Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “That’s enough out of both of ye,” Gorm told the bard and Kobold.

  “Indeed. Half of the inn probably heard you,” said a small voice. The Kobold with the strangely colored hair sauntered around the corner of the stables. “And given how problematic it would be if I were to be seen with a gaggle of wanted criminals, I must insist that you make some attempt to be discreet.”

  “Hello, Morty.” Burt spoke in a level voice with a polite smile, but Gorm could see his friend’s hackles rising.

  “Burtrek,” Morty acknowledged.

  Burt waved an arm back at the rest of the party. “Folks, this is Morty. And this here’s Gorm and—”

  “Please, Burtrek, the less I know about you outlaws, the better. And if you must use my name, call me Ta’Nayde.”

  “What?” asked Burt.

  “I prefer to go by my Elven name now,” said Morty airily. “Ja’leith Tallel Ta’Nayde.”

  “Well, well. Morty’s gone native,” said Burt. “Look at this guy. Back in the day, we ran in the same pack. Now I have to go through three people to send you a thrice-cursed note, and he’s too good for the name his mother gave him!”

  Morty shrugged off Burt’s comments with an amused smile and turned to Kaitha. “It’s the latest trend,” he confided to her. “Any Kobold worth a purse these days is fluent in Elven. Of course, those that can’t keep up with fashion, well…” He looked at Burt with a mixture of mock sympathy and cruel glee.

  “I see,” said Kaitha diplomatically.

  “I left the job on my own, and you know it.” Burt was trying to hold back his temper, and clearly failing.

  “Oh? What a coincidence, then, that so many of the Shadowkin in your Freedlands made the same ‘choice,’” said Morty. “I always told you to come to Ruskan. Much more stable, and it’s the true seat of the Elven elite.”

  “Psh,” scoffed Burt. “If your Elf is so great, why’d she wind up in this joint with all the other would-be nobles?”

  “Oh, come now, Burtrek,” Morty said with a patronizing smile. “Surely you know they’ve come ganking.”

  “They’ve come what?” Gorm asked.

  “Ganking? Slumming? You know, top-tier girl and her bottom-tier man, as they say in Andarun?” Morty looked surprised by the blank stares on the heroes’ faces. “When my mistress and her companions get bored with high society,” he said slowly, “they like to find some undesirable establishment and seek out someone far beneath their level for a bit of fun.”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Kaitha.

  “Isn’t it though?” laughed Morty. “The mistress bathes for half a day straight afterward.”

  Kaitha scowled. “That’s not what I—”

  “You must excuse me,” said Heraldin, stepping away from the wall and trotting briskly toward the inn.

  “Where are ye going?” Gorm demanded.

  “Oh, we all know where I’m going,” Heraldin called over his shoulder. “If I’m not back in an hour, I’ll see you at breakfast.” He disappeared around the corner of the stable with a flourish.

  “Puffed up git,” Gorm grumbled after him.

  “Also disgusting,” said Kaitha.

  “Listen, Burtrek, I’m ten minutes into a twenty-minute break,” said Morty, flipping a sky-blue curl with his paw. “Do you want to talk about these artifacts or not?”

  “We do,” Gorm interjected, with a firm stare at Burt.

  “Good,” said Morty. “I must say, you asked about a strange collection of items. I can’t help but wonder what the connection between them is.”

  “We’re to be discreet here, if ye recall,” said Gorm.

  “True enough. You’re also to pay up front, if memory serves,” The brightly colored Kobold waited for Gorm to toss a pouch of coins at his feet. Once he had hefted the purse onto his back, he pulled a small list from the pocket of his vest. “First of all, the Ring of Nine Faces is currently in the Emperor’s personal collection at the heart of the Imperial City.”

  “Halfway across the world, in the vault of an emperor,” muttered Gorm. He crossed it off the mental list of prospective artifacts.

  “The Rod of Seven Pieces isn’t around anymore,” said Morty “It was in an accident when a noctomancer down in Umbrax tried to experiment on it. It’s the Rod of About Three Hundred Pieces now.”

  Jynn scratched at his goatee. “I didn’t think destroying such a relic was possible.”

  “You can be quite confident that my information is accurate,” said Morty. “My mistress sits on the Ruskan committee overseeing the Heroes’ Guild’s handling of dangerous loot.”

