Poldo combed his fingers through his thick mustache as he considered his options. “Well, it does look very positive,” he said. “I’ll need to do my due diligence, make sure Silver Guard is legally protected—”
“Yeah, sure, all of that.” Fitch cut the Scribkin off with a wave of his hand. “I’m assuming you’ll cover your bases. The question is, are you in or out? Because if you’re in, I’ve got to say, this is the sort of thing investors like hearing about when they read my reports. But if you’re out…”
Poldo got the message loud and clear. It was time to grab the brass ring, lest he be trampled by the bull. “Gentlemen,” he said as he shook their hands. “This is the beginning of something great. I can feel it.”
“I just felt it right in my gut,” said Heraldin, breaking the adventurers’ silence. “I knew this was going to be bad.”
Gorm nodded. His abdomen was sending him similar signals of dread as he stared out across the grasslands that formed the porous border between Ruskan and the Wild Lands. Below the ridge that the heroes had assembled along, the headless skeleton broke into a full sprint, bounding south toward the roiling mass of smoke and shadow on the horizon.
The darkness crept across the land like a stain through linen. Gorm could barely make out the shapes of men within the black mass; some stumbled along in a stilted limp, others advanced in a stiff, jerking march, and still others glowed pale blue as they hovered among the carrion birds that swarmed around the army.
“Bones,” swore Laruna.
“Obviously,” said Burt, perched on Gorm’s rucksack.
“So much for going south,” said Heraldin.
“So much for the pirate towns,” Laruna added.
“In more ways than one,” added Jynn. “Father must have marched right up the High Coast.”
Kaitha shaded her eyes with her hand. “They’re headed north. Probably to Vetchell.”
“Aye. We’ll have to warn ‘em,” agreed Gorm. “Otherwise, a city the size of Vetchell will have plenty of ‘recruits’ for, uh, whatever necromancer is leadin’ the undead—”
“It’s my father,” Jynn interrupted. He glared at the distant legion, his lips pulled into a scowl. “There’s no sense in leaving it unspoken.”
“We can’t be sure yet,” Gorm said diplomatically.
The noctomancer pointed at a spot in the middle of the black army. “See those fires?”
Gorm squinted, and amid the cloud of hovering carrion birds he could make out flickers of violet and emerald flames on the horizon. “Aye, though it’s a funny color.”
“It’s called Shadowflame. It’s an odd hue because it’s not actually fire; it’s elemental darkness woven in complex patterns that consume the surrounding shadows, so it seems to glow. Father used to light the bronze braziers outside of the Ashen Tower with it.”
“To ward off enemies? Or focus the weaves of magic?” asked Kaitha.
“It just ‘sets the right ambiance,’” said Jynn, mimicking a deep, cold voice.
“Oh,” said Kaitha.
“He spent three weeks getting the right shade of green,” said Jynn. “I think he even trademarked the name just before he… his death.”
They watched the distant army trudge northward, a slow shambling march illuminated by bursts of the colorful sorcery.
Heraldin stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “To be fair, the Shadowflame does add a little something,” he said.
Gaist nodded.
“Yeah,” agreed Burt, leaning over Gorm’s shoulder to get a better view. “It’s got a certain il’ne se la.”
“A what?” said Gorm.
“You know, il’ne se la,” said the Kobold. “It’s Elven.”
“What’s it mean?”
“‘I don’t know what.’”
“Well, if ye don’t know what it means, why are ye sayin’ it?” asked Gorm.
“I know what it means,” said Burt. “I just said what it means!”
“Ye said—”
“‘I don’t know what’ is what it means,” Kaitha interrupted. “It’s a mysterious quality that makes something special, but you can’t define it.”
“Well, why not say that then?” said Gorm. “Who needs a new word just to say ye ran out of words?”
“Is this really the most pressing conversation we could be having now?” asked Laruna.
“Excuse me for trying to introduce a little culture,” grumbled Burt, giving Gorm a resentful glare as he clambered back into the Dwarf’s rucksack. “And you Lightlings call us barbaric…”
“Ye’ve spent too much time in an Elf’s purse,” Gorm shot back. “And if ye ask me, conjuring a whole new type of sorcerous fire just for decoration seems a bit wasteful.”
