“P-perhaps, but violence is never a-an acceptable answer, and there may be benefits to releasing me—”
“I never said anything about hurting anyone,” Poldo’s assailant tried to interrupt. “I just need a moment to think.”
She didn’t get one. Poldo’s speech poured out in a continuous, nearly hysterical stream. “—monetary or otherwise. I am a Gnome of some means, you see, and if you do not harm me, I am sure I can make it worth your while. My name is Duine Poldo, and I—”
“Poldo?” She started at his name.
“Uh, yes. I have an office at Boulderfolk, which may tell you what kind of money we are dealing with—”
“Mr. Poldo of Goldson Baggs?”
“—although not as much as one might expect—what? Well, formerly of Goldson Baggs Group, yes,” said Poldo. “I resigned a bit over a year ago, and in the meantime I—”
His attacker’s demeanor brightened at the admission. She released his arm and spun him around, revealing a Gnoll so thin that she looked almost skeletal. She wore a motley collection of old rags that covered little of her fur, and the fur that showed was covered in mange. She covered her ears and much of her face with a headscarf fashioned from an old towel, through the fox-like muzzle protruding from the head wrap was clearly smiling.
“Mr. Poldo! You used to work with my husband! My name is Feista Hrurk!”
“A Mr. Hrurk? Ah, yes, I remember,” said Poldo, recalling the Gnoll attendant. “He ran the lift in Goldson Baggs’ central office.”
Mrs. Hrurk’s eyes lit up. “Yes, and he talked about you all the time! He was always going on about kind Mr. Poldo! He thought the world of you.”
“Did he?” Poldo liked Hrurk well enough, and had regretted that the Gnoll quit after the incident with the Guz’Varda Tribe. Yet the Scribkin didn’t recall being especially close to the lift operator.
“Oh yes! It seems like every day he’d mention you. ‘Mr. Poldo said “hello” again today!’ ‘Mr. Poldo gave me a copper for a tip this evening.’ Or ‘Why can’t they all be like Mr. Poldo? He’s never kicked me once.’”
“I… I… Wait, surely people never kicked Mr. Hrurk,” Poldo said, his apprehension draining away in his confusion.
“Yeah,” said Mrs. Hrurk sadly. “Very often. Whenever they were having bad luck, it seemed. They had an expression for it.”
“What? They never said anything like that to—” A memory sparked in Poldo’s mind. “Oh, you mean ‘kicking the dog?’”
The Gnoll’s face seemed to become a little more brittle. “That’s the one,” she said.
“But that was just an expression,” said Poldo. “You know, when Ur’Groom or Briggs or one of the lads in sales couldn’t get to their numbers, they’d say ‘I just need to kick the dog!’ And then they’d step out for a break and… and…”
Somewhere in Poldo’s mind a wall fell, and his stomach twisted when he saw the other side. “Oh gods,” he said. “They were actually kicking someone?”
“Usually not that hard,” said Mrs. Hrurk kindly. “And you never did. I think that’s why he was always saying how nice Mr. Poldo is. Er, you are.”
“Ah, good.” Poldo felt like he had ingested something greasy. It was disturbing that he was remembered for only the slightest of courtesies, and all the more so that those slight courtesies still exceeded the average. “Where is Mr. Hrurk now, anyways?”
Mrs. Hrurk’s eyes fell, and her tail drooped. “Oh, he’s gone.”
“Surely not… dead?” gasped Poldo.
“His papers were revoked for criminal activity,” sighed Mrs. Hrurk. Her tail tucked beneath her legs. “So the guild… well, they did what they do.”
“But… but how?” asked Poldo.
“We were hungry, and I… I sent Mr. Hrurk to sneak out to the baker shop—”
“They voided Hrurk’s papers and killed him for stealing bread for his family?” cried Poldo.
“Oh, no, Mr. Poldo!” The Gnoll was equally appalled by the notion.
The Scribkin shook his head. “Oh, well, for a moment I—”
“He bought the bread, of course. We don’t steal.” The last words came out in a snarl, and Mrs. Hrurk’s eyes burned.
