“Not… helping!” hissed Laruna.
“I’ll concede that you have power, solamancer,” Detarr rose higher, weaves of noctomancy spiraling around him in complex patterns. He thrust his arms out, and the lightning and stone coalesced around him into a pair of sinister wings, bat-like spindles of bone webbed with crackling green lightning. “But I have power as well, and beyond that, I have mastery!”
“No!” shrieked Laruna, stumbling as the relic lurched in her hands.
“Come, staff!” called Detarr, raising a skeletal hand into the air. “I am the master of the Crown of Iron Thorns, the commander of the host of the dead! No living mage is as worthy of your service as I!”
Jynn gripped the weapon with Laruna, and Gaist leaped into the fray to grab hold of the shaft. It wasn’t enough. The Wyrmwood Staff wrenched itself free of the heroes’ collective grasp and floated through the air into Detarr’s waiting hand. The crystal at its top flared with violet light as the liche’s bony fingers wrapped around the grip.
Swirling winds suddenly rushed around the plateau. Blinding viridian and amethyst light surrounded the liche, and lighting spiderwebbed across the black sky. Beyond the undead wizard, Gorm could see an unholy green glow rising from the ramparts of Highwatch. Sporadic explosions of incandescent ooze sent plumes of foul vapor into the sky above the fortress.
Heraldin rapped the Dwarf on his shoulder as he sprinted past. “Run, you fools!” the bard shouted. “Live to run another day!”
Jynn and Gaist turned to flee, carrying Laruna between them. Patches whimpered and bolted away. Gorm didn’t bother moving as the liche wove a final spell. “Too late,” he muttered to himself.
“Thank you all for the staff!” called Detarr from the center of the maelstrom. “I must be off to cement my victory at Highwatch! But don’t think of it as goodbye. It’s more of a ‘see you soon.’”
The liche dipped the Wyrmwood Staff and a red light fell from the crystal at its tip. The glow trailed downward in a slow, meandering descent, like an autumn leaf.
“Because I’ll be bringing you all back as the undead after the battle, in case that wasn’t clear,” added Detarr.
“Oh by the g-gods, Father!” Jynn stopped at the edge of the plateau. “It isn’t witty if you have to explain—”
A thunderclap loosed as the crimson light touched the mountain, sending a blast of dust and molten stone flying in a wide radius. Gorm was blown into the air like debris in a hurricane. The edge of the cliff passed beneath him, and he and his companions fell screaming down the mountain.
General Gurgen screamed something at the bannermen, but the chaos below drowned out her words. King Handor gazed down with dull eyes into the swirling nightmare, watching the tide of ooze rise over the remnants of his army. Highwatch was a sea of glowing green, punctuated by flashes of orange and red flames.
“All of our greatest heroes,” the king muttered to ashes blowing in the wind. “The army of the greatest nation on Arth. Gone. All gone.”
With the defenders of Highwatch in shambles, the undead outside the wall were free to advance at will. Spectral ghosts, dark wraiths in flowing robes, and keening banshees flew over the fortifications to attack the survivors in the inner courtyard. The dead heroes and bannermen from the ramparts turned their bows and slings upon the living.
An arrow bounced off the stone at Handor’s feet. He stared at it impassively.
“My kingdom… everything,” he said, staring bleary-eyed at the scene below him. “Doomed.”
A mailed hand grabbed the king’s shoulder and pulled him back from the edge of the keep. “To the eagles, Majesty!” General Gurgen roared in his ear as she shoved him toward the waiting birds. “The eagles!”
Handor stumbled toward the massive raptor dancing nervously at the center of the keep. It occurred to him that Goldson, Baggs, and their eagle had already departed. Weaver Ortson and Dannel Clubs rose into the sky on their own bird, gliding in lazy circles above the burning fortress. The king watched them ascend as he allowed a bannerman to help him mount. A moment later, he felt his seat shift as Johan leapt into the saddle behind him.
“Ho! Upward!” cried the paladin. The eagle hopped to the edge of the keep and launched into the sky, rising into the dark sky on currents of hot air.
“Gone,” the king moaned, tears beading at the edges of his eyes. Now ghouls and skeletons were clambering over Highwatch’s walls. Pockets of resisting heroes and soldiers fled for the tunnels beneath Highwatch. The banners of the army of the Freedlands lay scattered through the courtyard. “It’s all gone. The races of Man will join the kingdom of death. All is hopeless.”
