“So, we just head east?” asked the solamancer. “How will we know where to find them?”
“I’ve seen enough of how Handor and his cronies work to know how they think,” said Gorm. “I’m fairly certain of where they’re going.”
Chapter 13
“To Highwatch?” King Handor sat forward in his velvet lined chair in a private corner of his study.
“Indeed, sire. It’s perfect,” said Bolbi Baggs. “The fortress has never fallen, no doubt due to its position in the cruel Highwalls.”
“Better still, it’s just on our side of the Ruskan border,” added Fenrir Goldson. “Yet not so close that King Klenn could reasonably accuse you of baiting the undead into the Freedlands for the loot.”
“So it’s defensible in two ways,” added Baggs.
“Yes, I’ve already agreed on as much,” said Handor. “I’m just not sure why we would go there.”
“We’ll only make the journey if you wish, sire.” Baggs poured himself a finger of Halfling sour rum and dropped in two ice cubes.
“And we’d fly, of course,” said Goldson, sipping his own drink from a spot near the fire. “Fastest way to travel.”
“But why go at all?” said Handor.
“To protect our investments, sire.” Baggs settled into a comfortable armchair. “To ensure that the plan is executed properly.”
“They want to make sure those giant orbs get used before guild heroes finish the liche off,” grumbled Weaver Ortson. The Master of the Heroes’ Guild was unusually sober for this time of evening. “Otherwise they won’t get their finder’s fee for bringing Clubs and his Umbraxians in.”
“Indeed,” said Baggs, with a withering look at Ortson. “We also wish to ensure the heroes from our subsidiaries have the first rights to fight the liche itself.”
“And it does promise some entertainment,” said Goldson.
“Always a factor,” said Baggs. “Regardless, we heard Your Majesty might also be interested in providing inspiration and leadership for the troops.”
“And more importantly, that you might be interested in being seen providing inspiration and leadership for the troops,” said Goldson.
Handor nodded; he wouldn’t mind hearing tales of his bravery from the town criers. “But is it safe?” he asked.
“Ha! Highwatch is the greatest fortress on Arth, outside of Andarun,” said Johan the Mighty. “It hasn’t been successfully assaulted in a thousand years.”
“We wouldn’t take such a trip ourselves, let alone suggest Your Majesty take it, if we weren’t confident that the bannermen could protect us all,” said Baggs.
“The bannermen can’t keep a simple staff safe in the middle of a fortified museum at the heart of our city,” snapped Ortson. “I shouldn’t trust them with Your Majesty’s safety.”
“We’re all unhappy about the museum robbery, Ortson,” Handor said, staring into the crackling fire. “I’m especially concerned that I heard a rumor that it might have been Gorm Ingerson’s band of outlaws who perpetrated it.”
The room fell silent. Johan’s perpetual smile faded, just a little. “It’s possible, sire, but I don’t want to jump to that conclusion.”
“No, I shouldn’t if I were you,” Handor said. “Especially as you’ve given me your word Ingerson would be dead by now.”
“Ingerson will meet his end very shortly,” said Johan stiffly. “As will whoever stole the Wyrmwood Staff.”
“See that it’s so,” said Handor. He turned back to Goldson and Baggs. “And you remain confident that this trip is safe?”
“We watch heroes at work on a regular basis, Your Majesty,” said Baggs. “Why, just last month Mr. Goldson and I flew out to watch a team from Adventure Capital clear a warren of scargs outside of Fenrose Heath.”
“An excellent show,” said Goldson. “And we stopped for supper in the Haerthwards on the way home.”
“The undead are more dangerous than scargs,” said Handor pensively.
“Yes, but Highwatch is safer than the tents we had set up outside the scarg nests,” said Baggs.
“The journey isn’t without risks,” conceded Goldson. “But we’ve taken every precaution to mitigate the danger. We’ll have a vantage point set up atop the inner keep, bodyguards from the Heroes’ Guild, and flights waiting nearby to evacuate us in the unlikely event that the battle goes the wrong way.”