For a moment, Poldo’s mind flashed back to when he was a young boy in his family workshop, when his father had sat him down and told him that if nothing else, he could take pride in being a good person. Since then, he’d discovered that being a good person was the last resort of self-esteem.
In the upper echelons of Andarun’s financial industry, people prided themselves on the name of the firm they worked for, the size of the deals they closed, the title on their business card, and anything else that could be quickly boiled down to a sum of gold. With so much to take pride in beyond integrity, many bankers put little stock in it. Yet standing behind a dumpster and clad in filthy rags, Mrs. Hrurk clung to her morals like a terrier to a postman’s heel.
“I meant no offense, madam. But if I may, if not stealing, why were his papers revoked?”
“Oh, he jaywalked on his way home.”
“What?”
“Yes, he was hurrying back. But the law says he should have used the crosswalk. So the heroes took his papers and then—” Mrs. Hrurk’s voice caught in her throat.
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Poldo.
“They took the bread, and the rest of our money as well.” Mrs. Hrurk took a moment to wipe her eyes. “But, we get by. I can take as much food as I need from the dumpsters up here, as long as I’m not seen. And Mr. Hrurk lost his papers, but we still have ours.”
Poldo was still reeling from the story of Hrurk’s demise, so it took a moment for the Gnoll’s last words to register. “Excuse me, did you say ‘we’?”
The dumpster next to them suddenly rattled and shook. The lid lifted up just enough to allow three tiny snouts to pop out from the gap. Behind them, three pairs of eyes sparkled in the darkness. “Mama!” the pups cried. “Did you bring the food?”
“Hush, children! That wasn’t the signal,” said Mrs. Hrurk. “I’m talking to Mr. Poldo.”
“But we’re cold, Mama,” whined a young Gnoll.
“It’s warmer under the trash, my dears,” said Mrs. Hrurk.
“But we’re hungry, too!” said another pup.
Mrs. Hrurk gave Poldo an embarrassed nod as she stepped over to address the dumpster. “I couldn’t get any food today. Maybe tomorrow!” she hissed to the pups from the side of her muzzle. “But there’s plenty of cans and bottles to lick in there. That will tide you over.”
“Buh I cuth mah tongue, mama!” whined one of the pups.
Poldo staggered back under the weight of the guilt pressing in. His old colleague’s widow and her children were starving, and Poldo hadn’t even realized Hrurk had died. No, not died. Hrurk had been murdered by the industry that gave Poldo his fortune. He felt like the air was being crushed from his lungs.
Mrs. Hrurk must have noticed his wheezing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Rex, close the dumpster! The smell is bothering poor Mr. Poldo.”
“No! No, it’s not the smell,” gasped Poldo, struggling to compose himself.
“Well, you don’t look well,” said Mrs. Hrurk. “Do you need to leave? If you need to leave, can you please promise to not tell anyone we’re staying here? If they find out I’m trespassing, they’ll take our papers—”
“You cannot live in the trash,” Poldo managed to say.
“Please, Mr. Poldo!” Fear crept into Mrs. Hrurk’s voice. “If not for us, do it for Mr. Hrurk!”
“You misunderstand me, madam,” said Poldo. “You must come with me. We’ll get you some food for a start. I believe there’s a cart that sells Ten-Penny beef rolls in the park down the street.”
“You’re buying us beef rolls?” the Gnoll asked, clearly perplexed.
“For a start,” said Poldo firmly. “Afterward, we’ll see about some clothes, and then we’ll discuss what comes next.”
“Mr. Poldo,” said Mrs
. Hrurk. “Please, you don’t have to do all of that.”
Poldo looked up at the children peering curiously out of the dumpster, and in their faces he saw the features of a kind lift attendant who apparently thought the world of any manager who gave him as much respect as a wall fixture. “But I must, Mrs. Hrurk. I truly must.”
Truth and free will were usually the domain of Arth’s philosophers and priests, who liked to focus on the Big Questions. The scientists of Arth, by contrast, dedicated themselves to the Smaller-But-More-Immediately-Useful Questions, or at least the Quickly-Profitable-Especially-If-You’re-Not-Too-Stodgy-About-Ethics Questions. Yet for millennia, Arth’s Gnomes maintained a tradition of philosopher-scientists, high-minded individuals who sought to comprehend the essential nature of being, to answer the deepest mysteries of the universe, and to wrestle those truths into mathematical equations.