“It’s entirely wasteful!” snapped Jynn. “Gods, who but Father would care about accessorizing an army?”
Chapter 4
More than any other Shadowkin, Orcs favor a bone motif when decorating. They place skulls on pikes, weave teeth into their bead necklaces, and stick tusks and femurs onto just about every surface. Orcish wise-ones even developed an alphabet using the hand and foot bones of their foes, though it was usually just painted on stone in bone shapes. Otherwise, it took at least three corpses to write a sentence, and the writer would still likely run out of vowels. No matter what the occasion, Orcs incorporate skeletons into the ornamentation, and the more momentous or grim the event, the more bones they bring to decorate.
Still, the funeral of an Orcish chieftain is a grim affair even by their own macabre standards.
The faces of the Shadowkin around Char Guz’Varda’s pyre were painted as white death masks, so that they looked like ghosts at the edge of the firelight. Bone totems, skeletal trophies, and assorted teeth had been piled atop the pyre. Asherzu wondered if there was any wood beneath the dull, white decorations.
The only bones missing from Char’s pyre were those of Char himself. The Lightlings still had them, along with the rest of Char’s body. This brought shame on the Guz’Varda Tribe, who cremated their dead primarily so the fallen wouldn’t become grim trophies. Whether or not the Lightlings had any propensity to decorate their homes and fortresses with Char’s bones was irrelevant; the fact that they could cast an even darker pall over the funeral.
Asherzu stifled a sob and looked up at Darak. Tears of rage and grief ran down her younger brother’s cheeks in rivulets, carving channels through his thick face paint. She placed a hand on his elbow, and he placed his forehead on her shoulder. He leaned on her long after the pyre had crumbled into coals, past the hour when the younglings were sent to bed and the workers had retired to their huts and tents.
Later, the siblings sat atop a pair of boulders painted like great skulls, watching the groups of warriors and wise-ones whisper in hushed tones around the beach. The ashes of the chieftain’s pyre were not yet cool, but talk had already turned to finding a new leader for the Guz’Varda.
Orcish politics were deceptively complex. Technically, trial by combat determined the leadership of any Orcish tribe. To the outsider, that seemed to imply that the biggest, strongest Orc always led the tribe, but several nuances meant that this wasn’t always the case. An Orc could have a champion stand for him or her in combat, provided there was a willing representative. There were customs and laws about how challenges were fought, but they all agreed that a chieftain could be called to defend his or her throne at almost any time.
When public opinion swayed too far against an Orcish monarch, a challenge would quickly end his career, if not his life. If a tribe had a bitter disagreement with even numbers on both sides, the tribe would split, and the fragments would settle the matter through good, honest war. The most important quality of an Orcish leader is having enough followers to stave off challenges from his or her political opponents; the second most important quality is possessing enough political skill to keep the tribe from breaking apart.
The death of a chieftain always marked the beginning of a search for such a candidate
.
Asherzu only caught snippets of the conversations playing out beneath them. Gizardu the Mountain was considering a bid to become chieftain and withdraw the Guz’Varda from the Red Horde, though she was herself a follower of the old ways. Borpo Skar’Ezzod wanted to lead, though that wasn’t a surprise: the Guz’Varda Tribe had been the Skar’Ezzod Tribe at various points in its history, and Borpo’s family perpetually schemed to take back the throne. Of most interest to Asherzu was Kagar’s bid; Kagar was a wise-one, but if he could find a warrior to stand for him, then it was possible that her father’s old ally could take the throne. Asherzu craned her neck a little to hear what the old Orc was saying to Dorgun of the Great Axe, but she couldn’t quite make it out.
“Go, Asherzu,” said Darak, breaking his long silence.
“What do you speak of?” Asherzu feigned a stretch and turned back to her brother.
“You cannot hide yourself from me,” said Darak. “Look at how you toy with your moth necklace. Anyone can see that you long to peddle words amongst the wise-ones and would-be chieftains.”
Asherzu shook her head and touched her brother’s arm. “I would hate to see you alone on such a night, Little Warg,” she told him.
