Azerick went down and curled up into as tight a ball as he could make himself as the three thugs kicked and cursed him. Having felt they had made their point, Hugo snatched the coin purse from Rolly, tucked it into his trouser pocket, and took a hard pull from the skin of wine before passing it to Carrot. Each thug took turns imbibing in the wine and passing it around as Azerick continued to lie on the filthy cobbles not making a move or a sound. He waited motionless for only a few minutes before Rolly’s eyes started to cross.
“Hugo, I feel funny,” Rolly complained.
“Yeah, you smell funny too,” replied Hugo, laughing at his own jest. “You’re just weak as a girl and getting drunk already.
“I’m not feeling so good either,” Carrot chirped in then both of them passed out and dropped to the cobblestones within arm’s reach of where Azerick was just now getting to his feet.
“What did you do, you sewer floater?” Hugo demanded, his words slurring as though his tongue had swelled to twice its normal size.
He took two steps towards Azerick before falling right on his face, his forehead striking the stone street hard enough to bounce. Azerick picked up the nearly empty skin and took back his coin pouch as well as a second pouch that Hugo had and a third pouch he found on Carrot's sleeping body.
“Can’t ask for a better test run than that,” Azerick said to no one in particular, rubbing his bruised ribs and shoulders.
He gave each of the hooligans a few swift kicks just for good measure without getting as much as a grunt out of any of them. He resisted the temptation to bust Carrot’s nose again and slinked along the streets back to his den.
Once back home, he immediately fired up his alchemic set and went to work on the second type of brew he would need. This one was especially dangerous in that it was extremely flammable and any mistake could incinerate him, his precious laboratory set, rugs, books, and just about everything else in the room. It was a distillation of common lamp oil mixed with distillated coal tar and other ingredients to make it more viscous and powdered dragon stone to make it burn with a heat that would melt iron, crack stone, and be impossible to put out with water.
The work was ten times as nerve-wracking as making the sleep poison had been. Azerick dared not rely on his makeshift alarm clock and sleep, so he stayed awake the entire night, not daring to take his eyes off the bubbling brew. He made some strong tea and passed the night away formulating his plan for his first revenge. By the next night, his combustible concoction was finished. He had brewed enough of it to fill four earthen mugs. Azerick slept the rest of the night and well into the afternoon the next day.
When Azerick woke late the next day, he had no idea what time it was. He glanced at his large hourglass, when it had run out only the gods knew.
“Fat lot of good that did,” Azerick grumbled as he went to check the time.
He poked his head out of the trap door that led into the old, burned out tannery and saw that it was late afternoon then went back inside and fixed himself some coffee and dinner.
Azerick found himself lost in thought as he sat and ate, drank coffee, and stared at his home brewed liquids. He thought of his parents, Jon Locke, and the others. He thought about how they died for no reason other than for someone else’s greed or cowardliness. Were his motivations any better? What about the dreams he had, urging him to take revenge?
“I do not care,” Azerick growled. “If this makes me no better than their killers then so be it, I never claimed to be better.”
At around two in the morning, he loaded a packsack with some small candles, the earthen jugs of demon fire, and the iron spikes he had found at the burned-out ruins where his friends died. He strapped on his knife and slung the wineskin over his shoulder. Before he left, he dowsed his shirtfront with untainted wine and struck out into the night, his mind filled with thoughts of vengeance and a heart full of justice though some might call it murder.
Azerick moved slowly and stealthily across the city until he occupied the alley across from the house he had seen Merik and the other two men enter, well one other man had entered. The weasel-faced one had caught Azerick spying on them and had nearly slit his throat. Once again, two men stood in the doorway watching the streets for anyone trying to enter the house that did not belong there or thought to cause trouble.
“You are going to see someone tonight, friend, you can bet on that,” Azerick whispered under his breath.
He looked around to make sure no one saw him before he wanted them to, carefully stashed his bag of equipment, headed back into the alley, and circled the block until he came out up the street from the guild house. He slipped the wineskin off his shoulder, took it in hand, and staggered down the street towards his target, walking a swerving path that took him right by the man guarding the door.
“Hey you, boy, what are you doing out here?” demanded one of the men at the door.
“Hmmm, what here? I’m just walking, taking in some air,” Azerick slurred.
“Damn, boy, you smell like a tavern, give me that,” he demanded as he snatched the wine from Azerick’s hand. “You’ve had enough I think, besides, you’re too young to be drinking like that anyway.”
“Hey, give that back, that’s mine,” Azerick complained as he made a lurching grab for the wineskin.
“Get out of here before I give you a lot worse than my boot, boy!” the guard threatened, pushing him to the ground, the other kicking him in his backside as Azerick tried to regain his feet, which sent him sprawling once again into the street.
“Bastards,” Azerick mumbled as he staggered away.
He circled around the block, ducked back into the distant end of an alley, then crept up to the end that opened just down and across the street from the guild house.
Azerick had just gotten back into position when the guards slunk to the ground, one with his back pressed against the doorjamb, the other laid out with his head propped against the door.
