yet here he was leaning against the brick walls of the establishment smoking a cigar and treating it like the uniform it was. Classy, Herod thought. “Well ‘allo ‘allo’ allooo! Wos’ all dis den? Big Bagman Herod ‘ere in the flesh?” The orc bellowed with a cheerful tusked grin, his smile disarming. Herod liked him already and understood immediately why this orc was the doorman. Charisma was in his tone, his smile, his entire body language. So much so that even as he used low slang, an insult to anyone let alone a lord, and yet Herod could not help but chuckle in return at the audacity. “You knew I was coming.” Herod replied, his own smile disarming. An understanding was made between them immediately. This enforcer was a huge brute, the type of man who could bang your girl and still hit you up for money a day later, one who was an experienced fighter and dangerous. Herod understood that, just as he knew this man would know how many people Herod himself has killed and likely knew Herod had a revolver hidden in his coat and the bagman was a crack shot with it. An unspoken respect deepened when Herod paused at the door.

“How many?” Herod asked, reaching into his coat for a cigar, he pulled out a premium import from the southern swamps of the Steel Legion. Expensive, rare, and a fine cut line of tobacco that he offered to the orc casually. “Six, twenty bar boys, no gentlemen, and you will be seated alone.” The orc said, dropping the low speech and adopting the formal tone most orcs carried. He snubbed his cigar before tossing it in the street gutter, lighting up the new one offered by Herod. Six crime bosses, twenty enforcers, no lords, and Yaga was not there. Herod was not surprised nor worried even if he had a nagging thought that twenty enforcers was a lot for a meeting. “How’s the mood then my friend?” He continued, crossing his arms over his coat and idly toying with an onyx cuff link while he dismissed the intrusive concern, this was just another day after all. “Bitter, lord Herod.” The orc said, pausing to take a long draw on his smoke, a small nod given to acknowledge the quality and offer thanks. “Worried as well.” He added, red eyes looking at Herod thoughtfully. Herod gazed back up, black eyes meeting the inspecting glance before he merely shrugged. “Comes with the territory. If my babe drops by tell her I saved her a seat.” Herod replied. The orc nodded, yet he glanced past Herod for a moment.

He turned, following the orc’s gaze before seeing what caught his attention. The cigar he had flicked into the street gutter had fell upon the rather grizzly sight of a rat that must have been crushed by a passing wagon sometime in the night, the creature still looking freshly dead. The cigar butt was singing its blood matted fur and making a small plume of smoke. “Grizzly.” Herod said, something about that sight giving him a flash of unease and a thought he could not chase because the door suddenly opened. An ogre was standing in the doorway, no doubt one of the crime bosses’ enforcers, his posh suit was not nearly as expensive as the doorman. This one had the clothes of one who got into fights, frequently. “There waiting for you inside, lord Herod.” The ogre said, his tone a low rumble of respect. Herod merely nodded, adopting his trademark grin before he stepped inside as the ogre moved out of his way. He quickly forgot the sight of the dead rodent, after all, dead rats were not exactly uncommon.

The interior of the Silver Iscariot was what one would expect from such a high-class establishment. Low comfortable electric lights lit a windowless bar of polished mahogany with silken textured bar stools below a massive selection of vintages and drinks from around the world. Advanced electric and mechanical dispenser systems fed by pipes supplied by mana replicators ensured a limitless tap of whatever patrons wanted if they could not afford the expensive bottles. The smell of cigar smoke had met Herod’s nose, yet he did not smell food. Strange, he thought, the kitchen should be preparing for the day, perhaps the cooks were busy cleaning he resolved without further consideration. Comfortable booths lined the walls and gambling tables dominated the center floor. Only one dealer was present, a finely dressed older human woman with a stern gaze and sharp eye. The Silver Iscariot was too good to employ whores and call girls. Its dealers were like the one Herod was looking at now, former killers and enforcers now retired and given an easy life performing card tricks for a massive weekly stipend. It was part of the presentation, forgoing eye candy to show you had so much wealth and money even your servants were of a higher class and skill, that your ranks were so varied and opulent even seasoned killers would do menial labor because the money was worth it.

