Asherzu closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and tried to ignore the sounds of a small scuffle up by the easel. Eventually, the pair seemed to get their presentation back in some facsimile of order.
“Your pardons again, great lady.” Oggor pointed to a new lambskin, this one adorned with several graphs. “Now, did you know that, according to recent surveys, over half of the Shadowkin in the Red Horde wish to return to their original tribes? And seven in ten said they do not support the Red Horde’s violent ways?”
“Yes,” said Asherzu.
“Truly? Uh, good.” Sweat ran down Oggor’s olive skin in rivulets, unhindered by the constant dabbing of his soaked handkerchief. Nevertheless, he thrust a moist palm toward Asherzu and put on a smile that made up for its lack of confidence with face-contorting scale. “So, when will you be talking to Chief Darak about the Red Horde?”
“You presume too much,” said Asherzu, fighting to retain her composure.
Oggor withdrew his hand as if from a fire. “I am sorry, lady. I was merely attempting to be closing at all times.”
“That was your closing pitch?” growled Asherzu. “That was how you close a sale?”
“My Lady—” Jorruk put a hand on her shoulder, but it was too late to stop her now.
“You muddied your pitch with a poor analogy, you failed to define your proposition, you buried your lead, and when you finally got around to it, you added no value to your ask!” The young wise-one leapt to her feet and stalked toward the shrinking Orc. “You called me forth in the middle of the night with this poorly strategized presentation?”
“I… I was merely…” Oggor stumbled, literally and figuratively, as he backed away from Asherzu. “I thought… the path of the aggressive seller says that—”
“You would tell me of the path of the aggressive seller?” Asherzu hollered. “I am the daughter of Zurthraka daz’Guz’Varda! I have sold to Goblins and to the largest of Lightling corporations. I wrote a pitch that impressed officers of the Vorpal Corporation! I walk the path of aggressive sales as nobody else, and I will not be sold by the fumblings of a novice!”
“Forgive me!” Oggor groveled. “We are desperate, Lady Asherzu! Someone must stop your brother before we are all killed. The people whisper it in secret, but fear for their lives if they should speak. You must talk to the chieftain! He will listen to you, the daughter of his sire!”
“If the chieftain cared for me and my thoughts, would he have moved my hut so far from his own?” Asherzu snorted.
“Honored one, if the chieftain did not care for you, you would be dead,” said Oggor. “Those who speak against the Red Horde are slain, taken in the night.”
The words hit Asherzu in the gut. “Taken at night… no, my brother would never dishonor himself with such trickery.”
“Perhaps that is so,” Jorruk interjected, measuring his words carefully as he spoke. “But others would. Perhaps there is more to this pitch than the presentation it was wrapped in, honored one.”
“It seems as much.” Asherzu took a deep breath. “I am sorry I did not hear you, Oggor daz’Nabbug da’Guz’Varda.”
“So, you will talk with the chieftain?” Hope filled Oggor’s eyes.
“I will think on it,” Asherzu said. “Your words ring true, as does Jorruk’s wisdom. But what would the tribe do if I convinced Darak to leave the ways of the Red Horde? We have raided a Lightling town, and they do not forgive such offenses. If we are to return to the path of the aggressive seller, I must have a plan to bring before the chieftain, an alternative to the Red Horde’s ways.”
“May you have all speed then, lady. I fear our opportunity to act will not last long,” Oggor said, inadvertently straying back too close to the script. On cue, his assistant stepped forward and thrust out a woven satchel.
“Plus, you shall receive this attractive bag when you act now!” said Valra automatically, just before Oggor managed to wrestle her back toward the door.
“We will wait on your wisdom,” the would-be sales Orc called over his shoulder. “Thank you for hearing us.”
Asherzu and Jorruk hurried out of the hut and made their way through the maze of tents and shanty huts, past the warg kennels and the pig farms, to the small hovel that Asherzu and her attendants had been banished to. She bid her mentor goodnight before entering her room, a solemn space of rough-hewn pine and sparse decoration.