Greatest among them was the Fifth-Age philosopher-scientist Nove, best known for his work on expectations and reality. Nove’s research posited that reality is partially comprised of irony in its various forms. The exact ratio of irony to matter in the universe is known as Nove’s Constant, and by definition it’s more than you’d expect.
It’s well-established that expectations and timing shape perception, and that perception shapes reality. But it was Nove who originally inverted these ideas to posit that perception and expectations could change the timing of events. His first principle of universal irony was expressed as a long formula that involves Nove’s Constant, the number of people sharing an understanding, and the amount of time in which an event disturbing that understanding would be surprising.
For the common layperson, however, it was easier to remember that the universe had a nasty sense of timing, and it was best not to voice certain thoughts out loud. People avoided statements like, “It can’t be that bad,” “Just one probably won’t hurt,” or, “Well, the native population’s been drinking it for centuries, and they don’t seem to mind it.” While skeptics were quick to point out that a reasonable person would hardly expect a turn of phrase to alter the course of fate, proponents of Nove’s work were equally quick to note that was exactly the problem.
Thus it was that Gorm’s party was embroiled in controversy as they trudged through the ruined gates of the Glens.
“All I said was that things are looking up,” snapped Jynn.
“Yes, and now you keep saying it,” Heraldin growled. The ancient, headless skeleton pinned to the Glens’ wall rattled in an unfelt wind as he stepped out of the fortress. “Have you never heard of the philosopher Nove?”
“I’ve heard of him, read his work, and seen it debunked. And even if it was true,” Jynn spoke up to head off any argument, “The fact remains that his teachings are impractical to the point of uselessness. It’s impossible to avoid saying everything that might ironically precede an event.”
“You can reduce your chances,” said Kaitha. “You just have to speak a little more carefully.”
“Why?” demanded the wizard, stopping at the edge of the ruined gate. “It took us weeks to convince Gorm to head south! Do you think poor wording will alter our course at this point?”
“Gods!” said Kaitha. “There you go again!”
“Perhaps if you stop saying things like that, we’ll have the pleasure of not finding out!” snapped Heraldin.
Gaist nodded.
“Are we all really that superstitious?” Jynn stared at the other heroes in turn. “Yes? All living in the prior age? Very well. I’ll speak no more.”
“Thank you,” said Heraldin.
The wizard shook his head. “All I really meant to say is that anybody would be glad to be leaving these mountains and this gods-forsaken fort. I’m sure all the poor souls manning the walls would agree, if they weren’t ashes at the bottom of the Orcs’ pyres.”
“Well, they’re not ashes.” Burt stuck his head out from Gorm’s rucksack.
“What?” said Heraldin.
“He said they were ashes,” said the Kobold with a shrug. “But the thing about Orcish pyres is that they’re for Orcs. They don’t burn their enemies.”
Jynn scratched his beards. “Fine, the Goblin pyres—”
“Goblins and Kobolds don’t burn their enemies either,” said Burt. “Least, not after they’re dead. I know the Stone Blood Tribe likes to use flaming arrows and burning oil traps—”
“None of ye Shadowkin burn your foes?” Gorm asked.
“Of course not,” said Burt. “We leave ‘em intact for their families to come back and take care of. I mean, after we nick some skulls and teeth for trophies, mind.”
“You expect the widows and widowers and orphans to come back right after you killed everyone in the area and mutilated their corpses?” said Laruna.
“Well, yeah.” The Kobold was getting a bit defensive. “It’s not like we’d hurt them or anything while they’re burying the dead!”
The solamancer shook her head. “How would they know that?”
“I don’t know!” Burt’s hackles were up. “We all just know, all right? It’s culture. Shared experience and all that. You don’t burn other peoples’ dead. There are no Lightlings in those pyres!”
“Well then, where are the bodies?” wondered Heraldin.
Gorm whirled around, prompting a yelp of protest from the Kobold on his back. “Wait. Ye didn’t find the remains of any defenders?”