  “A ceremonial position,” Burt interrupted.

  “A prestigious position,” Morty said with a sniff. “I saw the record myself. The rod’s a pile of splinters.”

  “Fair enough,” said Gorm. “What’s next?”

  “The Horn of Gygaxxon is sealed away beneath the Heroes’ Guild’s Great Vault in Andarun.”

  “I’d rather try our chances with the Emperor,” said Laruna.

  Gorm couldn’t help but agree. The Heroes’ Guild had many offices scattered about the Freedlands’ capital, but its treasury was located in the most secure depths of the Palace of Andarun. Given that the guild took a cut of every quest fee, hero’s pay, and treasure hoard, the sums of money contained in the Great Vault were inconceivable to Gorm. He’d heard that its treasures were more magnificent than even King Handor’s. Certainly it was better protected—no organization was more familiar with the varied traps that could be set for plundering intruders than the Heroes’ Guild.

  “Aye, best to pass over any that are with the guild,” said Gorm.

  Morty glanced at his page. “In that case, this is going to be a short list.”

  “What, they’re all in Andarun’s Great Vault?” asked Laruna.

  “Four more are,” said Morty. “And three are with the guild in Edaelmon, and two more in the guild’s holdings in Knifevale.”

  “Is there anything that the Heroes’ Guild doesn’t have?” Gorm said, trying to ignore the knots his stomach was tying itself into.

  “No,” said Morty. “Funny thing, the Heroes’ Guild is remarkably effective at acquiring powerful magical items. Although…”

  “Aye?”

  “Well, the Wyrmwood Staff of Geffyn is usually in the guild’s Great Vault as well,” said Morty. “But this year it’s on loan to the Museum of Andarun for an exhibit on omnimancy.”

  “That’s not much better,” said Jynn. “It’s still in the heart of Andarun, and heavily guarded.”

  “Less heavily guarded though,” said Laruna thoughtfully. “And a lot fewer traps.”

  “Yeah, traps would be bad for attendance,” smirked Burt.

  “Well, it sounds like you’ve found the one for whatever it is you’re going to do.” Morty folded up his note and handed it to Gorm. “And the less I know about that, the happier we’ll all be. So, I must bid you farewell.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So long, Morty,” said Burt. “Good to see you and all that.”

  “I’m sure it was,” said Morty, tossing a coiffed tuft of purple hair out of his eye. “And I’m sure you’ll find a real job and get back on your feet soon. Surely some Elf from Vetchell would love a bargain for her purse.”

  “Shut it!” yipped Burt. “I was just tryin’ to be polite!”

  “Were you?” smirked Morty as he sauntered away. “Well, that’s personal growth. Goodbye, Burtrek.”

  Burt watched him go, his tiny frame shaking with fury. “That mangy, flea-riddled—”

  “Ah, don’t mind him,” said Gorm, giving the Kobold a pat on the shoulder.

  “Yeah,” said Laruna. “He’s just jealous because you’re free now.”

  “No, he ain’t,” said Burt, shaking his head. “He’s eatin’ fancy food and going to big parties and gettin’ paid to do it. And if he ever wished he didn’t have to perform like that, well, now he sees what’s on the other side.”

  “Burt—” said
Kaitha.

  “You got it backward,” Burt barked, choking back a sob. “I wish I wasn’t jealous of him, but I am. Gods, I am.”

  “Hey, come on,” said Kaitha, dropping down on one knee. “You’re doing work that matters here. You’re standing up for the little guys. I mean, in more ways than one.”

  “I know. Sorry,” said Burt, wiping his eyes.

  “Listen, I know what’ll make ye feel better,” interjected Gorm. “I took a peek in the stables, and those Elven popinjays that Morty rides with strutted in here on some of the finest Elven steeds I ever laid eyes on. What do ye say we go steal them horses, eh?”

  A little glimmer returned to Burt’s eyes, and it was hard to say if it was hope or malice. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  “Sure you would,” said Kaitha, giving Burt a friendly pat.

  “All right, ye heard the Kobold,” Gorm announced. “Someone go pull the bard off of whatever Elf he’s latched on to. We’ve got to get to Andarun, and there ain’t no time to waste.”