Herod noted the bartender was not there, likely in the back where the meeting was taking place. He weaved between the tables while the ogre fell in step behind him. He could feel the same comfortable energy filling him now, the adrenaline that came with wheeling and dealing and only grew when the stakes did. This was hardly a moment of note, over the span of his career, but none the less he never failed to feel invigorated by the risk and reward. He gave a single nod to the dealer shuffling cards and was met with nothing more than a stone-faced grimace while he walked by. He made no comment even if that was enough for some lords to break the table with her face, moving to the door to the back rooms while he once again dismissed another odd detail carelessly. He did not reach for the handle, letting the ogre following him reach over his head and open it to see what he was dealing with.

Herod did not break his stride, he waltzed into the room with his black eyes roving from face to face taking stock. The room itself was large, austerely decorated and dominated by a large circular table fit for gambling and meetings. The electric lights back here were better, brighter, allowing everyone to see clearly so any attempt to grab for a weapon would be easily spotted. The enforcers each crime boss had were elsewhere, shuffled off to side rooms to keep things polite no doubt. The ogre, likewise, did not follow and merely remained in the doorway while Herod turned his inspection to the six men. Each boss was effectively on par with a noble, as prone to crime and slightly more honorable than the scum that hung from the coat tail of lords. Each one was in it for themselves and out to gain as much as they could, always looking to move up and gain power for only the sake of it. This nature of backstabbing was, in a way, a form of stability as none would band together long enough to truly shake up the status quo. More importantly, it made true lords like Herod more secure within their positions. Or at least, Herod still believed that.

At the table sat six crime bosses and of those four of them were directly on blackwood payroll and two were indirect subsidiaries controlled by two of the bosses at the table through means they tried to obfuscate thinking Herod would not discover the deception. He allowed it to continue as it was beneficial, despite the cut these two took. The first was Mackenzie, an orc boss who handled smuggling imports over in Far Water, a man that Herod knew resented him deeply because Herod had a habit of using low slang when addressing him knowing Mackenzie could do nothing about it. He was moderately good at his job and Herod did not replace him because it was more trouble than it was worth at this point. The second was Cannis, a goblin, one who was about as authentic as an elf accepting honorable surrender. Cannis was a mildly interesting case as he was just discrete enough that Herod did not fully know what the little green man was up to. Herod considered having Yaga tail him at one point but ultimately decided against it, after all he was sure that Cannis would side where the money was. Thus, the goblins work hitting rival organizations through the use of mercenaries and blackwood agents continued without much oversight.

Those two were the biggest players at the table, the other four were of minor concern, the one’s on blackwood payroll being Jeremiah and Gregory, two middlemen who were little more than overseers for ongoing operations that had been set up years ago. Fairly competent, nothing special, both humans and as plain as they come. The latter pair were Leo and Ricket, the former being an ogre necromancer who ran a protection racket in Crullfield, a very lucrative venture. He had contacts within the local lord’s higher caste of black magicians and was no slouch himself. Leo was a skilled and cunning man, in particular for an ogre, and had Herod not known he was working under Mackenzie already he would have made moves for a hostile takeover of his racket years ago. Ricket was the only man here from the warren federation like Herod himself, a kobold who was an expert at cooking books. He controlled a vast network of warehouses, shippers, and inventory workers ranging from train porters to importers and exporters where supplies would always go missing in such a way that it could never quite be traced to the shop front where they were resold for cheaper directly to the blackwood. Herod liked that, it made small amounts of effort come with a greater reward and more beneficially allowed the blackwoodto buy “legal” goods for an insanely low price and make it a tax write off to recoup the base cost on top of that when it was reported purchased for a higher price by both companies.

Herod went to his seat, all six sets of eyes falling on him and the room going silent while he walked past them to sit at the head of the table. He climbed onto his chair and leaned it back with a careless footpaw, pulling a new cigar and gold-plated zippo from his coat, “So, down to business, eh boys?” He said cheerfully, bringing the flame to his smoke.

