Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  King Forder’s face said the audience would be short, so Gorm spoke as fast as he could. “We’re just a trio of old heroes, Majesty. My name is Gorm, and I quested with King Johan back before he was ‘the Mighty.’ He and I have enough history for me to know how he operates.”

  “I know who ye are, Pyrebeard. There ain’t many Dwarves who’ve adventured with Johan, and the rest of them ain’t driftin’ around Arth like slag in a smeltin’ pot.” Forder grimaced. “If’n times weren’t so dire, I’d have your clanless hide hauled off to Johan for the reward. As it is, I’m willing to listen to ye first.”

  Gorm had expected the reaction, and he pressed on quickly. “Your Majesty knows as well as I that Johan wouldn’t pay ye a penny for me or any other reason when there’s so much benefit in leaving the Old Kingdoms broke. He’ll keep Your Majesty and his delegation dangling here until ye agree to his demands. Based on what I’ve heard, I’m guessin’ he wants to annex the Old Dwarven Kingdoms into the Freedlands.”

  The king looked unmoved. “And ye can guess whatever ye like. You’re here to provide information, not garner it. I’d suggest ye get to it soon.”

  “What ye need is a way to gain leverage over Johan. And I know how ye can get that, if the Heroes’ Guild of the Old Dwarven Kingdoms is still intact.”

  “It still exists,” said King Forder. “Though I wouldn’t say much beyond that for it.”

  “Many of our heroes have abandoned us to sign on with the Freedlands,” said one of the Ancestors seated near Forder. A pin on the lapel of his suit bore the crest of sword and sorcery. Gorm surmised that he was the guildmaster of the Old Dwarven Kingdom’s branch of the guild. “Better work, they say, and a more favorable tax situation.”

  The king rolled his eyes. “Korgen, I’ve heard all I can stomach about the taxes.”

  “Apologies, Majesty. To answer the question, the guild stands, but ’tis weak in numbers.”

  “All it needs to do is stand,” said Gorm. “What ye need is heroes from the Old Dwarven Kingdom to take down the army of Detarr Ur’Mayan.”

  “Are ye mad, boy?” barked Korgen. “We just told ye—”

  “Let him speak.” The king silenced the guildmaster with a gesture, his eyes never leaving Gorm’s. “Most tales of the Pyrebeard involve mad plans, and a surprising number of them actually worked. But beyond the obvious difficulty with slayin' a liche, I don’t see what leverage it gives me.”

  “Pardon me for bringing them up again, Majesty, but it’s the taxes,” said Gorm. “If’n Old Kingdom heroes kill Detarr and his minions, it’s the Old Kingdom that gets the lion’s share of the taxes off the loot.”

  “Especially if you’re fulfilling the Ruskan quest, and not the new one the Freedlands spun up when Detarr marched on Highwatch,” said Laruna.

  “That would cut Andarun’s share of the loot down to zero,” said Kaitha.

  “And you can bet Johan’s countin’ on the revenue from Detarr’s hoard to rebuild what the liche has already destroyed.”

  The king shook his head. “I thought ye said ye’d worked with Johan before. He would never let our heroes leave the Freedlands with all that treasure.”

  Gorm tapped the side of his nose. “Aye, but he wouldn’t be too keen on startin’ a war with the Old Kingdoms either. All the clanhomes in the Freedlands would revolt, and there’d be Dwarves riotin’ in every city-state.”

  “It’d be much better for him to come to the table with you and negotiate a solution,” said Kaitha.

  “Where you’d have some leverage,” said Laruna.

  King Forder nodded, staring at the wall. Eventually he gave one curt nod. “It’s a fine idea and a happy thought, but as Korgen said, we’ve not a party of heroes qualified to do it.”

  “I ain’t sure any party could do it,” said Korgen. “Ye’d need an army of heroes.”

  “Exactly,” said Gorm. “If ye conscript an army into the guild, all as rank one heroes, ye might have enough.”

  “And where am I to find such conscripts, both soldiers and heroes?” chimed in another of the king’s advisors. The bars and medals on his chainmail robes marked him as the High Commander of Khadan’Alt.

  Korgen scowled at his colleague. “Anyone who can swing a stick at a rat can be a rank one warrior, Harak.”

  Harak snorted. “Anyone who can swing a stick at a rat is already in my rosters, and I’d still want three times as many Dwarves as I have to take on the armies of the liche.”

  “So, it could work?” asked the king.

  The guildmaster and the commander shuffled and harrumphed noncommittally, but eventually the Ancestors conceded the point. “Ye’d need high rankin’ heroes to take down yon liche, but they might be able to with an army takin’ down the zombies and skeletons,” said Korgen.

  Forder turned back to Gorm. “It is an interesting plan, but do ye know where I can triple the size of my armies?” The king was leaning forward over the table, an eager gleam in his eyes.

  Gorm took a deep breath. “I can, Majesty, but it’d involve ye takin’ on some new citizens for conscripts. And they wouldn’t be Dwarves, in the strictest sense.”

  The assembled Ancestors and Fathers harrumphed and shouted protests, but Forder Hvarthson raised a hand to silence them. “There are Humans and Gnomes living in the Old Kingdoms now, though not many. There’s even a handful of Elves. Better they join our Kingdom than us being forced to join theirs.”

