Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  A high-pitched note cut Mortus off as Mr. Flinn traced a silver claw along the window, etching a thin line into the glass. “You’ll pardon me, but I did not assemble the world’s foremost assassins for the sake of hearing excuses. I need results, and I need them soon.”

  There was a loud bang in the distance, like a cart losing a wheel. Flinn ignored it.

  “Exhaust your networks, contact every source, try every spell, and use any other tool you have at your disposal,” the Tinderkin continued. “It is essential that we find Gorm Ingerson and his party, and they’re not going to just pass us in the street.”

  The other assassins protested, but Flinn wasn’t paying attention to them. The high note still hung in the air, although he had removed his claw from the glass. The people on the Broad Steps were starting to scatter, shouting and pointing at something downhill. The reason for the sound and the panic quickly became apparent as an old wooden wagon flew up the Broad Steps, a great gout of flame blasting behind it. The wagon rammed through a fruit cart, hit the steps to the ninth tier, and flew from view in the span of a second, leaving the windows of the White Hand and the surrounding buildings shaking in its wake.

  Flinn was shaking as well, but with excitement. “Go!” he cried numbly. “We’ve got to go! Come on!”

  “What was that?” asked Barty.

  Flinn could barely speak. He’d only seen the wagon for a moment, but there was no mistaking the figures clinging to the rails. “It’s them!” he gasped. “They’re here, and leaving fast!”

  “Too fa—aa—st!” Gorm screamed into the rushing wind as the jet-cart roared out of the Museum of Andarun’s front doors, sailing through the air over the museum’s front steps in a cloud of smoke and detritus. Panicked citizens and bannermen scattered before them, trying to get out of the cart-turned-projectile’s path. His beard whipped back over his shoulder, tugging at his face with such sudden force he was sure it would rip off. Tears welled in his eyes and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the cart.

  Kaitha screamed something, and Heraldin and Gaist pointed. Gorm’s stomach dropped as the smooth, stone face of the Wall loomed in front of them across the Broad Steps, promising a swift and terminal end to their flight.

  He felt something shift behind him and turned to see Jynn throwing his entire body into an overarm weave of air magic. A split-second later, a gust of wind spun the wagon to the left, sparks flying from its wheels as it careened up the Broad Steps.

  “What are ye—” Gorm began, but he was interrupted when a loud crack and a burst of citrus assailed his senses. Fruit spattered on his armor and a rind crammed itself into his mouth.

  “I’m trying to steer!” Jynn yelled back through a cloud of oranges and spice.

  “Do it again! Do it again!” shrieked Heraldin, pointing.

  Ahead of the speeding cart, a caravan of Imperial merchants was trying to coax a trio of quasi-domesticated Mud Drakes down the Broad Steps from the Pinnacle. The three stout dragon-kin plodding down the stairs in parallel formed a stone wall of sorts; one that was considerably toothier and more irritable than most.

  “Bones!” swore Jynn, and once more he threw his whole body into weaving.

  The wagon veered so fast that it was all Gorm could do to grip the rail as another gust of wind wrenched them off the Broad Steps and onto a short plaza. Traders and brokers scattered at the sight of the flaming cart. Beyond them, Gorm could see a stone wall as wide as a street but no higher than a short hedge. Beyond the wall, the plaza ended, and there was nothing but open sky and a final descent. Ice ran up Gorm’s spine as he deduced that they were on the tenth tier.

  “Wall!” shrieked Laruna.

  “It’s the Wall!” Gorm shouted.

  “Jump!” shouted Kaitha, but it was already too late.

  The Dusk Cart of Archmage Ibson slammed into the Wall and, still propelled by the power of the Wyrmwood Staff, flipped over the edge. Gorm and his companions were launched into the air, over the Wall, high above the jagged rocks of Mount Wynspar. The harsh cliffs of the mountain slipped into view far below him, and he plummeted, screaming, toward them.

  “Well, ‘plummeted’ is a strong word,” said Mr. Fitch.

  “Rapidly descended? Fell in an alarming manner? Cratered?” Duine Poldo set down his coffee on the lacquered iron table and gestured at a sheet of figures. “Take your pick, but the Stearn Southwestern Ruskan Continued Prosperity Index dropped to almost nothing when the undead took Vetchell. Thank the gods Silver Guard wasn’t holding much of it.”