“We doubt it would come to such measures, naturally,” said Baggs. “When you’ve observed as many quests as Fenrir and I, you get a sense of how these things tend to go.”
“Yeah, this is typical,” said Burt. “Everyone always forgets about the little guy.”
“They didn’t forget you,” said Thane, plucking the note off the tree at the edge of the former campsite. “They told you where they’re going and how to follow them.”
“Yeah, leaving a Kobold on his own in the wilderness,” snarled Burt. “My people don’t do anything alone, let alone travel. I might get eaten by a wild boar, for all they know!”
“They know I’m here with you.” Thane glanced over the note again.
The Kobold kicked at a stone in the damp earth. “Half of them do. The other half may as well have left me to die.”
The Troll squinted at the paper in his hands. “Where is Highwatch?”
“East,” sighed the Kobold, scrabbling up the Troll’s arm. “Bones, how are we going to catch them on those fancy horses of theirs?” Keeping pace with the Elven steeds on the journey to Andarun had stretched the Troll to his considerable limits.
“They only have a few hours head start,” said Thane. “If we camp late, we can catch up over the course of a day or two.”
“You really think we can make up the lost ground?”
“We have to.” Thane slipped the note into a pouch he wore on his bandolier. Burt heard glass vials clinking together within it.
“Maybe we have to go, maybe we don’t,” said Burt. “We could just send a letter.”
“Burt, they need us.” The Troll gave a fanged grin to his passenger. “Did they really write anything that offensive?”
“It ain’t what’s in the note!” fumed Burt. “It’s the fact that they left a note at all! It just says something, you know?”
“It sends a message,” said Heraldin grimly.
Gaist looked down at the brightly colored cork that the bard pressed into his hand. It was narrower at one end, with a red stick driven through its center. A tiny hole was drilled through each end of the stick, and a length of string wound through them.
“You don’t leave a fishing buoy in a man’s saddlebags unless you want him to know he’s dead.” Heraldin pointed at the cork. “This says I’ll be taking a trip down the river. Or sleeping with the fishes. Or on the hook. You choose whatever metaphor you like, so long as it implies that I’m not long for this world.”
Gaist raised an eyebrow, though almost imperceptibly.
“It’s from Benny Hookhand!” snapped the bard. “He knows! He knows I robbed the museum!”
Gaist stared into the simmering coals in the center of the camp, all that remained of the evening’s cookfire.
“It was the stable boy,” fumed the bard, stalking around the fire. “That little knock-kneed, pimply, scum-sucking slug! He must be in the Hookhand’s pockets. That’s why he was asking so many questions. I bet he got a tip about me from someone in Benny’s organization, and then the bloody stupid Dwarf all but confirmed we robbed the museum to him.”
Gaist shrugged.
“You do not understand, my friend,” sighed the bard, gripping his forehead in his hand. “I tricked the Hookhand into a truce long ago, and for years he has been waiting for me to slip up and break the peace. Now he knows I’ve been thieving, and he’s free to take his revenge. Who knows what terrible death he has in store for me?”
Gaist looked at the bard, ferocity blazing in his dark eyes.
“True. I am traveling with a weaponsmaster of remarkable talents. And I trust in you,
my friend.” Heraldin’s smile held no joy. “You may keep me out of trouble for a time.”
The bard sighed and looked at the buoy in his hand. “But Benny Hookhand is relentless. He will not rest until he has me, and once he does it will be my end. To get a fishing buoy in your backpack means that someday, sooner rather than later, death comes for you.”
“I mean, we’re all going to die eventually, right?” said the guard.
Hana shook her head. “This is madness, Chovek.”
“It’s not. We all pass on one day or another, and today seems to be ours.” Chovek waved a hand toward the grassland beyond Parald’s shining walls. The fields were black in the waning sunlight, every yard of them crammed with stinking corpses that stared up at the city’s last defenders with hollow, hungry eyes.