“And I would hate to stop my favorite sister from being my favorite sister.” Darak forced a smile. “Go. Speak with them. I will be fine.”
Asherzu pursed her lips, an uncommon expression for a people with tusks jutting from their lower jaw. It didn’t seem right to leave Darak by himself at such a time, but missing a chance to help steer the fate of her family’s tribe seemed too great a waste to bear. She pressed her forehead to Darak’s cheek before she left him, because kisses are also uncommon expressions for a people with tusks.
The young Orcess spoke briefly with Kagar, who asked for her aid in bringing Gizardu and her allies to his side. It was hard to conceal her excitement, and she couldn’t stifle the wide grin on her face as she approached Gizardu and several of her followers.
“Hail Asherzu, daughter of Zurthraka,” said Gizardu the Mountain. The warrior’s honorific once referred to her size, for she was almost as tall as the male Orcs, but over time it had come to signify her deeds as well; the bones and skulls hanging from her armor attested to Gizardu’s glorious exploits in battle. Her hair was a raven mane, long and unbraided in the way of warriors, and she gave Asherzu a lioness’ stare as she approached. “Have you come to give us your support?”
“Truly, you would be worthy of it, mighty Gizardu,” said Asherzu. “But I come to ask for your strength instead, for Kagar the Wise.”
The warrior frowned. “Kagar may be wise, but he follows your father’s ways. I am not sure they are right for this tribe.”
“In my father’s days, the children ate every day and parents came home to see them,” said Asherzu. “Can the same be said for the reign of my brother?”
“What you say is true,” said one of Gizardu’s retinue. “But our people crave conquest. We live for the thrill of battle.”
“It is so,” Asherzu agreed. “That is why I love the path of the aggressive seller. Truly, nothing is better than to crush your competition, to drive down their profit margins, to hear the lamentations of their sales representatives. It was a thrill we knew once, a conflict as glorious as any battle. And the children ate at the end of each day.”
“You speak well,” said Gizardu slowly. “And I will have younglings of my own someday, should I find a warrior worthy of siring them. In such dark times, I forget the joy we knew in the days before the Lightling’s betrayal. But I cannot forget their betrayal, and I don’t know that the tribe will either.”
Asherzu tried not to flinch at the mention of the betrayal. She had personally feasted and laughed with the Lightling heroes who claimed to be restoring her tribe’s sacred burial stones. When Gorm Ingerson’s alleged kindness turned out to be a ruse that brought the gold-hounds down upon her people, the pain cut her family deepest of all.
Steeling her resolve, she met Gizardu’s piercing gaze. “We must learn from that treachery, but that does not mean we must flee from it. That is what the Lightling dogs want,” she said. “They don’t regret us starving in the wilderness, pillaging wealth for the gold-hounds to loot. They resented our success on the path of the aggressive seller.”
Gizardu had a thoughtful gleam in her eyes. “Your words are wise, Asherzu, and you honor your family. But even if you speak the truth, how will you and Kagar get us back onto Zurthraka’s path? None of us have our life-papers, and even our younglings are hunted by the gold-hounds.”
Asherzu had anticipated the question. “In truth, I do not know,” she said. “But I am searching for a way, and we need a chieftain who will help us find the path. I have spoken to many of the Guz’Varda, and they tire of the Red Horde.”
“Was your brother one of them?” asked another of Gizardu’s followers.
Asherzu followed the warrior’s gaze back to Darak. Her brother was surrounded by a pack of Orcs, Goblins, and Gnolls, each wearing a red patch on the left shoulder. And at their center stood Grignot, bent over by the weight of the bones hanging from his wiry form.
Asherzu frowned. “A thousand pardons, great Gizardu. I am needed.”
“I will think on your words,” said Gizardu.
With a bow and a few more excuses, Asherzu broke away and rushed back across the beach to where Darak and Grignot spoke.
“Honor, Lady Asherzu,” said Grignot. “Your brother and I were just discussing the future of the Red Horde.”
“They wish me to be chieftain, Asherzu,” Darak said without ceremony.