  Fitch shrugged and selected a tea cake from the platter. “That sort of rise in the threat indexes is going to trigger a lot of threat obligations. At least you’re not Lamia Sisters; they’re the ones who had to pay out most of the obligations in that CTO.”

  “They must be reeling,” said Poldo. He looked out over the expanses of Boulderfolk Commons’ lush gardens from his seat at the Terrace Cafe.

  “Hey, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t going to hurt their profits this year,” said Fitch. “But you have to look at the big picture! Lamia Sisters has lots of CTOs they’re still collecting payments on—they’re raking in giltin hand over fist. And now that investors have seen that you can make money buying threat obligations, they’re more in demand than ever.”

  “But who will take on the obligation?” asked Poldo. “Are the banks really so eager to take that sort of risk?”

  “You leave that to Mr. Stearn. He’s finding plenty of buyers.”

  “Really?” Poldo shook his head. “Well, I wouldn’t hold these things, and I’m the one writing the threat obligations.”

  “And top-notch ones, at that,” said Fitch. “Yours are the best obligations I’m rating these days.”

  “Thank you, but how can you tell? How could you distinguish one from another?” Poldo asked. “The payout is all based on events we can’t control, and the investors are all betting on a future they can’t foresee. Anyone holding CTOs is little more than a casino at this point.”

  Fitch smiled. “Hey, the house always wins, right?”

  “The house usually rigs the system more effectively,” said Poldo. “What if the undead take Parald?”

  “Then too bad for Parald,” said Fitch. “The northwestern Ruskan CTOs will take a big hit, and everyone will start buying threat obligations for the rest of Arth. The Heroes’ Guild will stop the undead eventually. And when they do, any bank that wasn’t riding the CTO wave is going to be left out at sea.”

  Poldo looked the Halfling in the eye. “You seem confident that the undead won’t make it beyond Parald.”

  Fitch’s brown curls bobbed as he nodded. “Not far past, anyway. Word on the Wall is that King Handor’s waiting to see if the undead will cross into the Freedlands before he sets the guild on them. It’s likely Detarr Ur’Mayan’s coming for vengeance, and if he gets on our soil, the king can issue a new quest for the same monster. That way, all that Ruskan loot comes to Andarun.”

  “And you think the Ruskan people will stand for that?”

  “The Ruskan government seems to be planning for it,” Fitch said with a shrug. “Their army and Heroes’ Guild hasn’t been the same since Deep Thoggus, and word is King Klenn’s pulling all his defenses back into Edaelmon. I’m sure he’d like it if the liche gets killed on Ruskan soil, but the important part is that the liche gets killed before it wrecks his entire country.”

  “Assuming the liche is slain at all.”

  “Hey, come on! How many times has the Heroes’ Guild wiped out huge armies of the undead? Why should this one be any different?” The Halfling leaned in close and whispered. “Besides, people are saying Clubs Incorporated has brokered a deal to sell the kingdom some secret Umbraxian weapon.”

  “I’ve heard as much,” said Poldo. “Everyone seems to have ideas about what’s going to happen next.”

  “Better still, they’re willing to bet on it.” Fitch grinned as he set a briefcase on the table. “We’ve got work to do.”r />
  Poldo left the cafe with a fresh stack of requests for more threat obligations. Old habit took him toward the small shed in the hedge maze, but he quickly stopped himself and made for Boulderfolk’s main gate instead. He’d been working from his home office for the past few days, primarily because the other inhabitants of the Boulderfolk garden shed had recently taken up residence underneath the floorboards of his apartment.

  A familiar weight dropped onto Poldo’s shoulder as he passed a sculpture. He glanced down to see a Wood Gnome wearing an old squirrel skin and a new tie. A moment later, three Wood Gnomes clambered onto the briefcase in the Scribkin’s hand. Poldo could sense a company of tiny men and women in the skins of various rodents running and ducking through the shadows in his wake.

  “Good afternoon,” he said to Red Squirrel. “What’s the latest?”

  The Wood Gnomes chittered something high and unintelligible, and a moment later a Domovoy blurred from the shadows, scampered up Poldo’s leg and torso, and deposited a slip of paper in his hand before leaping back into a shrub.

