Gorm snorted. “How do ye lose a thrice-cursed class-one artifact?”
“You don’t,” said Aya. “It gets stolen.”
The words hit like a punch in the gut. Gorm glanced at Jynn and saw the same unpleasant thought reflected in the noctomancer’s eyes.
“And that tells you where we stand,” said Aya. “The guild is too slow and ponderous to do anything about a threat such as Detarr, even if they wanted to stop him. They let him steal one of the most powerful artifacts in the world from under their noses. But the right group of people—people with a specific set of skills, people who are already on the wrong side of the law—those people could steal an equally powerful artifact and stop your father.”
“We’re not ready to take on a liche,” said Heraldin.
“And who better, master bard?” Aya smirked. “You’ve got the famous Pyrebeard here, a warrior without peer, except perhaps the Jade Wind. And what really matters is that you have the young Ur’Mayan with you.”
All eyes turned to Jynn. “I’ve faced my father before. I could not best him,” said the noctomancer quietly.
“You did not best him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t,” said Aya sternly. “Arth hasn’t seen many wizards as gifted as your father, and he only ever trained one apprentice. You and I both know nobody else has a better chance of stopping him, if only you’d let yourself realize your full potential.”
Jynn’s face scrunched up into a grimace. “You presume too much, madam,” he snapped.
Aya smirked. “You presume I have other options. I don’t know any other heroes nearly as qualified to fight Detarr as your party, and here you are, on my doorstep, when an hour of great need arises… well, I’ve never believed in destiny, but I know opportunity when I see it. You have a chance to stop your father, Jynn, provided you have the right information.” She held out the folder of copied documents to the noctomancer. “And the will to do what’s necessary.”
The wizard reluctantly lifted the packet from Aya’s hands. “You—you want us to steal artifacts from the guild?”
“I want to stay alive in a world worth staying alive in. If I have to flee to a new life, I’d rather it not to be alone on an ice floe. I even want it enough to fund your efforts.” Aya pulled a heavy-looking purse from her robes and tossed it at the heroes’ feet. “And I presume our interests are aligned, since I imagine you want to keep on living, and that you’d prefer that as many people as possible do the same. If you want it enough, you might have to steal from the Heroes’ Guild.”
“Why should we trust you?” asked Kaitha.
“You don’t have to,” said the old noctomancer. “Take some free gold, verify my information if you like, and just… you know.” Aya waved her hand and grimaced. “Do what you were already going to do. Let your conscience be your guide. Or something.”
Gorm sucked in a deep breath. Nobody wanted to fight the liche again. The prospect of robbing the guild beforehand didn’t make it seem any less crazy. But rescuing innocents from evil was in his bones, and not rescuing innocents from the walking bones would be evil. Plus, Aya was right about the guild’s bureaucracy; just reporting the undead had taken too long. They couldn’t react with the speed needed, even if—
“Wait.” Gorm looked up at the Councilor of Owls as a thought struck him. “Why wouldn’t the guild want to stop a liche?”
“Oh, they’ll want to eventually.” Aya smirked to herself as she shook her head. “When they think the timing is right.”
“Thrice-curse the speculators,” Duine Poldo exclaimed, flipping through a stack of contracts. “They’re the only explanation for this.”
Mrs. Hrurk gave a little shrug and set the letter on Poldo’s desk. “I couldn’t say, Mr. Poldo. But whatever the reason, Mr. Stearn wants you to assemble five more CTOs for southern Ruskan.”
“Yes, because of the undead,” said Poldo, shaking his head. “Someone filed a claim on a big mob of them south of Vetchell earlier this week, and now the speculators are gambling on the threat to Ruskan. That’s all these investors are buying: a bet, a risk, an idea.”
“At least it’s good business,” said the Gnoll with a hopeful wag of her tail.
“No, it’s good pay,” grumbled Poldo. “It’s horrible business.”
