“Ha! Right you are, sire. Case in point.” Johan waved out across the assembly.
Colorful sprites danced amid the lanterns hanging from the rafters of the Temple of Tandos’ feasting hall. The great expanse was decorated with all the trappings of a ballroom. Andarun’s elite had come out in force, wearing their finest suits and most impressive hats. Banners dangling over the affair bore the name and emblem of the Freedlands Blightworm Foundation.
“Indeed.” Handor popped a trout pastry into his mouth. “Gods, the things we’ll do for charity. At least this is to eradicate blightworm.”
“Or save it,” said the paladin. “The pamphlet’s never quite clear.”
“I thought blightworm was a wasting disease?”
“Yes, caused by a parasite of the same name. Perhaps it’s endangered? Or maybe they want it that way.” The paladin shook his head. “I’m never sure what we’re supporting.”
“That’s how the foundations like things,” grumbled the King. “A banquet here, a cocktail hour there, donations every which way. It’s all a lot of chances to rub elbows and talk business, and nobody ever knows enough about the problem to tell if they’re solving it.”
“Ha! Well, on that note, it is a good place to talk,” said Johan. “We’re to meet in the vestry by the southern apse. Shall we do the rounds?”
“I suppose we must.” Handor nodded and, with a deep breath, launched himself into the tide of people who were both important and self-important to varying degrees: nobles, executives, heroes, merchants, traders, guild leaders, and more. The evening became a whirlwind of shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, expressing sympathies, and making excuses to dart on to the next guest. It was late by the time he and Johan extricated themselves from the gala and made their way down the winding stone passages of Tandos’ temple to a small room.
Johan knocked three times at the door, then kicked it in. “Ha ha! Hello, fellows!”
Fenrir Goldson, Bolbi Baggs, and Weaver Ortson were seated around a small table that had several bottles and glasses scattered over it. They inclined their heads in deference and held drinks up in salute as Handor entered. “What’s on the agenda tonight?” the king asked. “Aside from a real drink, I mean.”
“We’re to report on revenue from heroic activities around Shadowkin dens, Majesty,” Fenrir Goldson poured out a finger of rum and handed the tumbler to Handor. The ancient Dwarf held up a small ledger bound in dark leather. “Shall we go over the figures?”
“They’re very good, sire,” chimed in Weaver Ortson, raising his glass into the air. As Grandmaster of the Heroes’ Guild, Ortson’s analysis of heroic activities were invariably optimistic, and all the more so while he was sampling this year’s vintages.
“Let’s start there,” said Handor, settling back in a yew and velvet chair as Goldson read a litany of sums and percentages. Things were generally looking up, especially stock prices on the Wall, which explained the broad grins on the faces of the other occupants of the small, dimly lit room.
Long ago, before Handor graduated from prince to king, he had imagined ruling as mostly sitting on a throne and making wise-sounding proclamations. Now that Handor was old enough to possess some wisdom, he realized that wise-sounding proclamations were for pacifying the masses. The actual business of ruling was exactly that: business. Revenues and expenses, inflows and outflows, policies and addendums, and all of it done in smoke-filled rooms far from prying eyes and listening ears. Things had been done that way for generations when Handor took the throne, and the only change he’d made to the process was a partially successful effort to cut down on the smoke.
When he’d heard enough about loot appraisals and plunder fund dividends, he raised a hand to silence Goldson. “Overall, it sounds like the numbers are very good,” he said. “Though I suspect you’re about to tell me why they’re not good enough.”
The Dwarf and the Halfling glanced at each other, and then turned back to Handor with the same simpering smile plastered across their faces. “We prefer to say there’s still more opportunity, sire,” said Baggs.
“Oh, lots more!” agreed Ortson, whose enthusiasm was generally proportional to his intemperance.
“There’s growth on the Wall, to be sure, but we’ve still yet to see the hiring and purchases that really move an economy,” said Goldson.
“And the taxman is taking money right out of the hands of businesses who would spend it on jobs, sire,” said Baggs.