  Poldo glanced over the list. He recognized Mrs. Hrurk’s neat handwriting. “Lamia Sisters is down three percent,” he muttered as he read. “But our funds are still up by a few basis points despite the business in Vetchell. Well, that’s a spot of good news. And now it seems Mrs. Hrurk has found a family of Slaugh that need a home… Will we have enough room even with the new apartments we’re purchasing?”

  Red Squirrel shook his head.

  “No, I suppose not.” Poldo stepped through the gates of Boulderfolk Commons and hailed a carriage.

  He thought for a few moments as the carriage rolled up. His briefcase was heavy with paperwork for even more CTOs, though he couldn’t imagine what new equations he could tease into existence to satisfy the market. Above him, emerald and crimson trade sprites danced on their journey toward the Andarun Stock Exchange.

  “Reach out to Entreri Property Management,” he told Red Squirrel as he climbed into the carriage. “I’d like to inquire about purchasing our building and buying out the other lodgers.”

  Red Squirrel chirruped something like a question.

  “Oh, yes, I meant it,” Poldo told the Wood Gnome. “There’s no shortage of people who need our help, and Mrs. Hrurk seems to be determined to find them all, Wust bless her.” He peered out the carriage window, where he could still see a sliver of sky crowded with green trade sprites. “Besides, it seems a good time to invest in real estate.”

  High-end condominiums and luxury offices at the Wallward edge of Andarun’s topmost tiers blurred through Gorm’s vision. Then the vast, stone expanse of the Wall sped by, before his tumbling brought the hovels and shanty towns down by the Tarapin River into view. A moment later, he was looking down at rock formations that might have seemed picturesque—majestic, even—had they not been pointed straight at him and approaching so quickly.

  “Hang on!” shouted Jynn.

  Gorm’s stomach heaved anew as he lurched to a stop. He hung upside down in the sky over the crags of Mount Wynspar. A cold wind spun him slowly in place, and as the Wall came into view he could see a crowd of confused and startled onlookers staring down.

  “What the blazes is going on?” Gorm roared.

  “Jynn used the staff,” yelled Laruna from where she was similarly suspended. “It’s a slow-fall spell!”

  Gorm looked toward his feet, trying to keep his lunch down—or rather up—as the clouds and sun spun into view. The other heroes drifted above him.

  “Where’s the cart?” he asked.

  A faint crash from below answered his question.

  “Apparently it was too heavy,” said Kaitha.

  “How long can the wizard keep us up here?” Gorm called.

  “Not as long as we’d like,” said Laruna.

  “Not… exactly… easy!” Jynn growled through gritted teeth, gripping the Wyrmwood Staff with both hands.

  “Is he all right?” Kaitha asked.

  “Maintaining a slow-fall spell on six people is a lot of magic,” said Laruna.

  “I’ve seen noctomancers fly with less effort,” said Heraldin.

  “Well, it’s a lot for Jynn,” conceded Laruna.

  “Not… helping!” the wizard snarled.

  “It’s the staff,” the solamancer continued. “It doesn’t really want him to use it.”

  “It’s… fighting!” groaned Jynn. “Wants… Laruna!”

  “See?” said Heraldin, slowly tumbling through the air. “This is the problem with using weapons with a mind of their own.”

  “And the problem with not usin’ this one is that we’d all be purply stains on those rocks without it,” snapped Gorm. “Jynn, can ye steer us?”

  “Nnngh!” groaned the noctomancer.

  “Good. Take us toward the trees at Andarun’s base.” Gorm waved his hand in what he hoped was the right direction.

  Kaitha stared at the noctomancer with concern. “I don’t think he said yes.”

  “I don’t think ‘no’ is an option,” said Gorm, looking up at the Wall. Bannermen were already arriving at the scene of the crash, and it wouldn’t be long before they broke out the crossbows.

  Jynn grunted and groaned and went more than a little violet in the face, but a moment later a wind blew down from the mountain top. The heroes drifted south as they descended.

  “Ha ha! Good on ye, lad!” hollered Gorm.

  They rode the current of air swiftly down the mountainside, headed toward a small village on the Tarapin River by the base of the Wall.