  “There’s just not enough time,” Duine Poldo said, tossing a parchment back on the stack. “There aren’t enough hours in the day to get all of this done.”

  Mrs. Hrurk said nothing in reply, and it took Poldo a moment to recall that she had gone home a few hours ago. Poldo wiped his spectacles and rubbed his eyes before having a look at the page again. The letters all seemed to run together in the candlelight.

  He thought about packing the paperwork up and taking it back home, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Once he got home, he wouldn’t have the energy to do anything but collapse on his bed. Besides, Mrs. Hrurk was probably helping Barga with the renovations in the new apartment by now.

  Poldo hadn’t expected to buy the apartment next door to his own, but then, he had only expected a pair of Goblins to show up for a few nights. It was his own fault, he reflected; Goblins never did anything in small numbers if they could help it. Shortly after Barga and her mate arrived, the entire Fire Hawk Tribe showed up on his doorstep. He didn’t have enough space for them all, and the neighbor on his floor was threatening to complain about all of the Shadowkin. Yet a liberal application of money can fix most problems, and Poldo resolved both issues with a single check.

  Of course, now the Fire Hawks were telling more Shadowkin about the Scribkin who was providing lodging and even hiring for odd jobs. Mrs. Hrurk was already dropping hints about a few Orcs who needed a place to stay. Poldo had even pondered buying more apartments, or even the whole building. The gods knew he could afford it now, but such a purchase just meant more paperwork, and more time.

  Poldo sighed and tried to dive back into preparing yet another threat obligation. Kindness and success shared the same problem; they both set expectations. Expectations that such charity or prosperity could be easily duplicated, or that they would be constant, or that they were just milestones in an endless line of goals and objectives. He couldn’t keep pace, and he didn’t have time to hire help beyond Mrs. Hrurk and Vilga of the Fire Hawk, who had happily proven to be well-versed in bookkeeping.

  His quill had just touched the threat obligation form when a tiny squeak hailed from the edge of his perception. Poldo might have dismissed the sound as a mouse or other pest, but something in its cadence suggested that someone was deliberately clearing a very tiny throat. He looked up.

  At the far corner of his desk, a diminutive Wood Gnome crept out from behind Poldo’s inbox. The tiny man was draped in the pelt of a red squirrel, with the tail dragging behind him and the skull acting as a macabre headdress. A pair of glinting eyes and a turnip-shaped nose were crammed between the squirrel mask and the Wood Gnome’s bushy white beard.

  “Uh. Hello there,” said Poldo carefully. The Wood Gnome wearing the red squirrel was the first Domovoy to willingly show himself to Poldo. He had never heard of Wood Gnomes making any sort of contact with bigger folk, except to highlight cohabitation disputes through vandalism.

  The air was still. Tense. Sacred.

  The spell was broken as the tiny Gnome burst into a series of high-pitched squeaks and squeals, waving his hands emphatically.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Poldo.

  The Wood Gnome nodded, then piped something unintelligible over his shoulder. As silent as shadows, dozens of Domovoy slipped out from behind the piles of paper. Poldo could feel several small weights land on the back of his chair, and as he turned he could see hundreds of eyes gleaming from every nook and cranny in the shed.

  It occurred to Poldo that he had grossly underestimated the population of his office. “Uh… hello to all of you as well,” he gulped.

  The Wood Gnomes had dark, shining eyes and silver hair, even the children. The men wore long beards, and the women long braids, and every one of them was clad in the pelt of some unfortunate rodent or another. They stared at Poldo with a stoic intensity until he shifted in his seat.

  Red Squirrel chirruped something again, but it was too high and quiet for Poldo to make out more than a piping rhythm. A moment later, however, the assembled Wood Gnomes sang out in long, high notes, “Thank you, Mr. Poldo.”

  “Aha. Er, you’re welcome, I suppose,” said Poldo.

  Red Squirrel squeaked again, and the Domovoy chorused, “For defeating the poison giant.”

  “The poison… ah, the exterminator last week? No, no need to thank me for that. Anyone would have done it. It’s common decency.” Poldo’s nervous smile faded as he considered that idea for a moment. “Or it should be, anyway.”

