OPERATION: RAGIN’ MOUSE

A cold draft swept into the dimly lit “Yellow Barmen” Tavern as a cloaked figure pushed open the door, the night’s chill clinging to his clothes. The bartender barely looked up, his hands busy with the mugs and the quiet chatter of the patrons. Most of the guests were human, as was common in these parts. No one paid much attention as the stranger moved toward a small table by the fire where a stout, bearded dwarf sat nursing a mug of ale.

“Otoriz?” the stranger asked quietly, keeping his voice low.

The dwarf didn’t look up immediately. He took a long pull from his drink, then grunted. “Who’s askin’?”

“A bug told me to find you,” the man replied, his tone calm, measured. “Said you’d be waiting for him.”

Otoriz’s grip tightened on his mug, his other hand instinctively moving toward the dagger hidden at his belt. “What happened to the bug?”

The stranger lowered himself into the seat across from Otoriz, his cloak still obscuring most of his face. “He told me to tell you, ‘Thanks for what you did at Qualaton. He owes you his life.’”

The dwarf’s tense posture relaxed slightly, though his sharp eyes remained fixed on the stranger. “One of Craznar’s boys, then?” He let out a quiet chuckle. “What do they call you?”

“Diesel,” the man replied. “And you’re Otoriz Flamehammer, one of the Nine Sons of Myador.”

Otoriz snorted. “Diesel, huh? Who hated you enough to name you that?”

Diesel allowed a small smile. “I did.”

“Lift your hood just a bit, lad,” Otoriz said, his voice quiet. “Not enough for anyone else to see.”

Diesel complied, pulling the edge of his hood back just enough for Otoriz to glimpse the distinct ears atop his head—Beastkin.

Otoriz grunted in approval. “Craznar sent you for something, didn’t he?”

Diesel nodded. “He told me you’ve got something for him. Said it was important.”

The dwarf took another long sip from his mug, then set it down with a thud. “Room four upstairs. You’ll find it there.”

Diesel was about to stand when Otoriz added, loud enough for the nearby patrons to hear, “I’ll be in my room if you’ve got more questions!” He stood abruptly, his face twisting into a mock frown. “Damn kids and their new toys,” he muttered as he stomped toward the stairs, keeping up the ruse.

Diesel remained seated a few minutes longer, tossing a couple of Austorian coins on the bar before heading toward Otoriz’s room.

In the quiet of the upstairs hallway, Diesel entered the room Otoriz had mentioned. The dwarf was already there, waiting, his face more serious than it had been downstairs. From beneath his cloak, Otoriz produced a small, wrapped package and handed it to Diesel.

“Take it. Get it to Craznar. I don’t know what it is, and frankly, I don’t want to know,” Otoriz said, his voice low, his eyes darting nervously to the door.

Before Diesel could respond, Otoriz tensed, his hand gripping his dagger.

“You expecting anyone?” Diesel asked, already sensing the shift in the air.

Otoriz cursed under his breath. “Red Tower Guards... They’ve been sniffing around. I thought I lost them.”

Before either of them could react further, a loud knock rattled the door.

“This is the Red Tower Guard! Open in the name of the King!” a voice commanded from the hallway.

Otoriz’s face hardened. “They must’ve tracked me. Go. Now.”

Diesel slipped out the window, landing quietly in the alley below. As he disappeared into the shadows, he heard the heavy crash of the door being forced open behind him.

Outside, Diesel moved swiftly toward the village outskirts, his pace steady but not rushed. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t scared. This had all been part of the plan. As he approached the open fields, the trap was set.

Moments later, Diesel heard the unmistakable sound of armored horses galloping toward him. The Red Tower Guards were closing in, just as he had planned. He walked slowly into the clearing, his back to them, waiting for the perfect moment.

The sound of hoofbeats drew nearer. The guards had caught up to him.

“Beastkin scum!” one of the guards bellowed. “Stop where you are!”

Diesel didn’t stop.

One of the battlemages sent a bolt of arcane energy into the ground just ahead of him, sending up a burst of dirt and grass. “I said stop, or your friend dies next!” the battlemage growled.

Diesel slowed, coming to a halt in the middle of the clearing. He could hear them now—dragging Otoriz behind them, the dwarf groaning in pain, barely conscious.

“You think you can run from the Red Tower?” the lead battlemage sneered. “We don’t pay for pelts, so I suggest you surrender before we decide your friend’s fate.”

Diesel remained silent, his hands at his sides. A soft voice crackled from the device at his waist, barely audible over the clinking armor of the Red Guards.

Otoriz, still slumped over the horse, lifted his head weakly. In his dazed state, he could barely make out what was happening, but he heard it—the voice, the one coming from Diesel’s belt.

Then, without a word, Diesel turned around and lifted his hand.

In an instant, the quiet night erupted into chaos, as the lead battlemage’s head exploded in a mist of blood. Before the others could react, more shots rang out, precise and deadly, each one finding its mark. The Red Tower Guards, so confident moments before, fell one by one, their horses screaming as the carnage unfolded.

Otoriz, still struggling to stay conscious, felt himself fall from the back of the horse as its rider was killed. He hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his body. Everything was a blur—shouts, blood, and the flash of muzzle fire. In his weakened state, he could do nothing but watch as the battle ended as quickly as it had begun.

When Otoriz came to, he was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. The faint outlines of two Beastkin hovered over him—Diesel and another, dressed in dark gear, holding what looked like a staff, though Otoriz couldn’t quite focus.

“Checkmate 6 Golf, Checkmate 6 Golf, this is Base One. What’s your status, over?”

The voice was coming from Diesel’s waist. Otoriz blinked, trying to make sense of it all. Diesel retrieved a black box from his wait belt.

“Base one, this is Checkmate 6 Golf. Package secure, one casualty, over.”

“Checkmate 6 Golf, Roger, Archer 2-7-4 is enroute, Checkmate 6 Delta has been notified of situation. Hang tight, we are coming to get you. Base one out.” Came from the box in Diesels hands.

Otoriz tried to sit up, but pain shot through his ribs, forcing him back down. “What... what did you do?” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

“Just rest,” Diesel replied, glancing toward the sky. “Our ride’s almost here.”

Otoriz, his vision fading in and out, heard a low rumble in the distance. At first, he thought it was a wyvern, its wings beating the air. His eyes widened in fear, but Diesel just smiled, shaking his head.

“Relax. It’s not what you think.”

Otoriz tried to protest, but he was too weak. He watched helplessly as the massive metal bird descended from the sky, its rotors whipping the air into a frenzy. To Otoriz, it looked like some kind of nightmare creature, but the Beastkin seemed unfazed.

As the tiltrotor landed, more Beastkin emerged, rushing to his side with a stretcher. They lifted him gently, securing him as the engines roared to life again.

Otoriz, barely conscious, looked at Diesel. “What... who are you?”

Diesel met his gaze with a calm smile. “The future.”

And with that, Otoriz passed out, the last thing he heard being the thunderous roar of the tiltrotor lifting off into the night.