“It’s preventing the prosperity that the Wall has enjoyed from spreading to the common man,” said Goldson.
Handor rested his cheek on his hand. “Somehow, something always is.”
“Think of it this way, Majesty.” Baggs set a glass in front of himself and pointed to it. “The Wall expects a certain amount of performance out of us, correct? Meeting projections and raising shareholder value and the like.” He started pouring from a bottle of Whitegeld red. “We are doing well at the moment. The gold is flowing in.”
“But the Wall expected that,” said Goldson.
Baggs nodded. “Exactly. Until we exceed expectations, we’ll have no funds to give raises or hire new workers. Now, if the giltin were to flow in a bit faster, because of a tax cut, for example…” The Halfling tipped the bottle up and poured the rest of it out, allowing some of the wine to spill over the edge. “Then we would have the funds to spare for the people. If we truly want to help the people, our cups must run over, so to speak.”
“Oh? I never liked trickle-down economics,” said Ortson, watching the crimson wine drip down the glass. “It implies that there’s a leak somewhere.”
“Get a hold of yourself, Weaver,” Goldson snapped.
The king ignored the guildmaster. “It seems to me,” he said to Goldson and Baggs, “that your problem is that you’ve too large a cup. However, proclaiming a tax hike could help investors with their unrealistic expectations.”
Baggs blanched. “But… but sire! We speak only of concern for the people.”
“Then hire more of them,” snarled Handor. “Or donate to the temples of Fulgen and Oppo.”
“If only we could, sire,” simpered Goldson. “But that would hurt our profits, and thus our stock price.”
“And our primary responsibility is to our shareholders,” added Baggs. “As we said, the Wall has expectations.”
“Well, gentlemen, it is an enviable thing to be afforded concern for the people with no responsibility to them,” said Handor, settling back in his seat. He sipped at his glass of spirits. “You and your shareholders are doing better than most of my subjects.”
“Perhaps, sire, but we don’t know how long that will last,” Goldson confessed.
“It’s true that our industry has seen growth since many of the Freedlands’ noncombatant paper carriers returned to the wilds,” said Baggs.
“For now.” Goldson raised a hand. “With all of those Shadowkin getting their papers revoked or turning them in, there’s money to be made at the moment. But the Orcs and Goblins won’t last more than a few years.”
“If that,” said Baggs. “And even in the short term, it’s not enough to drive hiring. The Shadowkin leaving the NPC program may be driving good pillage-quest-loot cycles, but we can’t scale that up.”
“So you’re saying it’s not sustainable,” said Handor.
“We’re saying that to really grow the economy again, the professional heroics industry needs a sudden increase in revenue or a sudden drop in expenses. Such as a cut in our taxes,” said Goldson.
“That cannot happen, Mr. Goldson,” said Handor. “I suggest you look elsewhere for a sudden source of revenue. Perhaps your heroes could finally get around to killing the Dragon of Wynspar.”
At the mention of the dragon, Weaver Ortson sprayed a mouthful of wine across the cherrywood table. “B-but sire,” the fat man sputtered. “N-nobody has slain a d-dragon since the last age.”
“Even if someone could slay the monster, it wouldn’t do much good,” said Bag
gs, grimacing as he cleaned the guildmaster’s wine from his spectacles. “Investors consider shares of the dragon’s hoard as good as gold. While it may be a boon to some firms if all that equity was suddenly liquid, it wouldn’t add much to the bottom line.”
“No,” said Goldson, nodding. “We need a new threat. Something more dangerous than the Red Horde. Anything less won’t capture enough loot to drive the heroics business forward.”
“It almost sounds like you’re wishing calamity on the people you’re so concerned about,” said Handor.
“Oh, not at all sire,” said Goldson.
“We’re wishing a near miss on them,” said Baggs. “A threat of calamity, stopped by our fine heroes just before it harms the Freedlands.”
“And just after we’ve cashed in,” said Goldson. “Ah, but we cannot count on such a boon coming anytime soon.”