  There was a blur of motion and a few clinking sounds. A mug of hot water, a box of herbal tea, and a tin of Redwall’s Candied Nut Shortbreads appeared on Poldo’s desk.

  “Oh!” said Poldo, taking a shortbread to be polite. “Well, uh, this is much appreciated, especially with such a long night ahead of me.”

  The Wood Gnomes moved faster than Poldo’s eyes could see; in an instant, the herbal tea was whisked away. A moment later, it was replaced by a jar of Poldo’s favorite instant coffee, Eldrith’s Black Grounds.

  “Yes, that’s lovely, thank you,” said Poldo. “If only you could organize these orders,” he quipped, nodding to one of the overflowing bins of paper on the edge of his desk.

  The words weren’t yet out of Poldo’s mouth when the Wood Gnomes on his desk clapped three times in unison. On the third clap, the Domovoy launched themselves into the pile of paperwork, chittering and squeaking at each other so rapidly that their tiny voices blended into a high-pitched buzzing sound. The stack of papers wobbled and rocked unsteadily, pages swirling around it in a rustling storm of documents. A few moments later, the Wood Gnomes leapt from the stack, clapped three more times, and all pointed proudly at the rearranged pile.

  “Ta-daaa!” they chorused.

  Poldo lifted the top page of the stack with trembling hands. It was a company profile for Adventure Capital, followed by Always Gold Inc., and then Armed Conflict Unlimited. “Uh, thank you,” he said carefully. “But really, I need to sort them by the opportunity each company presents, not alphabetically.”

  “Buy low, sell high!” sang the Wood Gnomes. Three claps. Another whirlwind of activity snatched the paper from Poldo’s hands and rearranged the inbox. Three claps again.

  Poldo looked through the documents on top of the pile. The first was a profile of Goldson Baggs, followed by Lamia Sisters, and then other large financial companies. Now he could focus on writing the most profitable threat obligations first, and leave the bottom of the pile for another night. He might even make it to bed by midnight.

  A smile spread across Poldo’s face as he turned to Red Squirrel. “What’s your hourly rate?” he asked.

  “Much better than I expected.” Gorm scanned the horizon while his jaw worked over a bite of grouse. “At this rate, we’ll make Andarun in just a few days.”

  Kaitha nodded and picked at a bone. “This sort of speed is typical when you’re riding shayd’wier. Our legends hold that they’re descended from the king of horses. Th
e blood of unicorns flows through their veins, and they’re bred in moonlight so that Allunathaliel will bless them and give them the gift of the wind. They’re a great treasure of my people.”

  “Aye, they’re fine mounts.” Gorm watched the Elven steeds grazing in the plains a short distance from the cookfire. They looked like someone took warhorses and sanded them down to optimize aerodynamics. The mares and stallions stared back at the Dwarf with a discernible smugness.

  “No, I mean, literally,” said the Elf. “One of these is worth about fifty thousand giltin. We’ve committed grand theft here.”

  “That crime pales compared to the theft we’re planning,” said Jynn.

  “For a good cause,” said Gorm. “Besides, these horses were worth it.”

  “Yeah, all right, fine. I think we’ve heard enough about how rich Morty’s Elf was,” said Burt. He nudged Gaist’s elbow. “You going to eat that drumstick?”

  The weaponsmaster’s eyes flicked to the Kobold.

  “All right! Easy!” said Burt, paws in the air.

  Gorm hurried to finish his dinner and clean his dishes. The days of late Meltwater were marked by spring’s warmth driving back the snow, but the biting cold returned each evening with a vengeance. Beyond the chill, however, there were more pressing reasons to get into his tent before Burt finished eating.

  “It’s been a while,” Gorm muttered to himself. He pulled the leather-bound tome from the parcel in his rucksack and pushed down the old pain that rose in his throat. Blinking, he opened to the third chapter of the Book of Lefil.

  Tears flow like a river

  The river becomes a song.

  The song rises from cursed stones.

  The stones cannot be stopped.

  Gorm cross-referenced the notes that Niln had written in the book’s margins.

  What does that mean?

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Gorm. He looked at the next note. It was written in haste, a sprawling scribble across the page.

  Destiny cannot be forced, or negotiated with, or convinced. Second Book of Epath, chapter 9, verse 7