Her bedroll brought her no peace, and she tossed and turned for much of the night. Possibilities and consequences drifted before her sleepless eyes, each less desirable than the last. It felt like the Gnomish puzzle boxes that the Vorpal Corporation managers had kept on their desks in Bloodroot, except now she was trapped in the center of one.
And one piece just didn’t fit.
Dawn found Asherzu seated on the dirt floor of her hut, staring at a wrinkled parchment. A grizzled face stared back at her from above a promise of a very large sum.
“What have you done, Gorm Ingerson?” she muttered. “They say you were on our side, but we assumed you were with the guild. Why do they want to arrest you?”
Dev Strongarm wasn’t sure what Gorm Ingerson had done to merit such a large bounty. He was mostly focused on the bounty itself, which was printed in bold letters across the poster in the young hero’s hands.
“And you’re sure you’re Gorm Ingerson?” he said again, doubtful. “The criminal?”
“The worst,” groaned the pile of furs and armor in the hallway outside of Dev’s room. “Everyone… dead or miserable… it’s all my fault. I’m turnin’ myself in.”
Dev looked at the poster again, trying to compare the inebriated face below him to the crude woodcut portrait. It was hard to concentrate with all of those zeroes looking up at him.
“And you want me to turn you in to face justice.”
“You’re with the Heroes’ Guild, right?”
“Yes.” Dev answered with some reluctance.
“Aress’ me, sir!”
The young warrior thought about it for a moment. In his short career as a professional hero, he’d found that chances for success didn’t come his way very often. Now, opportunity was literally banging on his door in the small hours of the morning, and if Dev didn’t hurry, opportunity was going to wake up every other hero in the tavern. Most of the higher-ranked heroes would be happy for a shot at so much gold, and equally happy to shove Dev aside for it.
“All right, come in.” He ushered Gorm into his room and stepped across the hall to wake Matina.
A few moments later, Dev and the young cleric stood just inside the door to Dev’s room, weighing their options.
“What if it’s not him?” said Matina.
“It looks like him,” said Dev. “And if it is…” He held up the poster.
“It’s me!” said the Dwarf, who had settled onto Dev’s bed and was nursing a large flask.
“Wow,” said Matina, still looking at the zeroes.
“All we do is take him down the road to the guildhall, turn him in to—”
“The Aberreth guildhall?” hissed the cleric. “Are you crazy?”
It was an unspoken truth that Aberreth’s local branch of the Heroes’ Guild was completely corrupt. It remained unspoken because the arbiters and masters of the Aberreth branch had spies everywhere, and the only way to get any questing done in the city was to work within their complex blend of patronage, bureaucracy, and graft. Most upstanding heroes preferred to run out of Haertswood if they had the ranks and reputation to get work there.
Dev and Matina didn’t.
“No, you’re right,” said Dev. “If we bring him there, all of the reward and credit will go to one of the arbiters’ bootlickers.”
Matina sniffed. “We’d be lucky to see a copper piece.”
“Tragic that Haertswood’s been sacked,” said Dev. “We’ll have to take him all the way to Andarun.”
“That’s a long way to go,” said Matina.
Dev shrugged. “So? If the undead are coming here like ever
yone says, evacuations will begin in a couple of weeks. And we’ve been between quests for days now.”
“I’m still not sure it’s him.” The cleric glowered at the Dwarf.
“Well, it’s worth the chance,” said Dev. “I’m taking him to Andarun. Do you want to help me or not?”
“Of course! You’re not cutting me out of the deal!” snapped Matina. “We just have to figure out how to get him there.”
“I’ve a horse!” said the Dwarf.
“Well, that’s a start,” Matina said.
“But then he could just ride away when he sobers up,” said Dev.
“We’ll chain him.” The cleric turned to Gorm. “We’ll chain you, all right?”
“‘Course,” slurred the Dwarf. “Ye’d have to!”
Dev nodded. “Now all we need are some—”
“I’ve got a pair of manacles in my room,” said Matina.
“Perfect. So we… hang on, you’ve got manacles in your room?”
The cleric rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t try to make it sound weird.”
“I’m not making it sound anything,” said Dev. “It sounds weird. I’m just observing that it sounds weird.”