“Barring another opportunity like Bloodroot, I’m afraid we must seek ways to cut expenses,” said Baggs. “We were hoping by about three percent.”
Handor pursed his lips. The mention of the Guz’Varda Tribe brought some unfinished business to mind. “Speaking of Bloodroot and the Red Horde, have we tied up all the loose ends after the Elven Marbles?”
Goldson and Baggs exchanged concerned looks. Johan’s grin seemed somehow diminished, if only by a fraction.
“Almost, Your Majesty,” said Baggs.
Handor scowled. “And by ‘almost,’ you mean to say that you haven’t tracked down those rubes from the Heroes’ Guild?”
Ortson feigned a cough. “Formerly of the Heroes’ Guild,” he interjected.
“Gorm Ingerson may be washed up, but he’s no rube, sire,” said Johan. “On the contrary, he’s quite dangerous.”
“Especially given what he knows,” said Handor dryly.
“Yes, sire. Quite so,” said the paladin.
“Nobody questions the threat Ingerson poses,” agreed Baggs. “But we are in a difficult situation. As you know, the Pyrebeard and his cohorts intercepted one of our agents last year.”
Goldson nodded. “They already have too much evidence of our company’s involvement with the unpleasantness at Bloodroot.”
“Which is why we’ve had to take extra precautions when hiring… problem-solving specialists,” said Baggs. “We can’t create another paper trail.”
“What we can’t have, gentlemen, is continued excuses,” growled the king. “I don’t want to hear about your recruiting practices. I want to hear that Gorm Ingerson and company are dead.”
“You will, Majesty,” said Baggs.
“Have faith, sire,” said Goldson. “We’re sparing no expense to see the matter resolved.”
“Good,” said Handor. “Once that unpleasantness is behind us, we can turn our attention back to our mutual success.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Baggs raised his glass.
“And I’ll drink, too,” said Ortson, slurring the obvious.
“To what?” asked Johan.
“To just about anything, it seems,” grumbled Goldson.
“Ha ha!” Johan’s laughter was like a trumpet as he raised a goblet of wine.
“To success,” said Handor, holding up his tumbler.
Chapter 3
“Just one sip,” Kaitha murmured to herself as she rummaged through her pack. She’d been waiting for the right moment since she’d looted the tiny vial of salve from the footlocker in the Glens. The timing was a tricky matter; she needed to find an opportunity when none of the other adventurers would notice her absence, and yet she also needed to find such a moment before the burning in her wrists forced her to claw her bracers off.
Caution had won the day, but now it was the dead of night. It was time to scratch the itch. Time to let her hair down. Seriously time to find the thrice-cursed bottle of elixir.
Kaitha felt her desperation rising as her fingers probed the recesses of her pack and found them empty. She dug through her belt pouches just to be safe, and when those came up empty, she even tried overturning her Poor Man’s Quiver. A steady stream of enchanted arrows fell out of the magical quiver, one by one, but there was no sign of a potion. “Bones!” she swore. “How is this possible?”
Some adventurers had problems with healing potions. Drinking elixir closed wounds and rejuvenated the dying, but careless users developed crippling addictions to the amber liquid. Kaitha knew she didn’t have that problem, because unlike the average salve-head, she could stop whenever she wanted to. Her current problem was that she didn’t quite want to stop yet, but she also couldn’t seem to keep her hands on any healing potions.
The ranger’s elixir supply had been suspiciously scarce for the past year. She procured small caches on several occasions throughout their travels, secretly buying the healing potions from the odd tinker caravan or snagging one from a cache of loot. Yet it seemed that whenever she got her hands on any salve, the potions went missing before she could use them. Equally frustrating, whenever someone else was injured or Kaitha needed a kick so bad she got the shakes, a bottle mysteriously appeared.
Kaitha was fairly sure the other heroes were oblivious to the salve management issues, mostly because she’d been searching through their packs as well. But there was nobody else around to take the potions. Except…
The ranger turned and looked into the alpine forest, dotted with the great, gray boulders that littered the base of the Highwalls. It occurred to her that perhaps the King in the Wood had expanded into pharmaceutical management.
