Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Is it one of those pamphlets from the Temple of Oppo?” asked Jynn. “Honestly, I never understood why they do that.”

  “It’s a tip about the bard,” said Gorm. “I’m to check it out in the back alley. If I’m not back in ten minutes, ye know what to do.”

  “Drink your ale,” said Laruna.

  “And order me a cold one.” Gorm headed for the back door.

  The alley behind Lidda’s was dark, lit only by the last of the twilight leaking through the crowded rooftops of Darkridge, the cluster of slums and derelict factories on the Ridgemost end of the second tier. Stacks of crates and piles of rags littered the alley, casting strange shadows across the broken cobbles.

  “Gorm Ingerson?” buzzed a strange voice from the darkness.

  He turned. In the deepest shadows of the alley, a strange figure slumped against a stack of boxes. He wore a long coat with sleeves that totally covered his hands. A scarf and a wide brimmed hat obscured the man’s face; Gorm could only determine it was a man at all from the mismatched tufts of hair sticking out from the scarf at odd angles.

  “Aye,” said Gorm. “This your note?”

  “Heraldin Strummons is in danger.” The figure’s voice sounded like the chorus of rats, or perhaps like the wings of a swarm of insects.

  “Can’t say I’m too surprised,” Gorm muttered. “Well, how bad is it this time?”

  The figure rustled like leaves in the wind, and Gorm heard tiny squeaking sounds at the edge of his hearing. “Benny Hookhand has taken him.”

  “That’s pretty thrice-cursed bad,” swore Gorm.

  “We know where he’s being held,” said the figure. “You need to go tonight.”

  “If we’re not already too late,” agreed Gorm. “But I’ll wager there’s a price for this information.”

  “Save Poldo!” exclaimed the figure, its voice high and warping with sudden enthusiasm.

  “Save what now?”

  The figure trembled and chittered again. “Duine Poldo is being held along with Mr. Strummons. You will set him free as well.”

  “Enemy of my enemy is my friend, eh?” Gorm scratched at his beard. “And how do I know this ain’t some sort of elaborate trap?”

  The figure squeaked and chittered to itself. Its belly warped and wiggled for a moment, and then a bulge emerged between the buttons of its heavy coat. The mass unfurled itself as it flopped out onto the cobbles in front of Gorm. The Dwarf picked up the brightly colored hat.

  “Don’t know many who’d wear a hat like this,” said Gorm. “All right. We’ll think on it.”

  “Yes. Go soon.” The figure leaned forward precariously, its arms swinging as though on pendulums. A slip of paper slid out of the end of one of its sleeves and fluttered down on the cobbles. “Here.”

  Gorm picked it up and read.

  “This address is in the Riverdowns,” said Gorm. When there was no response, he looked up. The odd figure had already shambled back into the shadows.

  “Strangest thing was, he left all his clothes behind in a big heap,” Gorm later said as he recounted the meeting to the party.

  “It could be a trap,” said Jynn. “That hat has clearly been recently purchased, and anyone who knows the bard will be familiar with his sense of fashion.”

  “Or lack thereof,” said Laruna.

  “Could be a trap,” conceded Gorm. “Then again, anyone who wanted to get us somewhere could find better bait than a fight with Benny Hookhand.”

  “True enough,” said Kaitha. “Honestly, even if it’s a real tip we need to think twice about—”

  The ranger was interrupted by the sharp thunk of a dagger embedding itself in the table beside her. A neatly folded piece of paper was pinned down by the blade.

  “What is it?” Gorm asked as Kaitha read the note.

  Kaitha smirked as she read aloud: “You have been asking around after Heraldin Strummons. I can show you to him. Meet me in the back alley.”

  “Intrigue begets intrigue,” said Jynn, passing a scrap of food to Patches under the table.

  “Intrigue’s startin’ to beget nausea at this point.” Gorm tossed a few giltin on the table and stood again. “Come on. Let’s go see what this is about.”

  The alley was slightly darker but otherwise unchanged when Gorm led the other heroes through Lidda’s back door. There was even another man in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat lurking in the shadows. “Are you Gorm Ingerson?” he asked in a gravelly voice.