In that moment, what Herod viewed as his uncanny luck revealed to him all possible paths forward. As he stared at the flickering light of his zippo, time slowed, he watched the flame dance, pulled into the aged tobacco slowly. The end of his cigar swallowed the orange wick of flame, smoke rising and dried leaves smoldering in slow motion before his eyes. Herod did not understand what truly made him a lord. He saw it as his luck, that he had been blessed by the gods themselves to be so fortunate, that he had done or was meant to do something that made him special. That was ego, in truth he had no understanding of his powers as a lord. His luck was not luck but foresight, the rat man was one of the few beings alive to be gifted with the power of divination. His limited glance into the myriads of potential fates, of futures and events that became an ever-flowing river of time with all its bends, winds, splits, and weaves back into itself. To him, he interpreted it all as a card game, in his mind he saw fate and future not as what they were but as every person involved sitting at a table and being delt a set of cards. The game was usually poker, but more complex or more simple futures changed into other card games to match all potential fates. To him it was all a gamble, that every choice, action, and life changing decision was a series of wagers, bluffs, calls, and double downs. Herod was an old hand at this, and he knew when to bet, when to fold, and in his mind he saw the cards being delt. He saw more players at the table; in his mind’s eye he saw the table was more than the six crime bosses. It was nearly thirty players all staring at him hatefully, in his vision he saw the crowd gathered around their game, the biggest crowd he had ever seen in his entire life of playing this metaphorical game, every person one who would be affected by this singular hand.

Around him, a crowd so large he could not see all their faces were gathered, at the table every other player sat with ire-filled eyes. Some were cloaked in shadows, forms he could see but details he could not parse. All around him, blindsided, caught entirely unaware, Herod realized that this game was rigged and he had walked into a trap. A single paralyzing thought lanced his mind, that pride made for a dizzying fall. He looked to his cards, his hands shaking even in his mind’s eye, he had been delt a two of hearts and three of spades. He looked down to the river. An ace, a king, and a queen, all of clovers. He stared. He did not even need to do the math with these many players at the table. His eyes rose to gauge each face, both revealed and shrouded, seeing that each was determined not to win but ensure that he lost. At any other point in time, at any other time in his life, there was always a way to get out of it. Even if he had to fold, he could still escape relatively unscathed with only the loss of his ante and maybe getting the side pot on his way out. But one look at his chips revealed his doom, the blinds had been his entire bank and he had only one chip left to wager. He was all in before he even realized it, blinded by his own arrogance and now he was going to pay for it. He could not play this hand, he could not bluff his way out because they would call it, and if he folded he would lose everything but his last chip. Every single warning sign he saw and dismissed flashed before his thoughts. The door man’s stare, the slain rat in the road, the ogre coming to get him, the kitchen being shut down, the dealer looking at him so arrogantly, the silence when he entered the room, the strange occurrence earlier that day that drew Yaga away from his side. His ego blinded him to every single warning that could have saved him. His complacency in his work was now his downfall.

He had a bad hand and only one option left.

“To hell with it.” He muttered to himself, time was now catching up, the flickering flame of his lighter beginning to dance faster.

He had only one last thing to wager and he was gripped with a wild and sudden fury, in his mind’s eye he slid his last chip forward and went all in. The vision of himself slammed his cards on the table as his real self bellowed, “Hell’s Teeth!” The foot carelessly bracing his leaning chair kicked hard and sent Herod backwards on his flipping chair and the crime bosses rose, weapons drawing while the illusionary invisibility that hid the enforcers faded to reveal just how badly Herod was outgunned and outnumbered. Bullets thundered, hitting the wall behind him as Herod back flipped and rolled from his falling chair, crouched low where his short height hid him beneath the table and his signature revolver flashed from its holster along with the enchanted blade in his boot.

His last chip was his life. Now he was all in and there was no way he was going down without a fight.

. . .

Twenty-six targets and only eighteen bullets. His only regret was failing to kill every betrayer. Ricket escaped alive, the only one who did not get a bullet between the eyes from Herod’s revolver. His mind was racing as his consciousness rose. He was surprised to be alive and more surprised he was only partially beaten, his head aching from the ogre’s fist that had finally put him down after his bullets ran out and he went berserk with his dagger. Blackness became clear, more defined, his head still swimming but his thoughts gathering about him as he felt rather than saw that he was tied up. He tried to move anyways and immediately regretted it, the pain was fierce and traveled through his entire body, that alone woke him up far faster than his calculating thoughts. He was alive, of course he was alive, they intended to take over his operations but killing him would have sent Yaga on the war path and assured their deaths. He almost laughed, having wagered his life for the first time in a number of years and yet he won out again with his side bet. He tried to speak the last two words of his thoughts and grunted as what came out was a garbled mess, he had been gagged by a dish cloth by the taste of it.