“Is it you?” she said. “Are you… I mean, do you see it when I… I…?”
A wave of embarrassment washed over Kaitha, though she couldn’t say if the shame was at the prospect of the watcher in the forest seeing her taking kicks of elixir, or just because she was standing in the woods at midnight whispering to trees. People said that salve withdrawal could addle the brain, but Kaitha knew she wasn’t hooked that bad. She was fairly certain, anyway.
“Are you really out there?” she asked the woods. “Sometimes even I don’t think you are.”
The silence vindicated her doubts.
“I… I want you to be,” Kaitha added, stepping toward a mossy stump. “I want you to be real.”
She pulled the pewter figurine of Davon Royalheart from her pack and set it on the pocked and rotting wood. The toy knight seemed alone in the shadows of the trees towering over them.
“I just wanted you to know that,” she said, a little louder.
For a time she stood by the figurine, waiting—hoping—for a response that never came. After a while she sat down on a nearby log. Her mind wandered to other things, such as the fact that she may not have searched the leftmost pouch in her pack as thoroughly as the others.
She had only been rummaging through her bags for a few moments when she felt something akin to the memory of a breeze, and she caught an earthy scent that brought her to the garden in the Myrewood. She looked up, unsure of what she’d see, but sure that she’d see something.
She was wrong. The forest was empty.
Kaitha’s initial disappointment faded as she leapt up and ran to the mossy stump. A quick check around its base confirmed that the figurine of Davon Royalheart hadn’t merely fallen over the edge or down a crack. Someone had taken the toy. The King in the Wood was here, and he had let her know. It wasn’t what she was hoping for, but somehow it was enough to sweep away some of her loneliness and take the edge off the burning need for a kick of elixir.
She scanned the woods a moment longer, searching for any sign of movement in the moonlight. Then she whispered her thanks, picked up her bag, and made her way back to camp. It was well past time to sleep.
Laruna awoke to the sound of a dropped pot. Days at the camp began before dawn’s first light, when the world was still a blue-gray haze of mist and twilight. She snorted irritably and crawled from her bedroll.
A wreath of flame surrounded her as she broke down her tent. The sorcerous fire helped ward off the both the cloying chill in the air and
the friendly salutations of those companions who were better adjusted to early mornings on long marches. Laruna didn’t understand how Gorm and Kaitha could smile at this hour, especially given their bizarre traveling companion.
The skeletal torso was in the center of the camp, or more accurately, the camp was arranged around the spot where Gaist had staked it to the ground with the ancient spear. Despite the skeleton’s best efforts at locomotion, it couldn’t do more than run in place with the old weapon stuck through its ribcage and into the frozen earth. Now the undead torso sulked where it was pegged to the ground, unmoving save for the occasional half-hearted kick at anyone who got too close.
Kaitha trapped and cooked a wild hare for breakfast, and most of the party gathered around a small cookfire as the meat sizzled and popped in the skillet. Jynn, however, sat a ways away from the others, watching the first beams of sunlight leak in through the pine needles above. He might have appeared meditative or thoughtful to the other heroes, but Laruna knew better.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, joining the noctomancer on the edge of camp.
Jynn’s icy blue eyes flicked to the solamancer, then returned to the glowing canopy above them. “This is our third day marching with the skeleton.”
“For a pile of old bones, it sets a tough pace,” said Laruna. “And I’ve been sick of marching since the day we sold the horses.”
“I’m not tired. I’ve gotten used to walking after all these months,” said Jynn. “No, I’m worried.”
Laruna nodded. “Me too. It’s been too far.”
Dark magics or curses could give the dead of Arth a renewed outlook on life, though one from a hostile perspective. Fortunately for the living, however, the creation of the undead was limited to a certain geographic distance around their source. Heroes often gauged the nature of undead threats by the total area afflicted with the curse; the larger the radius of walking corpses, the more powerful the threat at the center.
Son of a Liche Page 5