Asarah was awakened by someone shaking her shoulder. She shrieked, and scrambled back underneath the table.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s me,” said a voice that was familiar but shouldn’t have been there. Asarah opened her eyes and saw a face lit from underneath by a faint glow. She gasped. The figure opened the shutter on the lamp it held and more light flooded out into the room. It overpowered the otherworldly glow of the sinister flame under glass so that she could see who it was.

“Boltac?!”

“The one and only.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here. You’re the one who got us into this mess.”

“Us? Wait, what’s going on?”

“I’m here to–”

“No! No, you are not. Are you telling me that I’m the damsel in distress? I am NOT a DAMN DAMSEL in DISTRESS!”

“Fine, fine,” said Boltac, “just keep your voice down. Now, how about you rescue me and get out of here.”

“That’s right! Because I’m the Heroine. I am the girl who rescues herself.”

“And doesn’t forget to take her best customer, Boltac, with her.”

“Best customer, ha! Why, Boltac, when you’re not trying to chisel me out of a drink you’re trying to beat the check.”

“En-henh, and I’m very sorry about that, but if you could hurry up and rescue me so we could get out of here…”

“Oh,” said Asarah, sighing into the darkness, “I forgot. I’m chained to this table.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“So, uh, if I…”

“Don’t you even think about it,” Asarah said.

“Well, I think I have something in my sack here that could loosen those chains enough so that, y’know, you and I…”

“All by ourselves? You attempted this stupid rescue all by yourself–what were you thinking?”

“Hurry up!” Relan whispered from across the darkened room.

“Wait, you brought someone else on this suicide mission?”

“Ennnn…yeah, the kid I loaned the sword to?”

“You’re endangering a child in this foolish rescue attempt?!”

“All right, enough!” Boltac yelled, his voice echoing through the chamber.

“I think somebody heard that,” whispered Relan.

Boltac clapped a hand across his face and shook his head. “Look, Asarah. Please be quiet.”

“Quiet!” she shouted, “Why should I be quiet? So you and some other fool can get himself killed in a rescue attempt that is pointless, because I was going to save munh…”

Boltac smothered her mouth with a kiss. It was so unexpected that when it was over, neither of them knew what to say.

Asarah spoke first. “Uh?”

“You know this already, but I never told you. I love… I Love you.”

“The only thing you love is money, Boltac,” she said.

Boltac ignored this and plowed on. “And here’s something else you already know. You should shut up and let people help you.”

“Hmmpfh.”

“En-henh. That ain’t an argument.”

“Hm-mpfh!” she said, making it into an argument by sheer force of inflection.

“Okay, look. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t come here to rescue you. I came here to ransom you. You know, to buy you back.”

“BUY ME!” screamed Asarah, creating a racket that might have been louder than any racket this dungeon had yet heard. “THAT’S EVEN WORSE!”

From the darkness, there was laughter. In keeping with tradition, laughter from darkness should be sardonic. Or sinister. Or, at the very least, mocking. This laughter was not. This laughter was simply amused. “Ho ho ho ho ho, that. Ho ho ho ho, that is… whoo! I can’t take it anymore.” There were two short claps in the darkness, and then the room was flooded with light.

Dimsbury was visible as a darker area near the now blinding light being emitted from within the glass jar. After a moment, the intensity of the light faded, and it became possible to see again. Dimsbury said, “Oh, that is rich. Without a doubt, that is the finest entertainment I have seen since the comedies of the Imperial Opera. Or were they tragedies? I don’t know. It’s so hard to tell until the end. Do either of you sing?”

Boltac turned to face the Wizard. The light that still suffused the chamber was too powerful for anyone to notice that the lamp in his hand now glowed a little brighter than before.

Relan stumbled awkwardly into the room. Partially, it was because he had been blinded. Mostly, it was because Rattick was pushing him from behind as he held a dagger to the boy’s throat.

Relan knew who it was before he heard his rasping voice.

“Undo your sword belt,” commanded Rattick.

“Rattick, how could you?” asked Relan.

“Come now, boy, the question isn’t how could I. The question is, how couldn’t I?”

“For money, Rattick? For money, you help the man who sacked Robrecht? Your home?”

From across the room, Boltac said, “Aw c’mon kid, you didn’t see that one coming? How could you not see he was working for the Wizard all along?”

“I don’t work for anybody but me!” said Rattick, “But I’ll take anybody’s money.”

Relan protested, “But we have–I mean Boltac has money. Plenty of it.”