Poldo prepared his threat obligations with all the math and due diligence he could muster, but he had no better idea than anyone how they would perform over their term. Mr. Stearn bought them anyway, snapping them up before the ink was dry. The werebear banker spliced and diced the obligations together into CTOs that Fitch invariably rated as triple platinum, even though Poldo wouldn’t have called any of them better than tin. But Fitch’s word was good enough for the banks and speculators, who seemed to have a bottomless appetite for collateralized threat obligations.
Poldo had every reason to be ecstatic, or at least enough reasons to fill a small vault. Yet he couldn’t shake the notion that, despite evidence to the contrary, CTOs wouldn’t work. That they shouldn’t work. They were money from nothing, gold spun from bankers’ dreams pressed through impossibly complex equations. The hairs on Poldo’s neck stood up when he thought about it for too long.
“You’re right,” said Mrs. Hrurk, her tail tucked between her legs. “I’m sorry. I’ll get back to tidying the office. I think the plow and shovels could use a good cleaning.”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” sighed Poldo. “I haven’t been sleeping enough lately, and it’s clearly making me irate. It’s been helpful to have you go through the mail.”
Mrs. Hrurk gave a slight smile and continued sifting through the stack of envelopes in front of her.
Poldo turned back to his own work. He needed to issue half a dozen complex threat obligations by tonight, but in the meantime, he still had a hedge fund to run. He took a small, black box from his desk drawer, and from the box he produced an azure stone inscribed with golden runes. The stone flared with magic when Poldo tapped it three times, and the light quickly coalesced into a luminescent blue figure. It glowed so brightly that it looked like a ball of light with a pair of wings.
A sprite was a sort of spectral pixie summoned for a specific task, fading away when its job was done. There were sprites for almost everything these days; sprites for sending messages, sprites for finding things, and sprites for warning of intruders. The glowing figures summoned by Poldo’s rather expensive sprite-stone, however, were for trade.
Poldo consulted his pocket ledger before addressing the tiny, glowing servant. “Silver Guard Securities will place a market order to buy three thousand shares of the Dragon of Wynspar, please.”
“Buy! Buy! Buy!” The sprite’s inner light shifted from sky blue to a bright emerald as it chimed its order maniacally. With a flit of its wings it zipped to the window, squeezed out through a tiny crack, and ascended into the sky, where it joined the other trade sprites floating from the city’s banks and financial offices. They drifted to the great dome of the Andarun Stock Exchange like luminescent moths to a giant, golden flame. Once inside, they’d execute their transactions and dutifully expire.
Poldo also sold shares of Goldson Baggs and Lamia Sisters, and bought into a civic bond fund, sending two crimson and one green sprite out his window. He was pondering his next move when someone knocked at the door, and a moment later Mrs. Hrurk told him he had a visitor.
A lanky Human stood on the doorstep in a white jumpsuit, covered in muddy smudges and what Poldo hoped were mustard stains. A small, white cap perched on his greasy mop of hair, bearing black embroidery in the shape of a dead rat. He gave a friendly wave and nod as Poldo opened the door. “Hello, Mr. Poldo, sir. I’ve been hired to exterminate the vermin on your premises, but I’ll expect you’ll want to be off before I do.”
“What?” said Poldo.
“On account of the noxious cloud, sir.” The exterminator pointed to a wand hanging from his tool belt. “Makes a nasty gas that’ll wipe out anything in the house. Should dissipate after a few minutes, though.
I could do it while you’re on your lunch.”
“You can’t exterminate Wood Gnomes,” said Poldo. “They’re protected by law.”
“Oh, of course, of course!” said the exterminator loudly. He gave Poldo a leering wink. “But, uh, I’m here for the mice.”
Poldo’s brow furrowed. “I don’t have mice.”
“Right, right. But your benefactor, one Mr. Stearn, was most emphatic that you do, in fact, have mice. And I can use this wand to get rid of your problem. With mice.” The man spoke in the loud, slow pace of someone very stupid who believes he is being very clever. He punctuated each sentence with an exaggerated wink.
Poldo grit his teeth, and made a mental note to have a frank conversation with Mr. Stearn. “I. Don’t. Have. Mice.”
The exterminator looked around for help, clearly confused. “Listen, sir, I’m trying to give you a hint here. I can help you with, you know, your little nuisance.”