Azerick walked across the street and recovered the dropped wineskin still clutched in one of the comatose men’s hands. He then slipped down the side of the house down a narrow alley towards the back of the thieves' den, certain that there was more than one entrance that needed guarding. As he turned the corner at the back of the house, he felt a knife pressed into his ribs.
“What are you doing here, boy?” came a voice hidden in the deep shadows.
Azerick replied nervously but confidently. "Slyde sent me sir. Said he found this fine wine in some uppity lord’s house and thought you might want a taste on this cold night.”
“Why didn’t he bring it
hisself
?” the man asked dubiously.
“Said he and Merik had a thing tonight, he did, didn’t tell me
nothin
’ though. I just run errands for them, but he and Merik says they are gonna teach me everything they know and take me with em on jobs, they says,” Azerick answered enthusiastically.
“Well you done as you were told, boy, now get outta here with ya,” the man ordered with a lazy swipe of his boot.
Azerick ducked around the corner and waited. Within minutes he heard the thump of the thief’s body hitting the ground. He retrieved his wineskin from the unconscious door guard before crossing back to the alley for his bag. He pulled out the iron spikes before hefting his bag onto his shoulder.
He stayed in the alley for a few minutes studying the street and the house. After seeing no sign of activity, he crossed back to the house with the unconscious guards. He shoved an iron spike between the door and its frame, wedging it closed so that it could not open from the inside.
Azerick made his way to the back of the house and secured that door with a second spike. He gently set his bag down and pulled out one of the clay jugs of liquid fire. He pulled the stopper and sloshed its contents upon the door, wall, and sleeping guard. He pulled out two of the other pots and emptied them along the side of the house in the alley.
The building next to it was made of brick and did not appear to be a dwelling of any kind. Azerick hoped it would not burn but if it did, it did not look like anyone lived in it. In fact, most of the buildings appeared to be workplaces of some kind. He guessed not many people wanted to live next to a den of thieves.
He went back to the rear of the house, pulled out a small candle, broke a bit off the end, lit it, and set it on the iron spike wedged in the door. When the flame consumed enough of the candle, it would touch off the liquid, incinerating the house and every thief in it. They would all burn just like Jon, William, Patrick, little Beth, and the others. He set the same sort of candle-type fuse on the side of the house then made his way to the front. He poured the contents of the last clay jugs around the front of the house and set his candle fuse before disappearing back into the alley across the street.
Azerick waited and watched the little flame burn on the candle for several minutes before it finally reached the deadly liquid now soaked into the wood and brick of the house. The instant that the flame burned close enough, the entire street was suddenly lit up in a brilliant glow of orange light. The flame was so intense it lit the whole street and made him night-blind for several minutes.
Flames raced across the wooden door and porch while the brick started to crack under the intense heat. A moment later, another whoosh of super heated air sounded in conjunction with a second burst of brilliant light from behind the house followed almost immediately by the ignition of the demon fire in the narrow alley.
White-hot flames quickly consumed the two guards who had stood watch at the door. The slight evening breeze blew the smell of smoke and charred flesh to Azerick’s hiding place, but to him it was a sweet smell of vengeance although he never thought that justice would nearly make him gag.
A few people were now walking up the street to see what was happening. In the distance, Azerick heard the cries of fire. Hellishly intense flames nearly engulfed the entire house as the porch collapsed in on itself, burying the remains of two men who had been guarding the door. Azerick imagined a similar fate had befallen the guard at the rear of the house as well.
A crowd was now beginning to form. People watched the dancing flames, several running to nearby inns or perhaps homes and coming back with buckets. A horse drawn wagon with one of the large cisterns in it that he had seen trying to douse the flames of the fire that took his friends and home came racing down the street, a bell clanging in warning for people to clear the way. It stopped on the far side of the street directly across from the burning house.
Men jumped off, opened a valve and started filling buckets and placing them into waiting hands. The crowd started throwing buckets of water onto the flames in hopes of extinguishing them. However, this was no ordinary fire. When the water struck the flames, instead of extinguishing them it only served to cause them to flare up and spread. Now thin rivulets of fire were crawling out into the cobblestone street.
One of the men that operated the fire wagon called for the bucket brigade to stop throwing water on the flames when a scream and the shattering of glass sounded from a second story window. A man, his back wreathed in flames struck the ground rolling. Like out of a nightmare, the burning man jumped to his feet, and in a panic, started to run right towards the alley from where Azerick was watching the chaos unfold.
The crowd cried out in horror and panic, jumping out of the terrifying man’s path. Two of the firefighters grabbed heavy leather cloaks and rushed after him in hopes of smothering the flames that enshrouded the man’s back.
Azerick stared at the horrifying sight rushing towards him and knew in an instant that the man was Merik. Without pausing to think, he ripped off his own dark cloak and ran at him even as Merik and the two firefighters bore down towards him.
Azerick shoved the cloak out in front of him, wrapping Merik up within its folds as they collided. He slowed the terrified man down long enough for the two men with their leather cloaks to catch him from the rear. Merik was already on his way to the ground when the two men threw their cloaks and themselves atop of the burning figure, quickly smothering the flames beneath the heavy leather cloaks.
“That was a brave thing you done, boy, might be that the constable may have a small award for you,” one of the men told him as he held his cloak over Merik’s smoldering form.