“Yes, but there is one important thing he doesn’t have. A future. Dead men don’t pay their bills.”

“The good guys always win, Rattick. In the end, they always do,” said Relan, as if it were some kind of sacred prayer.

“Only in the songs,” said Rattick.

A shiver danced up Relan’s spine because for the first time, the prayer wasn’t enough. He didn’t believe the sagas anymore. He believed the thief. Tears welled in his eyes. He wasn’t the Hero he set out to be. Boltac was right. They probably weren’t getting out of this alive. No one would sing songs of him. But in that darkest moment he resolved that he would meet his end like a Hero nevertheless.

Ten Orcs pushed into the room and formed a cordon around the door. Samga came with them. In comparison to these Orcs, Samga was more refined. It was as if he were a different animal altogether. Recognizable as part of the same genus, but not the same species. The ones guarding the door were more animal. They snorted and scuffled their claws against the tile. They paid careful attention to Asarah. And one of them, staring at her with unblinking, hollow, black eyes, drooled a little.

Dimsbury waved a hand, and his creatures were silenced.

“So,” he said to Boltac, “What brings such an unlikely and unprepared Hero to the depths of my lair?”

“Hero?” said Boltac, trying not to let his fear show. “I ain’t no Hero. You want the other guy.” He jerked a thumb at Relan, who was struggling not to cut his throat by breathing too deeply against the pressure of Rattick’s blade.

“Be whatever you like. The question remains, why are you here? Why are you disturbing me?”

Boltac could see no percentage in lying. He jerked his other thumb at Asarah and said, “Her.”

“Oh really, is it True Love?” asked Dimsbury in a mocking tone. He rubbed his hands together with great relish. When Asarah and Boltac both blushed, he laughed. “Oh my, it is True Love. And I thought it was rarer than unicorns. But wait, no, it can’t be True Love. Because you told me you had no interest in her. And I took you at your word as a sophisticated man of commerce.”

“I said she wasn’t my wife. And that doesn’t give you license to steal her.”

“I don’t care for being stolen,” said Asarah.

“Yes, you are right. I have stolen her, fair and square, and she is mine. And you have come to fight for her. Fine. Take your pick of my creatures you see here before you. You may fight any one of them for her hand. Then, if you win, you may fight the rest of them. And then, if you defeat all of them, you may do battle with me.”

“No,” began Boltac.

“No? What do you mean no? You have come here as an Adventurer–as the Hero–to rescue the damsel in distress. You must fight. That’s how these things are done.”

“I’m not here for a fight. You stole her, fine, she’s your property. But I thought perhaps we could make a deal.”

“A deal? You want to BUY ME?!” protested Asarah. “Is that your idea of chivalry? Buying the woman you Love back from–”

“I never said anything about chivalry,” Boltac snapped. “You know how many men have tried to defeat the great Dimsbury? You know how many have succeeded?”

“None,” said Dimsbury with a great swelling of pride. “I’m entirely too powerful to be defeated by anything but a mythical Chosen One, a thing which I am reasonably certain exists only within the protected confines of sagas. And if such a one does exist, I’m certain he’s not a short, grubby Merchant from the backwater town of Robrecht.”

“Yes, yes, mighty Dimsbury–you are wise, powerful, handsome, and tall,” flattered Boltac. “A man of the world who is quick to perceive his own advantage and capitalize on it. So I offer you a lucrative trade.”

Dimsbury’s eyes narrowed, “A trade, you say? Tell me more.”

Boltac reached into his bag and withdrew a large coin purse overflowing with gold. “I offer one hundred gold pieces for the girl.”

“Girl?” Dimsbury snorted. “A handsome woman, certainly, but not a girl.”

“The offer stands at one hundred,” –he hefted the purse and reconsidered– “one hundred and two gold pieces for Asarah.”

“But I have such a love of her mutton sandwiches. Crisp and fatty and delicious.” He shivered a little to emphasize the point.

“I cannot compel one so powerful as you to do anything, but my offer presents you with a clear choice–mutton sandwiches or gold.”

“Oh, that word. I cannot abide that word, OR. So harsh on the palate, so cruel to the ear. I do not accept OR.”

Boltac nodded his head deeply in recognition. “I understand Great Wizard. I understand. But all of life is a trade-off. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Surely you understand this. The money or the girl.”

“No, I’ll take the AND.”

“The AND?” asked Boltac.

“The AND?” asked Asarah.

“Hork?” grunted one of the Orcs.