Poldo was waiting for the word, but he still flinched when he heard it. Few knew better than Gnomes how easy it was for the big people to see the smaller ones as annoying, to define them by their convenience, or lack thereof. Most people had seen Mrs. Hrurk and her pups as nuisances too. The thought made Poldo’s mustache bristle. “I am also trying to give you a hint. The only nuisance I need to be rid of is the big one standing in my doorway.”
The message finally breached the exterminator’s thick skull. He gave a frown and a sniff. “Well, I know where I’m not wanted.”
“I suspect that makes you an expert on geography,” snapped Poldo. He managed to growl, “Good day, sir!” before slamming the door in the exterminator’s face.
It took a moment to find his composure again. When Poldo turned around, Mrs. Hrurk was staring at him with an odd smile. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, adjusting his tie.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Poldo,” said the Gnoll.
Poldo wasn’t used to receiving compliments that didn’t have hard figures attached to them, so he simply nodded as he returned to his desk. Once there, though, he noticed that Mrs. Hrurk was still watching him, though now with a face that seemed a little more pensive.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Hrurk?” he asked.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Hrurk, turning back to the stack of unopened mail. “It’s nothing.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Poldo said.
“I just… I don’t feel right asking something of you when you’ve done so much for the children and I.” Mrs. Hrurk knit her paws together anxiously as she spoke. “But I was talking to Barga of the Fire Hawk Tribe last night, and she and her mate were evicted from their apartment last week. I know she’ll find a new job soon, but it’s hard for a Goblin these days, even with a good record and clean NPC papers.”
Poldo could see where this was going. “And you’d like for them to stay with us?”
“It would only be for a little while,” said the Gnoll. “Just until she finds work and a new apartment. The guild will rescind her family’s papers if they find them living on the streets, and there’s only one other option for Shadowkin these days.”
Poldo nodded. He knew where undocumented Shadowkin would wind up.
“The Red Horde!” bellowed Darak Guz’Varda, his great warhammer held high. He wore the ceremonial armor of a chieftain, with the new addition of a crimson pauldron on his left shoulder.
“The Red Horde!” the crowd roared back at him. “The Red Horde! The Red Horde!”
They were still shouting it as Darak strode off the stage built for his coronation. Asherzu barely recognized her little brother, standing taller than even Father had, draped in beads and slathered in a chieftain’s ceremonial skin paint. He looked like the kind of chieftain Orcs sang ballads about; a mighty warrior striding out of legends of blood and valor. With a figure so imposing, it was no wonder that Darak had claimed the throne unopposed. Yet in his eyes, Asherzu saw only sadness and fear.
“You do not look happy, my sister,” said Darak, managing a smile.
“Nor do you, honored one,” she said.
“Do not call me that,” he grumbled. He joined Asherzu in the shadows behind the stage, and leaned against the same fence that she did. The wooden barrier groaned in protest. “Not when it is just you and I. I never wanted that.”
“I did not think you wanted any of this,” Asherzu said softly. She stared out at the homes of the Guz’Varda beyond the fence, a village of huts, tents, and makeshift hovels by the rocky coast. The archway holding Fulgen’s Rest formed a dark silhouette against the deepening evening.
“The warriors are celebrating,” said Darak. “They wished to see me follow Brother Char’s path, and I have. I will honor him.”
“And what of Father?” asked Asherzu. “What of his ways? Or what of the people? Not all are warriors. Not all wish to join the Red Horde.”
“I… I will try the best I can,” said Darak, looking about as though cornered. “I wish to honor Father and you and Char and all of the others. But I… I don’t always… I mean, how do you honor them all?”
“You alone must choose who to listen to, and whose counsel to take,” said Asherzu.
“I do not know if I can,” Darak admitted.
“You can.” Asherzu set her hand atop her brother’s. “You must. You are chieftain, now. And I will be with you, Little Warg. No matter what.”
He smiled down at her, but couldn’t say anything.
They waited together until after the celebration had ended, staring out at the hovels of the Guz’Varda as the fire pits winked out, one by one.