“You’ve got fifty feet of rope in your pack,” Matina shot back.
“I… well, yes, but… I mean, everyone knows you need a fifty-foot length of rope for an adventure,” sputtered Dev. “What if you fell down a pit?”
“What if you needed to take a prisoner?”
“How often does that happen?”
“Well, we’re not in a pit, are we?” hissed Matina.
“Ha! She’s got ye there!” laughed the Dwarf.
Dev exhaled through his teeth. “Just… just go get the manacles.”
Within the hour, they had packed their belongings and, at Gorm’s earnest insistence, retrieved the Dwarf’s pack and axe. Their gear secure, Dev and Matina tried to inconspicuously guide the Dwarf out through the inn’s common room.
Unfortunately, there are few things more conspicuous than a drunken Dwarf in chains.
“You guys are great,” Gorm leered at Dev. “So great. ‘M…‘M so happy we’re travelin’ together.”
“Shut up,” breathed Dev. He was doubled over so the Dwarf could sling a heavy arm across his shoulders, but with Gorm’s hands manacled together, it felt more like he was in a headlock. He noticed several posters around the room identical to the one Gorm had brought him, and hoped that nobody else did.
“Just keep moving,” hissed Matina from next to him. She nodded to a pair of burly warriors in enchanted armor watching from a dark table.
They stumbled out the inn’s back door into the stables and sent a stable boy to fetch their mounts. The lad returned with their pair of gray mares, as well as a handsome Elven steed for the Dwarf. They saddled the horses and loaded their gear quickly before confronting another problem.
“How do we get him on to the horse?” Matina asked.
“Can’t he just… you know?” Dev looked at the Dwarf.
Gorm burped and toppled over sideways.
“I don’t think he can,” said Matina.
“I told you not to chain his hands yet,” sighed Dev. “If we hadn’t manacled him, he could have climbed up.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said a gruff voice.
A pair of shadows fell over the young heroes. Dev turned to see the pair of burly warriors stepping into the stables, blocking the main exit.
“What’d you find there, newblood?” said the larger of the two. “Looks like a Dwarf lost his way.”
“Looks like the sort the guild would want to hear about,” said the slightly-less-massive warrior, holding up a copy of Gorm’s wanted poster. “We’ll take it from here.”
Dev’s mind raced and his heart sank. The warriors had at least fifty pounds and five ranks on him, each. “Uh—”
“No, no!” said the Dwarf, heaving himself to his feet. “These guys… these are me friends! I’m goin’ wit’ them. They’re takin’ me to Andarun.”
“Nobody asked you!” The larger of the two warriors loomed over the Dwarf and grabbed him by the shoulder, which was his last mistake.
Dev wasn’t quite sure what happened in the next few seconds, even though he saw it all; he couldn’t unsee it no matter how hard he shut his eyes. Flashes of violence were burned into his retinas: breaking jaws, swords sparking as they carved through their owners’ armor, a warrior’s face contorting as he was strangled by a pair of manacles.
The assault was over just as suddenly as it began. Gorm dropped to the ground amidst the remnants of the warriors, looking at Dev and Matina with black, dead eyes, a snarl or a grin on his face. They stood staring at each other. Dev didn’t dare to breathe.
Then the Dwarf’s smile relaxed and looked more genuine, or at least more genuinely inebriated, and a warm haze spread over his irises. He gave a happy burp.
Dev’s eyes flicked to Matina, who had gone pale as a ghost. She glanced back at him, and he could see that she’d had the same thoughts. It was becoming apparent why the Dwarf warranted such a large bounty. What wasn’t clear was what Gorm would be capable of when he sobered up.
Or how he would feel about his new friends…
“We ready?” slurred Gorm.
“Almost,” said Dev slowly. He nodded deliberately to Matina. “I’ll help our friend—our good friend—get in the saddle. You go buy as much rum as the horses can carry.”
Chapter 20
“And keep the spirits flowing,” Weaver Ortson told the waiter pouring his drink. “I don’t want to see the bottom of this cup all night.”
“I doubt you’ll be able to see anything if you keep drinking at this rate,” commented Bolbi Baggs.