“It is a setback, sire,” yelled Johan. “But where most men see challenges, great men see opportunities, right? Ha!”
“Opportunity?” Confusion catalyzed Handor’s grief into rage. “How could there be any thrice-cursed opportunity in this? The army is gone. Our heroes are gone. My kingdom is defenseless. And I was party to the thrice-cursed scheme that led to this disaster!”
“A major setback, sire,” said the Champion of Tandos. “But surely you can come back—”
“It is more than a setback,” moaned Handor, looking down at the carnage as the eagle’s circuitous ascent brought them over Highwatch once more. “It is the beginning of the end. There’s nothing left for me now but to confess my sins and abdicate the throne.”
Johan was silent for a moment. Then Handor felt a mailed hand rest on his shoulder. “You haven’t failed entirely, sire. On the contrary, you’ve been most useful,” said the paladin.
Something in the champion’s voice stirred Handor from his stupor. “What do you mean by that?”
“And there is still a way for you to serve the kingdom.” Johan ignored the king. The warrior’s grip was getting firmer.
Handor tried to pull away. “Johan? What are you—”
The paladin’s left arm wrapped around Handor, and sudden pain flared in the king’s chest. He looked down to see an arrow, still clasped in Johan’s fist, protruding from a dark stain that was spreading across his royal robes.
“Martyrdom,” the paladin said in Handor’s ear.
The king tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.
“Ha! Goodbye, old friend.” The Champion of Tandos began to loosen the dying man’s straps.
Questions filled the king’s mind as his assailant worked, but they all fled his consciousness as Johan gave him a shove. Handor tumbled through the air, looking back at his murderer. Johan was leaning over the edge of the saddle, screaming something he couldn’t make out. The paladin’s arm was reaching in a pantomimed effort to save the king, but behind the outstretched hand Johan was still smiling. It was all an act, of course.
It had always been an act.
The wind flipped him over, and the king could see the sea of ooze and flame rushing toward him. Silently screaming, Handor plummeted into a storm of fire and death.
“Didn’t see that coming! Heh!” Ignatius allowed himself a small giggle as he watched the lights flash in the eyes of the shrine of Mordo Ogg. One particular glow lingered longer than normal before fading away. “Must have been a big one. Always interesting when the important ones go.”
The light quickly resumed its rapid flickering, blinking on and off at a pace indicative of huge battles, natural disasters, or large cults attempting to reach the gods by sharing a barrel of fermented hemlock. In a way, such cultists succeeded; everyone involved encountered Ignatius’ god, at the minimum.
Normally such deadly events were an amusing interlude for a servant of Mordo Ogg, but Ignatius’ glee was muted. At the end of every crimson pulse of light came an equally emphatic green pulse. The old priest grimaced.
“They’re gettin’ up. All the dead are gettin’ up again.” Ignatius scowled and drew his cloak around himself as if to ward off a chill. “Dark times are ahead.”
Gorm’s world was darkness and agony. Every part of him felt like it was on fire, and given t
he charred smell in his nostrils, he very well might have been. Somewhere on the edge of searing pain, he felt something wet.
The wetness was new. His brow knotted as he concentrated on the sensation. It wasn’t like the persistent dampness around his shredded, broken limbs, or the warmth of the blood leaking from the slash across his chest. Instead, it was a moist, rhythmic slathering, gently pulsing up his cheek toward his—
Gorm sputtered and choked as a dog tongue slid into his open mouth.
“Good find, Patches,” said Burt’s voice, approaching from a distance. “Now, down. Stop kissing the Dwarf. No! Stop kissin—augh, don’t kiss me neither! No! Down!”
There was a brief scuffle in the gravel, and then tiny paws stepped up next to his head. Gorm heard the glassy pop of a cork being removed from a vial, and a moment later he felt the bottle pressed to his lips. A familiar, coppery taste filled his mouth and seared down his throat, a comforting warmth spreading through him in its wake. He felt ribs mending, wounds closing, broken bones stitching themselves back together. He grunted as his shoulder popped back into place and muscle spasms dragged his shattered legs back into the proper alignment. They fused back together with a sudden snap.
Gorm choked on a gulp of air and opened his eyes.