Heraldin held his hands out. “Did you see any corpses lying around the courtyard?”
“No, but I was searching out here!” said Gorm. “I thought ye found ‘em tucked away in a back room or something.”
“Did you really think the Red Horde tidies up and tucks away the dead in a back room?” Jynn asked. “Maybe they swept and dusted on their way out, too?”
“Or the defenders made a desperate last stand in the keep!” snapped Gorm.
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Kaitha. “The problem is there aren’t any bodies around.”
An unpleasant silence fell over the party.
Gorm felt a chill run up his spine as he stood in the still mountain air. “Also,” he said slowly, “there ain’t any wind.”
“Right,” said Heraldin.
“If there ain’t any wind, what’s making them bones move?” said Gorm, pointing.
The heroes turned to the rattling skeleton hanging from the gate. The bones twitched and shook as though blown by a breeze that wasn’t there, or perhaps as though trying to extricate the spear pinning it to the wall without the benefit of arms.
“It wants to get down,” said Kaitha.
“But where does it want to go?” asked Jynn.
“I know one way to find out,” said Gorm. He signaled to Gaist, who reached up with a thick arm and yanked the spear from the stone.
The headless skeleton dropped to the ground and crumpled into a pile of bones, then immediately set about the laborious process of righting itself. Upon regaining its footing, it hopped up and down a couple of times, as if testing its legs, and set off at a brisk march down the mountain path.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” said Heraldin.
“Ye have a bad feeling about everything,” Gorm replied.
“And I’m usually right,” said the bard, watching the bones jaunt away.
“It might be warranted in this case,” Laruna said. “We don’t know where the skeleton is going.”
“There’s still only one way to find out.” Gorm adjusted his rucksack.
“I’d actually suggest that we don’t want to be wherever the walking dead go,” said Heraldin.
“What I want is to know what’s got a set of old bones so lively,” said Gorm. “Could be a simple haunting, but it could be much worse.”
“Whatever it is, if there’s a serious undead threat nearby, it’s best to know about it,” agreed Kaitha. “Even if for no other reason than to avoid it.”
The Dwarf nodded. “Or warn nearby towns.”
“Now, hang on! This isn’t what w
e discussed!” protested the bard.
“Sure it is. We said we’d help people if they need it. We’re open to new paths, after all. Saving innocents is a passion, right?” Gorm set off down the path after the skeleton. “Come on. Them bones are movin’ faster than they should be.”
“They shouldn’t be moving at all!” Heraldin called after his back. “That’s the problem!”
Jynn stepped up next to the bard. “For the record, I’d like to say this was a coincidence.”
“Noted,” said Heraldin. “Let the record also show that you were supposed to stop talking.”
The wizard’s lips pulled into a thin line as he started off.
“At least it’s heading south,” said Laruna. “For all we know, the skeleton will take us closer to the High Coast anyway.”
“Oof,” said Kaitha, clutching her belly as she jogged to catch up. “I wouldn’t have eaten so much if I’d known I was going to head out on a run right away.”
“You didn’t eat much at all,” said Laruna.
“Yeah,” said Kaitha. “But I’m still regretting those last couple bites of… stew.”
“I regretted the first one,” Jynn muttered as the party followed the skeleton away from the Glens.
“Ha! Leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth, doesn’t it, sire?” laughed Johan the Mighty, Champion of Tandos. The paladin’s ornate golden armor shimmered in the lantern light, and one of his hands rested easily on the hilt of a massive sword. The other gauntlet held a small fluted glass filled with yellow-green liquid.
Handor set his own drink down and tried to maintain his composure as the foulness bubbled down his throat. “What was that, by the bones?” he asked once he could convince his tongue to move again.
“A Tarapin Topspin, Majesty,” said the waiter. “Shall I bring you something else?”
“I should think not.” Handor wiped his tongue with a napkin. “I doubt I could survive another one of your excursions to the bar.”
The waiter blanched and hurried on to the other linen-lined tables in the room.
“I tell you, Johan, it’s amazing what people will subject themselves to.” The king’s mouth twisted into an involuntary grimace as he eyed the paladin’s Tarapin Topspin.
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