  “Ye know I am. What’s this all about?” Gorm peered into the darkness. There was a familiar quality in the timbre of the informant’s voice.

  The mysterious figure held up a gloved hand. “I can tell you where Heraldin Strummons is.”

  “We already know where he is,” said Laruna.

  “He’s—wait, what?” The informant stumbled over his words.

  “We know where the bard is,” said Gorm. “So your information ain’t worth much to us.”

  “Well, that’s a little hurtful.” The indignant informant lost the gravel in his voice, and the other heroes recognized it at once.

  “Wait. Heraldin?” said Gorm.

  “Of course it’s me,” grumbled the bard, throwing off the long coat as he stepped out of the shadows. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? Not that you wouldn’t take the chance to ruin the moment.”

  “So, you were following us the whole time?” asked Jynn.

  “Once I found out you were looking for me I searched for all of you, yes,” said the bard. “And I spent half the day planning this reunion. The surprise reveal, the heartfelt apology, the long embraces—”

  “Don’t push your luck,” warned Kaitha.

  “The respectful handshakes.” Heraldin didn’t skip a beat. “But, in typical fashion, you brushed it all off and ruined the moment. ‘Not worth much,’ indeed!”

  “Sorry. We were misinformed,” said Jynn.

  “We got a tip that ye were taken by Benny Hookhand,” said Gorm, holding out the hat given to him by the previous informant.

  “What?” The bard snatched the hat out of Gorm’s hand, his resentment forgotten.

  “Aye, must have been a trap. They said ye was taken to an address in the Riverdowns—”

  “We have to go to Benny’s lair!” said Heraldin, taking off his ratty old hat and replacing it with the newer, less damaged one. “There’s no time to waste!”

  “But why pick a fight with Andarun’s most dangerous gangster?” asked Gorm. “Benny Hookhand obviously didn’t get ye.”

  “Exactly,” hissed Heraldin. “But he likely thinks he did.”

  “Don’t talk as much as you used to, do you, Heraldin?” asked Mr. Plank, prodding at the prisoner with the tip of a wooden club.

  The bard leveled a burning glare, but said nothing.

  This was an unsurprising response. The thin man hadn’t said a word since Poldo had met him. For the most part, the Human just sat up straight on the prisoners’ bench, staring at the walls of the rickety dock house they were held in.

  Something in Heraldin’s eyes must have unsettled the goon. Poldo winced and leaned away as Mr. Plank gave the captive a couple of solid whacks to the shoulder with his club. “Don’t you look at me like that,” barked their captor.

  The bard didn’t so much as flinch, let alone cry out. He stared at the goon a moment longer and then turned away with a slight shrug.

  Unnerved, Mr. Plank turned his attentions back to Lemba, who, by contrast, hadn’t stopped talking since Poldo met her.

  “Oh, gods, this is bad. I knew I shouldn’t have done business with the Hookhand’s goons,” the Tinderkin muttered to herself, rocking back and forth on her stool. “I mean, yeah, I cut the potions a bit, maybe they make you a little sick, yeah, but what did they expect at those prices? People need low-cost potions. I was just meeting market demand, is all.”

  “Shut it!” The floor of the old dock house creaked and cracked as Mr. Plank stalked across the small room they occupied. “I t
old you to be quiet.”

  Lemba fell silent, but only for as long as the goon loomed over her. As soon as he stepped away, she resumed her vacant litany of regrets and excuses.

  Poldo was actually glad for the Tinderkin’s muttering. Her murmurs and those of the river bubbling along beneath the floor masked the conversation he was having.

  “Did the paperwork for the trust make it to the lawyers?” he whispered softly.

  The Wood Gnome hiding in his collar chirruped once. Yes.

  “Excellent.” Poldo allowed himself a small smile of relief. Benny Hookhand had kept them waiting for the entire day, but that had provided Poldo and his diminutive staff time to make arrangements. “And is the real estate agent set to come yet?”

  Two chirrups. No.

  “Send another missive, then. It has to be tomorrow,” Poldo said. “If these heroes you’ve arranged for show up and rescue me, the home won’t be safe for the residents. We need to find a new location within the week.”

  Two chirrups.