“Our duty is to protect our city,” said Hana, though she couldn’t sound as certain as she wanted to. She glanced at Fiora for back up, but the portly guard was busy reading a paper flyer. Similar brochures drifted down over the ramparts all around the cluster of soldiers.
“And what are we defending?” said Chovek. “The families and elders have fled toward Edaelmon and Aberreth. The heroes aren’t coming. The city will fall with or without us.”
“—With or without you.” Fiora read along, her finger holding her place on the flyer. “Yeah, that’s what this ad says.”
Chovek held up his own paper as a cleric wields a holy symbol. “It also says nobody will eat me if I take advantage of this special offer.”
“You mean joining the undead,” said Hana, her hand on her hilt.
“We’re all going to join them one way or another! That’s the point!” Chovek pointed out at the waiting army. “Do you think any of them had a choice? We’re no better off than they were, except we can avoid getting mauled and eaten alive!”
Fiora gasped and held her hands to her cheeks. “But how?”
“Just show up outside the walls with a copy of the flyer in hand,” Chovek read. “But we have to act now! This offer ends at sunset.”
“Oh, yeah. They’ve got this little box that tells you everything you need to do!” Fiora marveled, looking down at the flyer.
“Well, it’s important to have a clear call to action,” said Chovek.
“But we don’t have time,” said Fiora. “The sun’s almost down, and we’d never make it out of the gates in time.”
“Well, that’s only because of all the sods clogging the stairs.” Chovek pointed to the base of the wall, where a steady flow of deserters trickled out from the guard houses, waving flyers in the air above their heads. “There’s got to be a faster way down.”
Hana’s sword rang as she pulled it from her scabbard. “Enough!” she growled. “You can’t betray our nation. Our people!”
Chovek and Fiora glanced down at the lieutenant’s sword, and then at each other, and finally at the sun dropping behind the horizon. Chovek sneered. Fiora licked her lips.
“Now,” said Hana slowly. “You will take up your spears, hold the—”
Fiora broke away. Two steps took the stout woman to the edge of the wall, and her third launched her over the edge, a flyer gripped firmly in her hand. A moment later, Hana heard a wet thump from below.
Hana’s mouth opened and shut as she turned back to Chovek. The wiry man was already shifting toward the edge of the wall.
“Don’t,” Hana said, raising her sword. “I’ll… I’ll…”
“Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “It wouldn’t have made a difference, anyway.” With that, Chovek gave her his typical smirk and stepped back over the edge.
“And bam! Just like that, they’re on our side!” said the Head of Marketing. “It’s brilliant! We’re converting the enemy without firing a single arrow!”
Tyren Ur’Thos looked at the walls of Parald. Beneath the city’s flickering dome of magical wards and protective spells, he could see the thinning ranks of soldiers lining the ramparts. The sun had just set on Parald, and now the undead were waiting for moonrise to let the metaphor follow through.
“Impressive,” said Tyren. He sat on a large rock in the middle of a clearing marked off with red rope attached to several posts. A gap in the left rope marked an entrance to his makeshift office, within which were several undead lined up to meet with him. Another gap to the right was marked with an exit sign. In between the signs, the corrupted earth was bare save for an old table that served as Tyren’s desk.
“Impressive doesn’t cover it!” said the floating skull. “Seven percent of Parald’s defenders self-converted. Seven percent! Do you know how many of the living have defected to our side before now? Ever? In all of history? I’ll give you a hint: I could count ‘em on my fingers, and I don’t have any fingers!”
“It’s an excellent conversion rate,” agreed the knight-commander, flipping through the pages in the marketing report. At first he was surprised to see all the red ink in the Head’s numbers, but he quickly realized that it probably wasn’t red ink. “Excellent work. Anything else?”
“We’ve been doing some brand work for Lady Carabae, given her recent promotion. That’s on page six,” said the Head of Marketing.
“Lady Carabae, Mistress of a Thousand Thralls,” the knight-commander read.
“Is she beguiling? Or deadly? Why choose?” The Head bobbed excitedly as it spoke.
“She doesn’t have a thousand thralls,” said Tyren.
