Keeper's Justice
Copyright© 2025 by Charly Young
Chapter 27
Quinn
As they walked, Quinn noticed little Rainbow glaring at the leprechaun. As he watched, she pulled a tiny blade that was hidden in her braided hair—her strike had almost reached the sweating being’s throat before Quinn caught her around the waist.
“Let me go! He is the being who took my sister. He preys on the young.”
Quinn tightened his grip as Rainbow thrashed against him, her fury a living thing. “Easy,” he murmured, though his own rage was simmering like a storm front. “I need him alive.”
The leprechaun had scrambled backward from her, his face pale and slick with sweat. “She’s lying! I never—”
“Shut up,” Wraith snapped, her hand moving to her own weapon. “Every word out of your mouth makes me want to let her finish what she started.”
Rainbow had stopped struggling, but Quinn could feel the tension coiled in her small frame like a spring ready to snap. “She was only eight seasons old.”
“Where?” Quinn asked quietly, still holding her but gentler now.
“I don’t know.” The words came out broken. “They say he’s the one who knows where they take the captured beings.”
The leprechaun’s eyes darted between them. “Listen, I can explain—”
“No.” Quinn’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Lead us to your Mistress. Then we’re going to have a very long conversation about missing children.”
Another corridor branched off to their left, and from its depths came a sound that made Quinn’s blood run cold—the weak crying of a child. Rainbow heard it too and went rigid in his arms.
“There are more down there, aren’t there?” Wraith said, her voice tight. “How many more levels are there?”
“Three,” the leprechaun stammered. “Maybe four. I don’t come down here often, I swear—”
Wraith’s blade was at his throat before he could finish. “Every lie makes this worse for you.”
“Seven!” he squeaked. “Seven levels. But most are empty now. The spring shipments already went out.”
Quinn set Rainbow down but kept a firm hand on her shoulder. “Shipments to where?”
“The Sidhe...” The leprechaun’s voice trailed off as he saw the expressions on their faces. He blurted, “Leena sells them for ‘Angel’s Tears.’”
Rainbow lunged again, but this time Quinn was ready. “We will save who we can,” he told her firmly. “But I have a mission here.”
“Promise?” Her mismatched eyes searched his face.
Quinn looked around at the maze of suffering, at the cells they’d already passed and the ones that stretched ahead. The weight of it pressed down on him like a physical thing.
“Promise.”
Wraith lowered her blade but kept it ready. “Which way to Leena? And if you’re thinking of leading us in circles or into a trap...” Wraith didn’t need to finish the threat.
“Straight ahead, then left at the junction. There’s a service tunnel that leads to the surface.” The leprechaun wiped sweat from his brow. “But there are guards. Many guards.”
“Let us worry about that,” Quinn sang. “You focus on not giving me a reason to let my new friend Rainbow here have her knife back.”
As they started forward, Quinn could still hear the desperate cries of beings who had lost hope.
Rainbow walked beside him, her jaw set with a determined look that reminded him painfully of Charley and Katrinka.
The fat leprechaun led them forward, his steps hurried and nervous. Behind them, the sounds of the slave pens faded but never quite disappeared.
The tunnel gradually steepened toward the surface. The sounds and smells disappeared behind them. The walls remained the same monotonous dirty grey-white. But gradually, as they approached the surface, the bioluminescence dimmed, and the way grew darker. Quinn took the lead. The tunnel forked; Quinn turned to ask the leprechaun which way, but he was gone.
Quinn didn’t hesitate and took the right-hand fork. Now came the faint sound of raucous laughter. They reached the end of the drift and faced a door.
Quinn’s shoulder slammed against the heavy oak door, sending it crashing inward with a thunderous bang that echoed through the smoke-hazed chamber. The air was thick with the stale scent of unwashed hides, sour ale, and the sickly-sweet miasma of angel tears burning in crude clay pipes.
The room was a study in squalor. Mismatched furniture clustered around a massive, scarred table. Bone dice clattered across its surface as thick-fingered hands snatched at copper coins and tarnished trinkets. Flickering torches mounted in iron brackets cast dancing light on twenty-three hulking forms, a mix of green-skinned orcs and rock-grey trolls. Their weapons leaned carelessly against the rough-hewn stone walls. There were casks of poteen, a potato-based moonshine that was the beverage of choice for pit fighters.
These beings must be L’eena’s guard. Given the scars, each one a survivor of the pits. They were seperated by species: two groups, orc and troll. United only by the shared, obsessive love of the gamble and the drink.
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