All the others in the vicinity had hurried away as quickly as possible, murmuring prayers to whatever deity they adhered to. Gord’s thoughts turned from excitement to apprehension; he was now really afraid that he had gone too far. If they thought he actually had anything like bloodpox, he’d be killed and his body burned. No argument, no reprieve. The end. If he admitted to his deception, then the end would come just as certainly, but more slowly: Starvation in the dungeon would be his fate.

Clyde took a seat on a bench nearby and began scratching with a quill on a bit of parchment, only bothering to glance at Gord once in a while. Gord was amazed that the guard knew how to write. After several minutes of scratching and peering at the parchment, Clyde seemed satisfied with what he had on the scrap of material. He tucked it back in his jerkin and let out a shrill whistle. In a couple of moments another guard appeared from around the corner.

“What’s up, Clyde?” the new fellow inquired.

“Mornin’, Roak. Nuthin’ much. Just need you to stand my station for an hour or two, whilst I take care of getting shucked of this sickie.”

“Zork!” cried the startled Roak as he got a good look at the huddled boy in the niche. “That bird gots bloodpox!”

“Naw,” Clyde drawled reassuringly as he arose. “It looks a lot like bloodpox, but the little chump has a plague that’s only catching if ya consorts with corpses-if ya get my meanin’, Roak.”

“No shit! That creep got that from messing with a stiff? Wow!” Shaking his head and looking at Gord with utter disgust, the fellow plopped down in Clyde’s spot. “Glad you have to take care of the slime-bucket. See you in a coupla hours or so, pal.”