An attempt to open his eyes and figure out where he was met with little success, a blind fold had been added as well, but they had not covered his ears or nose. He could hear men milling about, smell the sweat of rough field laborers and stench of an enclosed space. More importantly he could feel himself being moved and hear the faint noise of a humming mana engine. Wherever they were taking him it was by train and he was being moved fast. Yaga must know by now that he is in trouble and they want to get him out of the picture before she catches up. He started mentally going down the list of where they could take him that would stop her from killing every man or woman in her way. While his mind checked off various potential places, he tried to force himself into a sitting position, grunting against the pain before a strong hand shoved him back down. He loosed an indignant muffled grunt and choked on the gag in his mouth. He focused on breathing through his nose and internally scowled. He was going to have to wait and plain, but more and more as the train traveled on he became certain that he knew where he was being taken.

By his count only an hour had passed before the train began to slow, first at a sluggish pace and then rapidly coming to a stop that left him lurching to a skidding halt by his restraints. His body was aching terribly now, the bindings about his head growing tighter while the cuffs about his legs and hands were strained when he was hauled to his feet. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the door of the train carriage he was no doubt in before a sharp shove sent him stumbling forward. He slammed onto his face and chest, falling several feet and hitting concrete. He heard someone laugh before the sound of flesh hitting flesh silenced that cruel mirth. He did not move, too stunned with pain to rise before someone much too rough seized him by his rodent ears and hauled him to his feet.

He teetered, almost falling before another hand reached out and stopped his fall this time. Whoever was holding him reached for his blindfold and tore it off. He blinked rapidly, it was nightfall now and in the dim light of the station platform he took stock of his captors. He recognized with dismay that these were empire soldiers, meaning his worrying and to this point ignored conclusion that he had been brought to Hammer’s Fall could no longer be dismissed. They were reaching for his gag now before another soldier smacked the kinder one’s hand away. “Don’t. He’s a sharp tongued one. Let’s get this over with and not get greedy.” The one soldier spoke, the other looking like he was about to protest before the four others nodded in agreement.

Six soldiers, if they’re at Hammer’s Fall then his syndicate … his former syndicate must be paying them to throw him into the summit. It did not take his exceptionally quick mind to figure out why, if they had killed him Yaga would kill them, but if they toss him into Hammer’s Fall… Yaga was loyal solely to him. He had no doubt whatsoever that Yaga would follow him barefoot into Xaal’s hel without even being asked to. He almost admired the careful planning and the gamble they were taking, but for now he set about planning his escape. It would take at least one day to travel to the summit, bound and gagged that he was he would need to either find a way to slip his binds or wait until he was ungagged so he could make a counteroffer to whatever his betrayers were offering.

Yet when the soldiers began to take him up the mountain the moment never seemed to come. Each soldier was watching the others, perhaps wary of what Herod was most definitely planning. A quick attempt at breaking his bindings proved fruitless, he was bound by magical shackles that he doubted him the most berserk of oni could break. At night he was tethered to a tree by a solid steel chain, two soldiers always watching him with rifles out and ready, every passing hour they rose higher and higher along the deadened brush of the mountain and more and more he began to panic. He dared not call upon the game within his mind, too fearful to see who would be sitting across from the table. By the second day they began to near the top and it was only at the sight of the massive dark pit did he truly begin to succumb to full blown panic.

He struggled against his bounds, fighting to escape and knowing it was pointless. One of the soldiers came forward, a ragged set of prisoner’s clothes in hand. They kept him in cuffs as they held him down and carefully dressed him in rags, his struggles earning him a sudden painful hit to his still sore jaw. He started to gag, forcefully swallowing the rag in his maw to make himself choke. His struggles weakened, his eyes bulging, until one of the guards realized what was going on and ripped the gag out. Herod coughed, choking and swallowing lungsful of air before he spoke, trying to reign in his panic and keep it out of his voice. “Whatever it is they’re paying you I will triple it. I won’t even have Yaga pay you all a visit.”