  “I know it’s unreasonable, but—”

  A scream rang out from beyond the ominous red door at the back of the room, followed by a final-sounding splash. A moment later, the red door opened and Mr. Knucker stepped into the room followed, improbably enough, by an even larger goon. “Mr. Hookhand is ready to see you now, Lemba.”

  The Tinderkin protested and pleaded, but Mr. Knucker took her by the arm and led her back into the recesses of Benny Hookhand’s lair. The red door slammed behind them with an air of finality.

  “Stepping out for a smoke,” the massive goon told Mr. Plank, pulling a silver cigar case from the inner pocket of his jacket.

  Poldo waited for the goon to make his way across the small antechamber and step out the front door before resuming his conversation with the Wood Gnome perched on his shoulder.

  “Look, I appreciate the difficulty involved, but consider the consequences of failure,” he exhorted. “Mrs. Hrurk’s Home for the Underprivileged must open as soon as possible. The only way to protect the guests is to make it seem as if they never stayed with me.”

  The Wood Gnome reluctantly conceded a single chirrup.

  “Good,” Poldo said. “I know you can make it happen. And give my regards to Mrs. Hrurk and the pups.” He felt a tickle down his spine as the Gnome clambered down the back of his shirt, and then the tiny employee was away, leaving Poldo alone with his thoughts. They were, by and large, unpleasant, but much less so than the scream that interrupted them a few minutes later.

  “That was quick,” said Mr. Plank as Mr. Knucker stepped through the red door.

  “The Hookhand was eager to get to these two.” The senior goon leered at the prisoners. “He likes to save the fun ones for last.”

  “So, which one does he want first?” asked Mr. Plank.

  “Mr. Strummons here, of course.” Mr. Knucker prodded at the bard, who stood and walked solemnly through the red door. “Gods, you know how much money that little Scribkin cost Benny? He’s gonna want to take his time on that one.” He shot Poldo a menacing grin before the red door slammed behind him.

  “Too bad for you.” Mr. Plank laughed at Poldo.

  The Scribkin felt the sweat beading on his brow, blurring his vision. Nausea settled in the pit of his stomach. He put his head down by his knees and breathed deeply until he heard a sound like someone choking. Or screaming. Or choking while screaming.

  Poldo lifted his head. “Is that—”

  The front door ripped from its hinges as the massive goon crashed through it. A cigar dangled from his lips and two arrows protruded from his throat, constricting his death rattle to a struggling whine. Poldo recoiled as the dying man crashed to the floor at his feet.

  “What the—” Mr. Plank began, but he never finished. A whirling ball of fury and beard launched though the hole in the wall where the front door used to be and slammed into Mr. Plank with horrifying ferocity. Poldo looked away and squeezed his eyes shut, though he didn’t cover his ears in time to block out the sickening sounds of a live dissection via axe. Something splattered on his shoes.

  The carnage only lasted a few seconds. A gruff voice rang out. “Ye Duine Poldo?”

  Poldo opened one eye. A Dwarf-shaped demon loomed over him, speckled with the mortal remains of Mr. Plank. He stared down at the Scribkin with burning, intense eyes.

  “I said, are ye Duine Poldo?” the Dwarf repeated.

  Shock threatened to overwhelm Poldo, and his terror precluded forming coherent sentences. His brain fell back to the businessman’s most basic instinct. With a subconscious spasm of his arm, he pulled a business card from his coat pocket and extended it to the Dwarf.

  Other armed heroes were running into the room as the Dwarf took the card and looked at it. “Is this the secondary?” asked a tall Elven woman.

  “Aye,” said the Dwarf, reading the card. “Well, Mr. Poldo, you’re free to go wherever ye please.”

  “Though I’d suggest you be somewhere else for a while,” said a man in the gray robes of an omnimancer.

  As shocking as it was to see a brazen gray mage, it wasn’t nearly as surprising as the man who bounded in on the wizard’s heels. “But where is Gaist?” asked the spitting image of Heraldin. “Er, the bard. Someone who looks like me.”

  Poldo pointed mutely to the red door.

  “Then there’s not a moment to lose!” shouted the new Heraldin.

  “Aye,” said the Dwarf, hefting his axe. After a couple of swings, the red door exploded in a cloud of crimson shrapnel. The adventurers streamed through the antechambers, leaping over the various bits of Mr. Plank as they rushed into Benny Hookhand’s inner sanctum.