The Head of Marketing rolled its eye. “It’s creative exaggeration. You’ve got to allow for a bit of hyperbole if you want to build a memorable brand.”
“A bit?” Tyren looked up from the sheet. “She can’t have more than a dozen or so vampire thralls. I mean, best case scenario is that you’re off by a factor of fifty. Right?”
“Well, ‘the Mistress of a Dozen or So Thralls’ doesn’t exactly rattle the bones, does it, sir? But I’ll change it if you want. You’re the boss, after all.” The Head couldn’t stop the flames around his head from flaring a little higher when he noted Tyren’s relatively recent rank increase. Jealousy and resentment radiated from the skull along with infernal heat.
Tyren sighed. “Listen, the master may have put me in charge of a number of functions recently—”
“To say the least,” grumbled the skull.
“But I believe leadership is all about empowering people to do their work. Trust me, I don’t want to do your job.” Tyren’s favorite management line was disarming because it was absolutely true; the knight-commander didn’t want to do anyone’s job, including his own. “You’re still the Head of Marketing. I’m here to help you be the best Head of Marketing you can.”
“I… I know.” The skull nodded reluctantly.
“Listen, if you think that’s the right brand for Lady Carabae, you run with it.” The knight-commander held up his hands. “I’m not here to get in your way. You’ve been delivering. Keep it up.”
“All right, yeah.” The Head of Marketing gave Tyren an inscrutable stare. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“No, thank you,” Tyren pointed at the skull and tried to wink a couple of times before he remembered that his eyelids were gone. He opted to snap his finger bones together instead. “I really appreciate all your great progress. I just wish I had more time to talk about it.”
“Oh, uh, right. Right.” The Head of Marketing bobbed off toward the exit. “Thanks, Knight-Commander.”
“Any time.” Tyren leaned back in the old chair. He still had his natural talent for delegation; only a master of middle management could give away all of the work for a project, stay in a place to get much of the credit, and still get thanked for it. The knack must have been in his bones, as evidenced by the fact that there wasn’t anywhere else for it to be. Perhaps undeath hadn’t taken that much away from him after all.
His next meeting, Ned and Ted, shambled in through the rope, while Rudge and his group of skeletons shuffled to take their place in the line. Tyren looked up at the stars winking into view across the sky; the moon would ris
e soon. “Let’s try to get through these last two meetings quickly,” he said. “The attack is about to start.”
“Ah, eager to get on the front lines, eh sir?” said Ted, stepping up to Tyren’s desk.
“Something like that.” Tyren was actually eager to be at the front of the middle ranks: far enough back that he wouldn’t get his hands dirty, but close enough to the fore to keep up appearances. “How is the demonic animal husbandry team coming along?”
“Could be better,” said Ned, the newly appointed stable master of the damned. “We’ve lost one, I’m afraid.”
Tyren sat up. “You let one of those demon animals get away?”
“Oh, no sir!” said Ted. “We lost a stable hand. Turns out the infernal beasts can fly when sufficiently motivated, and apparently seeing a zombie too close to the training pit was sufficient motivation for Boris.”
“That’s what we call the boar,” said Ned.
“Really?” Tyren steepled his hands.
“Yes, sir,” said the ghoul. “We’ve named all the beasts. They’re right vicious bastards, but you know how it is. You work with anything long enough and you start to get attached.”
“I meant that I was surprised they ate another stable hand,” said Tyren. “I thought you said you were making progress with the animals.”
“Oh, we are sir!” said Ted. “Why, we’ve gotten to the point where old Boris doesn’t try to kill Ned and I.”
“Provided he’s eating someone else at the time,” added Ned.
“And Scruffles—that’s our hellhound—why, I don’t think he’s aggressive at all,” said Ted. “He’s trying to be affectionate.”
“Not that it makes much difference. He’ll melt your face off either way,” said Ned. “And nobody is taming that weasel.”
Ghoul and zombie paused for a moment to shudder in unison at the mention of the mustelid.
“So, progress then?” said Tyren.
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