“Morning, sunshine,” said Burt, leaning over him. A high cliff loomed behind the Kobold, and above the mountain the sky was warming with the dawn’s first light. “Feeling better?”
“The others?” Gorm croaked.
“Same as you,” said Burt. “Scattered across the mountainside and banged up, but Patches sniffed them all out, and none of them had wounds a vial or two of salve wouldn’t fix. Good thing old Burt had the sense to grab your rucksack and make a break for it.”
“Aye, thank ye—” A thought struck Gorm. “Wait, ye can carry me rucksack?”
“Well, I had to dump a few non-essentials. To maintain speed, you know?”
Gorm eyed the Kobold warily. “Non-essentials such as?”
“Everything that wasn’t either salve, edible, or mine.”
“What of Niln’s book?”
“Yes, I brought your precious book, heavy as it was. Look, the point is, the Kobold saved you all,” said Burt.
“Aye. Thank ye, Burt.” Gorm sat up and tried to make sense of the world. The liche’s victory. The fate of Highwatch. Where to go from here. And then there was another question. “What’s with the pig?”
Burt glanced back at the dead hog sitting in the branches of a gnarled tree. “It was there when we found you.”
“Strange,” said Gorm.
“That’s par for the course, I’d say,” said the Kobold. “Weird things show up all the time around you. At least this one’s edible.”
Gorm stared at the pig. It had one eye. “Assuming we can get it down from there.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” The Kobold gave him a pat on the knee. “Come on. Laruna’s found the horses, and the others are waiting.”
“What’s keeping them?” Duine Poldo asked, sitting at the small conference table he kept in his new home office.
“Well, the permits, for one,” said Mrs. Hrurk, glancing at her clipboard. “You’ve owned the building for less than a week, and the city already granted us several exceptions. The clerk said things don’t usually move this fast.”
“It’s hardly fast enough. No, let me,” he added, lifting the teapot before Mrs. Hrurk could take it from him. He filled his own mug, and then topped off the Gnoll’s as well. “We can’t keep up with demand. How many tenants do we have now?”
“Oh, well over four dozen,” said Mrs. Hrurk, reluctantly accepting her tea. “And that’s just the Shadowkin. We also have an Ogre, a family of Tinderkin, and a Human.”
“A Human?” said Poldo.
“Oh, yes. Aubren is a young girl. She fled Parald when Vetchell fell. I found her wandering the streets a couple of days ago, poor dear. She’s helping out around the house and watching the pups while I work.”
Poldo nodded. “Fair enough, but is there room for her to sleep? For any of them?”
“We’ve shifted some furniture around, and Graz’gub Bloodroar has put together three sets of bunks so far.” Mrs. Hrurk dropped a sugar cube into her tea, and then put one in Poldo’s. “Did I mention that Mr. Bloodroar has a knack for carpentry? No? Well as it turns out, he does. Anyway, we can probably take in another three or four before the bunk rooms are complete. Six if they’re Goblins or Kobolds.”
“And when will the bunk rooms be done?” asked Poldo.
“Not until we get the permits. They can’t come soon enough.” Mrs. Hrurk sighed and looked out the window. “We expect more refugees from Parald and Vetchell soon.”
Poldo nodded and watched the Gnoll. Mrs. Hrurk’s mange had cleared up in recent weeks, and now her coat had an orange hue to it. Coupled with her fox-like features and her large ears, she looked like she was at least part Fennekin, though Poldo wouldn’t dream of asking her. It was usually considered rude to inquire which clan a Gnome belonged to, and he assumed that asking Gnolls if they had Demi-gnoll heritage violated similar social mores.
Mrs. Hrurk glanced back at him, and he quickly looked out the window and cleared his throat. Trade sprites were darting through the air, bright spots of crimson and emerald against the dark and brooding sky.
“Well, let me know if you need help getting the permits,” Poldo said. “In the meantime, we’ll do what we can. There will always be more people to help.”
Mrs. Hrurk smiled at him. “You’re a good man, Mr. Poldo.”
The Scribkin chuckled without humor and looked to the sprites fluttering across the skyline.
“I mean it.”
Poldo shook his head. “Mrs. Hrurk, do you know how much gold I made because Vetchell fell? And how much more I took in from investors speculating about the sacking of Parald? Everything I give those refugees is a cut of the profits I made off their misery.”