  Poldo stared after them, violently shaking, until a chorus of chirps and tweets brought him back to his senses. He turned to a crowd of Wood Gnomes at the front door, jumping and pointing emphatically.

  “Oh, yes. Yes! We must make our escape,” said Poldo, hopping off the bench and trying not to think of whatever had just squelched beneath his foot.

  “A lot of guts,” the woman snarled at Gorm. She stood near the far corner of the back room of the dock house, surrounded by a phalanx of overmuscled men in dark suits. Heraldin’s double was held in place next to an open trapdoor, and beneath him the Tarapin River rushed and bubbled with quiet menace.

  “It takes a lot of guts to break into one of my dens.” The woman spoke in a low growl as she brandished an ornate sailor’s hook at the adventurers. A lithe figure in dark leather armor, she had raven hair pulled into a single ponytail and a Daellish face marked by a myriad of long, thin scars crisscrossing each other from every angle. “Who do you think you are?”

  Heraldin stepped around Gorm before the Dwarf could offer an answer. “Hello, Benny,” said the bard.

  “Heraldin Strummons?” exclaimed Benny Hookhand. The woman turned back to the figure held in place by her goons. “But then who—”

  “That glorious bastard is an imposter.” Heraldin smiled and nodded to his double. “A fool who thought he could clear my name by dying in my stead.”

  The doppelganger, for its part, stared at Heraldin in bewildered shock.

  “Or you might be the fake,” snarled Benny.

  “Perhaps, but when have I ever been that quiet before?” asked Heraldin.

  Benny thought for a moment, then shoved the doppelganger away from the trapdoor with a curse.

  “Wait,” Gorm interjected. “Benny Hookhand is a woman?”

  “You always said he was a man,” said Laruna.

  There was a chorus of low groans, snorts, and general derision from the assembled goons. Even Heraldin turned back to the party with a look of incredulous scorn. “What are you talking about?” hissed the bard.

  “You mean this old thing?” laughed Benny, strutting closer. The woman brought the point of the hook to within a finger’s length of her eyeball. “I couldn’t care less about this meatbag.”

  Gorm felt his stomach turn as she stepped into the light. Though the wom
an’s mouth was smiling, her eyes were wide with terror. “Benny’s the hook,” he said.

  “Obviously,” sneered Benny Hookhand.

  “The name is quite clear,” agreed Heraldin.

  Gorm never knew what possessed ancient wizards to make them create sentient weapons, but once they did so, much of the possessing was done by the weapons rather than the wizards. A sword or an axe that thought for itself was bad enough, but nothing was worse than a blade that thought for its wielder.

  “The woman that Benny is currently, ah, attached to was once an assassin sent to dispatch him,” said Heraldin.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m attached to her.” The hook withdrew from her eye, only to drag itself down the right side of her cheek, carving a thin, crimson line amid the innumerable scars on her face. “Not like when I was with you.”

  “Wait, what?” exclaimed Kaitha.

  “Oh yeah,” said Benny. “Heraldin here was one of the best bonesacks I ever got hooked on. But when this one showed up,” the hook swung perilously close to the woman’s face again, “Strummons fought back long enough to get himself disarmed.”

  “And I never looked back,” said Heraldin. “Until now.”

  “Oh?” said Benny.

  “The doppelganger is a friend of mine. No, a brother,” said Heraldin, smiling at his double. “And there’s no way I’ll let him throw away his life for the sake of my freedom. He’s got too much to live for.”

  The doppelganger stared at Heraldin, confused.

  “So you planned to, what, storm in here and take him back?” laughed Benny. “You know how many goons and thugs I’ve got around this place?”

  “By my count, I’d say six less than ye did ten minutes ago,” said Gorm.

  Benny’s vessel narrowed her eyes. “Good to know there’s some fight in you, but that doesn’t make this any less of a fool’s errand. What’s to stop me from having Gritty over there slit your friend’s throat?”

  “Things could get pretty violent if that happened,” growled Laruna.

  “I still like my odds,” said Benny. “If everybody dies, it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along scavenging for weapons. You fleshies come and go, but I keep sticking around.”