They ignored him, no hesitation as they finished redressing him before they stood him up. “Think about it, you don’t think Yaga is going to be here soon? She could be waiting for you at the base of the mountain. Are you really going to-“ A fist hit him now, punching him in the gut and making him double over and robbing his voice of its calm tone. “Shut up.” His abusive jailor growled. “You don’t have shit; they took everything just like you took from everyone else.” Virtue from a bribed soldier, Herod thought, how hypocritical, but he tried to smooth his expression away into a smile that was rather unconvincing. “I am a businessman, friend, I just do business.” He tried to straighten up, to stand at his full height even though most of these soldiers were orcs and humans and he was only four feet tall. “I am a god damn lord, soldier, and you know damn well they call me the lord of coin. Now, why don’t you let me out of these chains and w-“ One of the two securing his arms hit him again, this time it was harder and with the back end of the man’s gauntlet. The blow nearly made him crumble, weakened as he was. Whatever façade of control he had was rapidly slipping, he was struggling to remain calm now. “Toss him in, lets get this over with.” One of them grunted in a grim tone. Herod heard the sound of keys jangling, jostling his cuffs before they were unlocked and pulled off.

He renewed his struggles now, fighting against his much larger captors and running his mouth. “No! You can’t do this to me!” His voice grew panicked now, his fighting gaining the strength of panic as they were trying to drag him forward while he yelled. “I am a lord! I own this fucking empire, you can’t throw me in there! Do you know how much I have worked?!” All six of them were grabbing him now, a few hitting him in the gut and face, trying to subdue and shut him up, but wild panic was gripping him now and he hardly felt it.

The yawning black pit came closer, the former lord of coin was lifted into the air now. Whatever reckless adventurous man of fate he once was, it was cast aside as fear took him. A terrible black panic subsumed him. “I am a lord! You can’t do this to me!” He shouted before he made one last ditch effort to change fate. He called upon his mind’s eye, he looked at the table as it was laid before him. It was not poker this time, it was card carp, he sat at a table where across from him a tall, robed skeleton stared with grinning mandibles of sharpened fangs. Two dead blue lights in each eye regarding him like chips of ice as before him sat Xaal, the god of death, his skeletal hand holding a hundred cards.

“No…” Herod whispered, his sudden shift from frenzied panic to abject frozen terror causing all six soldiers to pause when the man went completely limp. Herod looked at his cards. He had no hand; his field was only a rabbit and a rat against Xaal’s five bone horrors. It was his turn, the nearby scale showing he was one point from defeat. He would have to draw his only chance and pray that his doomed soul would get his winning card.

Yet, before his vision could finish, the soldiers resumed lifting him at the edge. His mind’s eye gave way to the reality of his damnation. “You can’t do this!” He shouted before they tossed him over the edge, his last moments a terrified scream and one last petulant shout. “I hope Yaga kills you all!” Contempt filling him as he fell into darkness and he was seized by an invisible hand that carried him into Hammer’s Fall.

-

In the days following Herod’s disappearance, Yaga had tracked him to the mountain. The soldiers that had thrown him in had seen her sprinting up the mountains, terrified to know she was near and yet relieved that she was too hurried to gut them. They took solace in that, even when the unlucky sixth who drew the short straw and had to remain at the mountain’s summit to report when she arrived was found with his back cut out and his rib cage broken and pulled outwards in a cruel parody of wings. They reported back that the lord of murder remained loyal and followed her master into her own damnation.

-

When Yaga had found Herod, sitting alone in a room he had barricaded to avoid the roving gangs, Yaga saw him as he was. Terrified, alone, tears streaming down his rodent face. She passed neither judgement nor ridicule, the mysterious killer merely looked down at him as he smiled shakily back up to her. He was relieved and appalled all at once, knowing that she would damn herself to follow him into hell and yet incapable of expressing how truly grateful he was. In the end, they said nothing to each other, she sat down next to him and offered a single hug. Only when they were reunited did the Bagman and the Boss think of what to do now.

They thought of a plan and after only an hour began to talk. It was time to figure out how to escape.