Chapter 6
The fires of distant campsites flickered to life across the landscape as Vetchell’s refugees made camp. From the boulder that Heraldin reclined on, they looked like earthbound stars spread across the vast expanse of the plain.
“I’m not saying that I don’t feel bad for those people,” Heraldin told Gaist. “I’m not heartless. But you have to admit, Vetchell’s folk are doing fine, given the circumstances. They must have kept up on their evacuation drills.”
The weaponsmaster, standing stoically next to Heraldin’s perch, allowed a hint of a nod in agreement.
The cities of Arth had become accustomed to invasion by the forces of darkness; indeed, much of the world’s economy depended on the periodic sacking of major cities by monstrous threats. Natural selection had long ago eliminated those citizens who weren’t prepared to evacuate on short notice. Vacating an entire city was considered an essential skill among Arth’s populace, and the people of Vetchell made retreat an art form. Within an hour of the alarm bells sounding, the streets had been lined with people methodically loading children, provisions, and supplies onto wagons and pack animals. Now that the party was three days out of the city, Heraldin was confident Vetchell was empty.
“But as they say in Daellan, sometimes life is like a sewer flood: it stinks, but it only gets worse if you go against the current. And this party is headed upstream without a paddle.”
Gaist’s expression might have been concerned, or perhaps taken aback. The weaponsmaster was harder to read than a blank book, but Heraldin liked to think that he had become quite adept at interpreting Gaist’s subtle cues. If the bard had overestimated the degree of insight he had into Gaist’s silence, the weaponsmaster never corrected him. At least, Heraldin didn’t think he had.
“Don’t be so surprised, my friend,” Heraldin said. “I may seem a hopeless romantic at times, but I’m a firm pragmatist at heart.”
Heraldin was almost certain he saw Gaist roll his eyes as the weaponsmaster leaned down to pull a thrones board from his rucksack.
“It’s a common mistake.” Heraldin clambered down from the boulder as Gaist placed the board on a rock between them. “People see that I am a lover of song, of poetry, of nature, of love itself. They assume that because I have such an artful soul, I must be led by my heart. But above all, I am a lover of life. Mine, specifically. And as such, I rely on my wits and intellect to preserve
it as long as possible.”
Gaist’s scarf rippled with a hint of a smirk as he tapped the side of the thrones board. They’d both carved a notch in the oak slab for each of their wins over the past year. Heraldin had a few scattered grooves on his side of the board, while Gaist’s edge looked like it had been vigorously gnawed on by some needle-toothed animal.
“Oh, very amusing,” said Heraldin, setting up his pieces. He elected to play as white this game, but as they’d resorted to scrounging improvised pieces, he was actually playing as white, light gray, brownish, sky blue, and a piece of quartz.
“I’ll concede that you’ve a knack for thrones. And you’re a sound strategist as well.” Heraldin opened the game by advancing a bannerman. “But you know I lived on the streets for years. I’ve a knack for self-preservation. Which is why I know this plan is madness.”
Gaist moved his own bannerman forward.
“You can pretend you don’t see it if you like, friend.” Heraldin quickly moved another bannerman, then put a knight into play when Gaist countered. “But I know you have the same questions that I do. Why did we spend a year chasing the Red Horde across the Freedlands? Why did we stroll into a city with the Heroes’ Guild calling for our heads? Why are we off to rob said guild now, just so we can fight a liche? Do we gain anything, or are we just wandering in search of misery to interfere with?”
Gaist didn’t look up from the board as he made a move: a bold rush with his solamancer to take a bannerman.
“Well, it may not matter to you, but I can think of a few better ways to live in exile. Most of them involve hard drink and loose women.” Heraldin took the solamancer with a knight, and cursed as he realized he’d left his noctomancer exposed in his haste. “But it seems everyone else is hell-bent on diving headfirst into peril until we die.”
Gaist shrugged and advanced his own noctomancer, pinning Heraldin’s. With only one safe move, the bard’s noctomancer flipped to Gaist’s side.
Son of a Liche Page 10