“The AND,” said Rattick with an approving nod. “That’s what I’d take.”

“Okay, so it’s a question of price,” said Boltac.

“No, I don’t think you understand,” said Dimsbury with a little chuckle.

“Understand what? It’s a negotiation. So, how much you want for her?”

“Boltac!” protested Asarah.

“The, uh, serving girl here,” Boltac asked, giving her the signal to calm down with a downward wave of his hand behind his back. “I want my lady friend back. How much for your serving girl, my lady friend?”

“Well, Merchant, before we bargain, let me show you a few things, so that you might know what manner of man you bargain with.”

“En-henh,” said Boltac. Even though the Orcs did not speak English, they could hear the contempt in his voice. Several of them snarled.

Dimsbury raised his hand. “Samga, silence them or end them, I care not which.”

“I hear and obey,” said Samga. He whispered something in the crude, unfinished language of the Orcs. Whatever it was, the rabble blocking the door snapped to attention.

“Ah, dear Samga, with a thousand men such as you… I would still have a horde of Orcs. But a far, far better horde. At any rate, my dear Merchant, do you know what this is?” Dimsbury indicated the in-focus/out-of-focus flame that flickered on the dais next to him.

“Ehh,” Boltac began, intent on making some kind of crack that would take the wind out of Dimsbury’s over-stuffed sails. But the Wizard would have none of it.

“SILENCE! I will have none of your mockery and crude calculation!” With a nimbleness that Boltac would not have expected, the Wizard leapt up on the dais. He caressed the heavy glass vessel within which the flame danced. “This is beyond money. Beyond your crude buying and selling. This is the essence of the source, the headwaters of Magic itself. See how it flickers imperfectly, blurred, too pure to be fully realized on this flawed plane of existence.”

Boltac rolled his eyes.

“NO!” thundered the Wizard. “This is not to be mocked. Not even slightly. This is power. POWER, do you understand? With power you can get money. But no Merchant,” –he spat the title like a curse– “can ever buy power.”

“Have you ever put that to the test?” Boltac asked, with a scrappiness he was faking for the purposes of negotiation. Of course, the Wizard was right, but Boltac would be damned if he’d give this twisted nobleman the satisfaction of hearing it.

To Boltac’s surprise, the Wizard laughed. “Very good. Skepticism. The basis of all knowledge. Are you a seeker too, friend Boltac? Then let me show you something.” Dimsbury stepped down from the dais and crossed to a small door on the far side of the room.

“Come, Merchant! I will show you what I think of money.” The Wizard gestured to a spot on the wall and the blank stone changed into a doorway. “Themistres’ Third Spell of Ward and Concealment. Do you know it? No matter.” Dimsbury turned the knob and opened the door. “Go ahead, have a good look.”

Botlac stepped forward cautiously. Overcome by curiosity and greed, Rattick moved his knife away from Relan’s neck and stepped forward so he could see.

In the room beyond the door, there were chests and sacks overflowing with gold and jewels. Golden candelabras, salvers, and goblets all encrusted by the jeweler’s art until it was a wonder they could still stand up under their own weight. It was the most impressive Treasure room Boltac had ever seen.

The Merchant blew a long, low whistle, “That is a lot of jingle-jangle you got there.”

“So you see, your offer of gold, for the girl… here, may I?” Dimsbury reached for the purse of a hundred and two coins. Boltac handed it to him.

“Hmm, yes. Watch this.” Dimsbury threw it at the feet of the Orcs. The purse broke open and gold coins scattered across the floor. Instantly the Orcs broke rank and fought for the gold pieces. Boltac jumped back. Rattick disappeared into the shadows. Only Samga remained standing, though he seemed to be under great strain.

At first it seemed like simple greed, but when an Orc got a hold of a few coins, it thrust them between its tusks and gobbled them up greedily. The pecuniary gluttony went on until there were but a few coins left. Then the Orcs began to fight over them.

“Enough!” cried Dimsbury. He clapped his hands together and there was a sound like thunder. The Orcs froze. “You see, my Orcs are hungry for gold. Not greedy, you understand, but literally hungry for gold. They eat it. A flaw in the design, I’m afraid: they require vast quantities of heavy minerals and metals. It’s the only thing they crave more than human flesh. I am afraid I have created an army that marches on the treasury. Upkeep is murderous, but then, so are they.

“So, as you see, I have quite a lot of gold, and they will mine more for supper. Your paltry hundred gold pieces are worth nothing to me, Merchant. You cannot negotiate. You have nothing I want.”