“Mr. Poldo—”
“And the Shadowkin… I’ve done far worse to all of you.” Poldo stared at the window, but he saw old quests swimming before his eyes, every one of them a death warrant for some monster or Shadowkin. “I made my fortune plying in loot taken from your people. And now they’re my tenants. I try to be social in the hallways, but I… I can’t even look them in the eye.”
“You give them a place to stay, Mr. Poldo. You give them hope in a dark time,” Mrs. Hrurk countered.
“They only need what I gave them because of how much I took from them,” said Poldo wearily. “I wonder if I can ever lift them up to the heights I pushed them from.”
He started as Mrs. Hrurk placed a paw on his hand, leaning over the table. “Mr. Poldo, I believe you are a good man,” she said with an air of finality.
Poldo knew that people only prefixed a statement with “I believe” when there wasn’t sufficient evidence to prove it, but he also knew when Mrs. Hrurk would brook no argument. He managed a small smile.
A tiny bell rang, signaling that Poldo’s next meeting was set to begin. Mrs. Hrurk took the tea set and left Poldo with his thoughts. He took a moment to collect them, then carried his mug of tea over to his desk.
A pack of Wood Gnomes led by Red Squirrel waited on his blotter next to a small silver bell. Several more were already hard at work, rapidly transcribing a message onto a sheet of paper on Poldo’s desk. They used a set of tiny rubber stamps that Poldo commissioned expressly for that purpose, each with a single letter or number and a grip sized for a Domovoy’s hands. Working in concert, the Wood Gnomes could create a reasonably legible document almost as soon as it was dictated.
“Is it time for the afternoon report?” asked Poldo, sipping his tea. Then he read the message and promptly sprayed the beverage over his desk.
LICHE DETARR UR’MAYAN DEFEATS BANNERMEN AT HIGHWATCH. KING HANDOR SLAIN. WORLD’S TOP HEROES (UN)DEAD. HAERTSWOOD RUMORED SACKED BY RED HORDE OR OTHER SHADOWKIN.
“By the gods.” Poldo stumbled as he
fell into his chair, suddenly dizzy.
Red Squirrel nodded gravely as he wrung out a corner of his pelt. The Wood Gnomes kept stamping out their report.
HEROES GUILD RAISES THREAT INDEX ACROSS ARTH. THREAT INDEX FOR HAERTSWOOD UP BY OVER 2,000%. THREAT INDEX FOR ABERRETH AND SURROUNDING REGIONS UP BY 347%.
A deep chill ran up Poldo’s spine. “The threat obligations.”
NEW AGE’S TOTAL THREAT OBLIGATIONS PAYOUTS EXCEED ESTIMATED CASH ON HAND BY OVER 10BILLION G. DAELLAN ELVEN ASSEMBLAGE’S TOTAL PAYOUTS EXCEED ESTIMATED CASH ON HAND BY OVER 3BILLION G. LAMIA SISTERS TOTAL PAYOUTS EXCEED ESTIMATED CASH ON HAND BY 19BILLION G.
“They can’t pay all of their threat obligations,” said Poldo weakly.
Figures and amounts swam before his mind’s eye, a grim litany of financial ruin. If banks missed payments to the holders of their threat obligations, then the holders of the obligations would stop paying for the obligations they held, and the banks would have less cash to pay their obligations. It was a more than a vicious cycle; it was the quick, terminal spiral of an ant caught in a drain, and it could drag the whole market down with it.
“S-sell! Sell! Sell!” Poldo stumbled over the word as he scrambled for his summoning stone. The Gnomes on his desk scattered, quickly fetching his ledger and various reports.
Immediately he issued orders to sell the rest of any CTOs he still held, then he dumped all of his shares in the major banks. A line of scarlet sprites bobbed across his office as fast as he could summon them, casting the room in ruby light. Yet at some point after he had issued a sale order for Goldson Baggs, he noticed that the red hue was also pouring in through his windows. The Wood Gnomes crowded on the sill of the largest pane, staring out with upturned faces.
Poldo stood and approached the window with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The sky was painted blood red by a multitude of crimson sprites swarming through the air toward the Andarun Stock Exchange. Every single one was a stock for sale, a company abandoned, another dip in prices that were already tumbling. They drifted along errant paths up the mountain like embers in the wind.
Son of a Liche Page 30