Haunted Halfling

Jagged, faded stone scraped against Wen’s check. His curly hair stuck to the uneven walls. The crack of his splintering bones echoed off the rock. His knee pushed passed his head and his hand pushed against the ceiling through his legs.

The bank’s crawlspace was dark, with only slivers of torchlight that peeked through the chips in the mortar between the limestones. It was also unbearably tight.

Wengin Bramblefoot, or Wen as he preferred to be called, was a halfling. He wasn’t anything special. If anything, he was on the smaller side. But still, he only fit inside the bank’s walls while contorted into an unnatural shape.

I should’ve picked an elf, Tiq said in Wen’s mind. I figured some lowly halfling could squeeze through the cracks better! 

“There’s no way an elf would fit in here,” Wen said.

“I’d make it work. I’m sure they’d do a better job than you. I’ve met snails that are faster than this!”

“I’m crawling as fast I can. I wouldn’t even fit in here normally!”

“And don’t you forget it. Now pick up the pace!”

“If you’re so impatient, can’t you give me demonic speed or something?”

The blurry outline of an imp manifested in front of Wen. This version of Tiq was wiry with sharp features. He had long, thin legs with hooves. Short, curled horns protruded from his head and a faint orange glow haloed his body.

“Oh, my apologies,” Tiq said. “I’ve been holding out on demon speed.”

Wen’s stomach fluttered. It was typical of Tiq to mess with him. Outside of the Royal Bank of Ora, Tiq had withheld his ability to contort. Wen hit his head against the crack in the wall that was about half his size and Tiq cackled.

Wen had tried to throw in the towel and chew out his demon master, but Tiq’s threat to stop his heart kept him going. Wen wondered what kind of sick kick Tiq got out of withholding speed.

“Of course, I can’t give you speed!” Tiq said.

Wen’s cheeks warmed, embarrassed by his hope.

“Who do you think I am?” Tiq said. “A faucet of demonic miracles you can just turn on and off? I control you. I hold your powers in my hand. I’m the reason you’re off the street, the reason you can sneak into this gods forsaken bank, the reason there’s gold jingling in your pocket, and the reason you’re about to have so much money you’ll be royalty. You owe me.”

He wasn’t wrong. Wen had been begging on the street before that mage had fed him the cursed bread. He’d figured Ora, the royal capital, would yield some coins from nobles who passed through and wanted to pad their image.

The mage was the only person who stopped.

As he took that first bite, Tiq flooded into him with an electric shock. In the week since he’d robbed four merchant carts under Tiq’s orders.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Wen said. “My arms don’t usually bend this way.”

“I don’t care! Move!”

Wen inched forward. He moved his backward legs faster, but awkwardness kept his progress slow.

Tiq’s manifestation walked impatiently ahead. It looked like he was walking on the stone, but he was only a mental image. He couldn’t interact with anything, and Wen was the only one who could see him.

“Up ahead!” Tiq said. He pointed to a crack roughly the size of the one Wen had used to enter bank.

“Are you sure?” Wen said. “This place is crawling with guards. I’ve been kicked out while trying to beg here too many times.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“You’ve tricked me before.”

“What use would you be to me if you got caught?” Tiq flashed a toothy grin at Wen and vanished.

Wen dragged himself toward the crack. His broken bones ached and the scratches on his skin bled. Tiq would heal him once he was out, but until then the pain was excruciating. It felt like he was tossed into the furnace below the bathhouse.

Diluted light poured into the crack. Wen turned his head so that he could see, but a banner was hung over it. All he could see was a thin, backlit red cloth. The faint smell of honey wafted into his nose from what he assumed were beeswax candles.

“Go,” Tiq said.

Wen’s chest tightened and he pushed himself forward without any more thought.

The cloth brushed against his scrapes and sent a sharp sting across his skin. He hit the ground with a limp thud and a crack in his nose. His limbs were tangled together and rendered him immobile.

An orc’s, low, growly, voice filled the room. “Who goes there!”

“Looks like you stepped in it,” Tiq said.

Wen lifted his head.

The room was small with large chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Red banners were displayed at even intervals with the bank’s eagles crest on them. On the other of the room was a large iron vault door with ornate gold leaves on the handle.

An orc stood on either side of the iron wall. They had muted green skin and hulking, muscular builds. Yellowed teeth jutted out from their bottom lip and their long, never-cut hair was tied in tall ponytails. They wore blackened steel armor with massive, decorated pauldrons on their shoulders and leather straps that peeked out between the plates. Each orc had a tall war axe, decorated with the same golden leaves that adorned the vault.

The two looked nearly identical except for the leather eyepatch one wore and scar running across the others face.

“Intruder!” the scarred orc said and charged Wen. His steel boots thundered on the stone floor.

“Tiq,” Wen said, “hurry! I need up!”

Wen’s bones fused. He untangled himself. But it was slower than usual.

The scarred orc grabbed Wen by his collar. The fibers in his cloth tunic popped.

“Where from?” the scarred orc said.

Wen trembled against the wall. His heart raced and sweat coated his palms. The orcs breath was rancid, and his arm pressed hard into Wen’s chest.

“It’s not my fault!” Wen said. “I was forced!”

The orc huffed.

He spun Wen around and shoved him to the floor. Scratchy rope scraped Wren’s wrists. He was hauled to his feet and pushed toward the door.

“Nice one,” Tiq said.

“This is your fault,” Wen said.

“Shut up!” the scarred orc said.

Wen stumbled through the door.

The hallway outside the vault was covered in ornate marble. The same red banners from the vault ran down the wall. An ornate carpet ran down the middle of the hall.

“Why not kill it now?” the orc with the eyepatch said. His voice was different than the scarred orc. It was deep and gravelly but betrayed a measure of uncertainty.

“Godart will see him,” the scarred orc said. “He decide.”

“But he ask why it still alive.”

Payne Spiva (c) 2024