“Or at least, you won’t remember it,” Fenrir Goldson looked more dour than usual.
“Who’d want to remember today?” Ortson drank his wine in a few long gulps and held out his glass again. The waiter, to his discredit, had already wafted away, taking the drinks cart with him.
“It’s a historic occasion,” said Baggs.
“It’s a macabre fiasco. The ashes are still warm in the pyre,” Ortson murmured into his wine. “It hasn’t yet been three weeks since Handor’s death.”
“We’re all aware of the date, Ortson,” muttered Goldson, glancing around uncomfortably. “Not least because this month has been cursed.”
“And it isn’t over. That’s the point.” Ortson said. The death of Handor had been the start of a series of calamities, and even the least suspicious of Andarun’s citizens hoped that the end of Dawngreen would bring some relief from misfortune. “The timing warrants comment.”
“On the contrary, it warrants keeping quiet,” snapped Baggs.
The great hall of Andarun’s palace inspired some of the Halfling’s unease. White funeral lilies were set at the doorways. Black banners of mourning still hung from the rafters and draped over the furniture. Handor’s ceremonial crown sat wreathed in white and crimson roses atop a black silk pillow on the vacant throne. Yet amidst the dreary decor, tables had been set up and decorated with white silks and overflowing bouquets. Half of the room had been cleared out for a dance floor. Nobles, dignitaries, and captains of industry sat around the tables, contorting their faces as they tried to look happy for the new couple while maintaining an appropriate somberness.
“I think we should just agree that it warrants another drink.” Ortson raised his empty glass at a passing servant.
“Always a safe proposition with you,” said Goldson.
“An especially good one today,” added Baggs.
“Hold on.” Ortson squinted and peered into the crowd. “Is that Dannel Clubs?”
“Where?” asked Baggs.
“Over there. The one in the ridiculous pompadour wig.” Ortson pointed.
“I don’t believe that’s the case,” said Baggs.
“Oh, it’s unmistakably Clubs,” said Ortson. “Listen, you can hear the lout boasting across the hall!”
“Quite so. But I don’t believe that’s a wig,” said Baggs. “Clubs is a Gnome of my clan, you see, and that hairstyle is quite popular among some of my kin.”
“A Halfling?” said Goldson. “But he’s almost as tall as an Elf!”
“A glandular disorder, I’m told,” said Baggs.
“Well, that explains the tiny hands.” Goldson held out his glass and a servant filled it with a Daellan white.
“Who cares about how he bloody looks?” Ortson bristled as he stared at the businessman laughing across the room. “That buffoon is the one who vouched for the liche’s shell company! He’s the reason those thrice-cursed orbs were on the wall. Do you know how many good men and women we lost in that fight?”
“It was most likely unintentional,” said Goldson.
“He lacks the competence for subterfuge.” Baggs smirked into his own glass.
“Burn what he meant,” barked Ortson. “He’s personally responsible for this travesty!”
“Preposterous,” Baggs snorted. “It’s business!”
“You can’t go about holding business leaders accountable for everything that goes wrong,” added Goldson.
“Indeed,” said Baggs. “People of a certain level are running small empires. We can’t be expected to monitor every little detail.”
“Little?” Ortson’s jowls quivered as he shook with rage. “Thousands of bannermen and heroes died! Uncountable civilians are at risk! The whole world may be in danger because of his dealings!”
Goldson and Baggs looked unaffected. “Well, I’m fairly certain someone was fired over it,” said Goldson.
“That’s hardly enough for me. His negligence was criminal,” harrumphed Ortson. “Nobody is above the law!”
Baggs shrugged and sipped his wine. “Perhaps, but with enough money you can usually get out from under it.”
“We have other concerns for the moment,” said Goldson. “The groom is coming.”
Weaver looked. Through his agitated, inebrious haze, he could see Johan the Mighty making his way toward their table. The paladin’s ivory teeth sparkled like the candelabras above, and he must have purchased a glamour for the evening, for his golden hair seemed to wave in a breeze that wasn’t there. He was, as always, clad in enchanted armor, though today he wore a white cape and, perched atop the gorget of his chest plate, a small bow tie.
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