“Wait, wait,” Boltac said, opening his sack, “I’ve got more. I’ve got a lot of gold. I mean, I don’t even know how much it is. Not as much as in your Magic room there, but it’s a lot. A fortune. And this sack, it’s a Magic sack. A sack of holding. Themistres’. Take it. I mean, please, you’re welcome to it.”

“Really,” said Dimsbury. “One of old Themistres’ sacks? I met him once, you know.”

“Yeah, so, it’s a very nice sack. This sack and all the gold in it. And, in exchange, you give me that vile-tempered woman. You don’t want to own her anyway. Believe me, the upkeep on her is real murder.”

“No one owns me,” Asarah snarled.

“See what I mean?” asked Boltac, “Who needs that? I’d be doing you a favor.”

“You know,” Dimsbury said with a strange half-smile, “I must say, you are a civilized man.”

Boltac made a little bow, “Thank you.”

“Do you have any idea how many people have tried to raid my dungeon, laboratory, whatever, trying to steal my property?”

“I am not raiding you. I am a customer,” he said taking pride in the title.

“Yes, here for trade. Trade is vile. But, I must admit, it is more civilized than treachery, deception, and thievery.”

“Deception has its uses for the mighty,” whispered Rattick from the corner of a round room. How did he do that? thought Boltac.

“Yes, civilized…” Dimsbury said, staring off into the smoky air of his spherical chamber. “I have spent so much time arguing for unreasonable people to take the civilized path.”

“It’s always the best way,” Boltac said hopefully, “Reasonable people, getting along in a reasonable world. Able to do business together? Reasonably?” he asked hopefully.

“It is surprising,” said Dimsbury.

“Funny old world, isn’t it,” said Boltac.

“Seize him!” commanded Dimsbury. Samga snapped his fingers and three Orcs leapt from the rabble and grabbed Boltac. Samga barked, “Take him to the cells,” in the harsh tongue of the Orcs.

“No!” cried Asarah.

“Wait, wait!” cried Boltac.

“And bring the bag to me,” said Dimsbury.

“Believe me, Mr. Wizard, you don’t want to mess around in that bag,” said Boltac as the Orcs dragged him away.

“STOP!” cried Dimsbury. “What did you say?” he asked Boltac.

“I said, for your own good, you should leave that bag alone.”

“WHAT!”

“Okay, this is ridiculous. What are you, a moron? I said, stay outta the bag or you’ll regret it.”

“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”

“Johnny Hubris?” asked Boltac. Dimsbury just stared. “He’s a guy I usedta know, never mind. Look, buddy. And by ‘buddy’, I mean ‘friend.’ And by ‘friend’ I really mean, ‘jackass.’ Your hocus-pocus is gonna backfire. It always does. So how about you shut up and get on with it already.”

Dimsbury clapped his hands together, and lightning bolts ricocheted around the stone chamber. Everything human in the room hid its face against the terrible noise and rush of superheated air. “I command the forces of nature. I can harness the elemental power that turns the world. And I am supposed to be afraid of your sack of goodies?”

“Only if you’re not a jackass,” Boltac said out of the side of his mouth.

Dimsbury crooked his fingers into a claw. Boltac was ripped from the grip of the Orcs and lifted into the air.

“Offering me a trade,” Dimsbury sneered. “I have no need of your trade. I will take the AND. I will take your gold AND I will take your sack AND I will take your woman AND I will take your life. Did I forget anything?” He waved his other hand, and the wooden cover at the center of the chamber crashed into the ceiling and shattered into toothpicks. Dimsbury dangled Boltac over the bottomless pit.

As Dimsbury turned, he exposed his back to Relan. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t the most Heroic of opportunities, but Relan seized it. His legs drove him forward. He could almost feel the Wizard’s neck in his hands. He could imagine what it would feel like to bash the man’s skull against the ground. He made it one step, two steps, three steps. It was going to work! He raised his hands… then felt the knife slide into his belly.

“No, no,” said Rattick, still holding the lunge position that had brought him out of the shadows, “we’ll have no Heroes here.”

Asarah stopped sobbing and struggled to breathe.

Relan staggered forward another step, dragging Rattick with him.

Asarah pleaded with Dimsbury, “No. Don’t crush him!”

“Oh, I say,” Dimsbury said with a smile, “That is a good idea. That way it will hurt more on the way down. Goodbye, Merchant.” Dimsbury opened his hand.

Boltac dropped into the bottomless pit.