“And I am sure you would be a mighty one.” Asherzu spoke with cautious diplomacy; the wrong words could dishonor Darak, but a different sort of wrong words might imply that his leadership wasn’t a terrible idea. “But you have often said you had no desire to lead.”
“Is it not what Char would have wanted?” asked Grignot.
“I am sure Char would want what’s best for the tribe,” said Asherzu carefully.
“Indeed,” pressed Grignot. “Is it not good and rightful that the Guz’Varda should lead the Guz’Varda Tribe? Who would challenge mighty Darak if he chose to take up his brother’s cause, to finish the work of his honored ancestors?”
“But—” Asherzu began.
“It does sound like something Brother Char would say,” Darak said slowly.
A crocodilian smile spread over Grignot’s face as he nodded to Asherzu. “Your brother seems a most suitable candidate to me,” he said.
“Look at that smarmy grin. The snaggletoothed smile. The eyes are so small and beady—and not even pointing in the same direction!” Heraldin sputtered as he waved the wanted poster in the air. The flyer promised a ten thousand giltin reward for the bard’s capture or death, a summary of his crimes, and a woodcut portrait that looked like the printer had decided to try postmodern cubism. “I’d be offended if this looked anything like me. Or if it looked anything like a Human.”
“Would ye be quieter too?” asked Gorm. “Gods, ye should be thankful they hired such a terrible artist. We’re across the street from the city guardhouse!”
Vetchell had several guard posts built into its stone walls, but the guards inside had insisted that Gorm and his party take their report in to the main office near the center of the city. The great stone building was the only one visible through the narrow alley that Gorm and his companions had pressed into.
“Easy for you to say,” grumbled the bard, looking at the flyer listing the reward for Gorm’s capture. “My poster has a mutant turnip on it.”
“Gods, let it go,” growled Laruna.
“Yes, and keep your cowl up,” said Kaitha. “Nobody will know we’re outlaws unless you do something conspicuous.”
“Like rip up wanted posters,” added Jynn.
“Well, listen to a bunch of marks try to teach me about stealth.” Heraldin tossed the scraps of his poster into the gutter. “Trust me, if someone notices six cloaked
figures huddled in a dark alley, a cheap, inaccurate poster is the least of their concerns. Gaist knows what I mean.”
Gaist stood absolutely still, but the manner in which he stared at the street opposite Heraldin was reminiscent of a heavy sigh.
“All the more reason to get moving,” said Gorm. “Come on. We filter in like we planned. And if it all goes to the Goblins—”
“Offensive,” Burt muttered from within his pack.
“Right. Sorry. If it all goes, er, bad… we get out fast and make for the north gate.”
Kaitha and Laruna left the dark alley first, then Gaist, followed by Heraldin. Finally, Gorm and Jynn set out, winding through the street shops and food carts that littered the roads surrounding the guardhouse. Kaitha and Laruna sat at a bench by the front door, pretending to have a casual conversation as they kept watch.
Vetchell’s guardhouse was lit by sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows and the orange light of tarnished lamps. A heavy quiet draped over the room like an old blanket as motes of dust danced lazily in the sunbeams to the rhythm of the creaks in the wooden floors. Heraldin and Gaist sat at a guest table, making a good show of reading a few tourism pamphlets placed by the Vetchell Chamber of Commerce. A row of desks lined the back wall, each marked by small signs encouraging guests to see the next one.
The last desk was manned by a tall man with a hawk nose, a long mustache, and a fine breastplate embossed with wreaths of roses. He reclined with his heavy boots up on the blotter of his desk, idly flipping through a salacious magazine with a woodcut of a scantily-clad Ogress on the cover. He didn’t look up as Gorm and Jynn approached.
“We’ve come with a warning for the city of Vetchell,” said Gorm. “There’s an undead—”
“Form 89MC.” The guard pointed toward a set of shelves in the back lined with neat stacks of paperwork without looking up.
“What? There’s no time for fillin’ out forms!” said Gorm.
The guard licked his thumb and flipped the page. “If you need to expedite the paperwork, you’ll also need to fill out form 93MM.”
Son of a Liche Page 7