  “We’re making good time,” Kaitha remarked to the Dwarf as they floated along.

  “Aye.” Gorm watched the distant cluster of huts and fishing boats grow larger. “Faster than any bannermen can get down the Broad Steps, I’d imagine.”

  “Ha!” said Laruna. “Faster than a quicksilver imp could get down the broad steps!”

  “Yeah,” said Heraldin, more thoughtfully.

  The adventurers took a moment to consider the rapidly approaching village.

  “A little too fast, actually,” said Kaitha.

  “Can we slow down, Jynn?” Laruna asked.

  “Or move up,” suggested Heraldin, arms and legs flailing as an ominous tower loomed in front of them.

  “Nnnnerrrggg,” growled Jynn, and the look in his eyes said that it was a definitive “nerg.”

  “Fine then, steer for the trees!” shouted Gorm.

  “Or the river!” said Laruna.

  “Or anything that’s not a tower with a barbed iron fence!” hollered Heraldin.

  With significant effort and even more notable groaning, Jynn managed to accommodate all three requests, conjuring a final shift in the wind that took the heroes around the tower, through the branches of a thorny tree, and into the middle of the Tarapin River. They landed in a burst of splashes and cursing.

  After a frigid interlude, Gorm pulled himself from the river downstream, the others not far behind him. They coughed and sputtered on the muddy banks for a few moments. Then, grumbling and wringing out their clothes as best they could, they made their way toward the public stables near the Riverdowns.

  “We don’t have much time to get the horses,” Gorm told them as they squelched down the street at a quick trot. “The alarm’s been raised by now, and someone’ll tell the bannermen they saw us floatin’ down the mountain.”

  “Not to mention Benny Hookhand,” moaned Heraldin.

  “I can hear the bells going off up in the city,” said Kaitha.

  “Then we’d best move quickly,” said Gorm. “Come on.”

  The common stables sat amid the hovels and farm plots between the Great South Gate of Andarun and the Tarapin River. It was close enough to the water to bear the architectural hallmarks of the Riverdowns—namely pervasive graffiti and other signs of drunken vandalism—but close enough to the Great South Gate to have the decency to be ashamed of it. A pair of stable hands were whitewashing the front gate when Gorm and his party arrived.
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  “Foblerson. Here for our horses.” Gorm gave the stable boy a wooden chit along with the false name he’d used to stable the mounts.

  “Why are you all wet?” asked the other stable boy, a pimply adolescent whose teeth appeared to be outgrowing the rest of him.

  “Swimming practice,” said Laruna.

  “Surely, miss.” The stable boy stopped painting and carefully set his brush down atop the bucket of whitewash. “It’s just that the alarm is sounding, and people along the road are saying some robbers flew down the mountain and fell into the river.”

  “You’re awfully curious for a stable boy,” said Heraldin with narrowed eyes.

  “It’s just that we’re a reputable establishment, sir. I don’t want to be known for associating with the criminal type.”

  “Would ye rather be remembered for making a stand against them?” asked Gorm, his hand resting on his axe.

  “Um, that was six horses, then?” The boy’s voice cracked as he spoke.

  “Good lads,” said Gorm. The stable boys were already scurrying out back.

  A short time later, the heroes rode out of the common stables and away from Andarun. The wind was frigid in his soaking armor, and Gorm would swear his horse had seemed disappointed to see him, but nothing could dampen his mood.

  “We did it!” The Dwarf raised a fist in the air as they past the last hovel on the eastern edge of the Riverdowns.

  “And in such short time!” said Laruna.

  “I really thought we’d be in Andarun longer,” said Kaitha. Emotion must have overwhelmed the ranger; her voice cracked when she spoke, and it sounded more like crying than laughter.

  “It’s about time somethin’ went better than expected,” said Gorm, spurring his horse back toward last night’s camp. “We need to make up all the time we can.”

  “Definitely,” said Jynn. “But where are we going next?”

  “Back to a warm fire and dry clothes,” said Heraldin. “It’s freezing out here.”

  “Right,” said Laruna. “But I meant after that.”

  “The guild heroes are going to fight the liche’s army at some point,” said Gorm. “We want to be there with the Wyrmwood Staff to help.”