  “But sire—” Korgen began.

  “I will not hear protest on this,” said Hvarthson. “If it means a way to save both our Kingdom and the Freedlands, it must be done. If ye can bring us an army, we will take your Humans, Gnomes, and Elves as citizens.”

  Gorm bowed his head, if only to hide the sweat beading on his forehead. “Generous and wise, Majesty. But the army we can bring ain’t of Humans, Gnomes, or Elves.”

  The Dwarves murmured to one another in confusion. “Then who do ye propose to bring to us?” said Hvarthson.

  “The Red Horde.” Gorm’s words were nearly drowned out by a collective gasp rising from the Dwarves.

  The king stared at his guests with something between wonder and horror. “Ye are mad,” he whispered.

  “Completely crazy. A monster.” Burt clambered up to the Orc’s shoulder and grabbed his face for emphasis. “Beneath these cold eyes is an endless sea of bloodlust. Gorst of the Broketooth puts down a Lightling village before he breaks fast every morning. And that is just for exercise.”

  The Gnoll and the Orc on the opposite side of the table glanced at each other. They wore mismatched armor of dark leather and tarnished metal, and both had crimson patches stitched on their left shoulders—the mark of the Red Horde.

  “I don’t know.” The Orcish recruiter spoke Shadowtongue with the guttural accent of the Pinefells. “Why would we only hear of his deeds now?”

  “Maybe you should pay better attention,” said Burt. “Down in Daellan there isn’t a Lightling that doesn’t fear Gorst. Right, Gorst?”

  The large Orc nodded. Gorst was clad in black leather armor, with a hooded cape and a bright red scarf around his neck.

  “Why does he not talk?” yipped the Gnoll.

  “He can barely hold back all his murderous rage,” said Burt. “Even now, it’s all he can do to sit in this stinking pink-skin tavern without killing all the Lightlings. If he even let one word out, it might all start coming to a head and then he’s on a killing spree in the Riverdowns.”

  “If you say as much,” said the Gnoll, with obvious doubt. “And who are you again?”

  “Me? I’m his agent.” Burt jabbed a thumb at his chest.

  “We specifically said that recruiters need not apply on the poster,” snarled the Gnoll.

  Burt felt his hackles rise. “Did I say recruiter? I am representing top talent here. And if you want top talent, you go through me.”

  “He sits very still and is very quiet for top talent,” smirked the Orc. He poked Gorst in the chest, or rather, he reac
hed out to poke Gorst in the chest.

  “Mistake,” muttered Burt. Regardless of his shape, Gorst or Gaist or whatever he went by, was still a weaponsmaster.

  The doppelganger grabbed the Orc’s wrist and wrenched his arm around with a sickening crunch. The Orc screamed, but Gorst silenced him with a series of quick jabs to the face before he heaved the stunned warrior across the room into a pile of barrels. The patrons sitting closest to the barrels scooted their seats away from the destruction, but otherwise the tavern’s few occupants remained unmoved. One didn’t drink in the Riverdowns without expecting a bar brawl or three.

  Burt turned back to the Gnoll. “See? Murderous rage,” he said.

  The Gnoll nodded quickly. “It is so. He has my vote. Ghabrang?”

  The wreckage of the barrels shifted. A shaking green fist emerged and extended its thumb upward.

  “Aha, then it is settled.” The Gnoll recruiter extended a small clipboard to Gorst. “Welcome to the Red Horde, warrior. Fill this out and come with us.”

  “You’re not going to regret this,” Burt’s eyes were on a pair of figures huddled by a table across the bar. One wore a wide brimmed hat, and the other a set of tattered gray robes.

  Jynn caught his eye and gave him a small nod. The spell was set.

  “And are you ready to depart now?” asked the Gnoll.

  Burt grinned. “No time like the present.”

  “Because tomorrow I’ll be gone,” said Poldo.

  Red Squirrel perched on the edge of the bar, nursing a thimble of grog. The beverage splashed a little as the Wood Gnome waved his hands in the air and chittered at the Scribkin. Poldo couldn’t make out his words, but he knew his assistant well enough to guess the sentiment.

  “I don’t like it either, but I must leave the city.” Poldo used the tip of his finger to pat the despondent employee on the back.

  The tiny man chirruped a single syllable.

  “Because soon the liche will arrive, and then there will be no leaving the city. It’s going to be hard enough with all these refugees pressing in.” Red Squirrel looked like he was going to say something else, but Poldo cut him off. “And I know that if Andarun falls, nowhere on Arth is safe from the undead. But that’s not the point.”

  The Wood Gnome shook a hand in the air and loosed a frustrated squeak.

  “The point is that Benny Hookhand is in this city. Or at least, his organization is, and from what I’ve learned of them, I’d have a better chance with the undead.” Poldo drained the last of his Halfling brandy. He slapped two giltin onto the bar next to his empty glass. “Now, I need to rely on you to keep track of my movements and keep me connected to the businesses. It’ll be hazard pay and a travel stipend for anyone making the journey. Can you do that?”

  The Wood Gnome chirruped.

  “Overtime on weekends only.”

  A sly squeak.

  “In this economy? Come now. Things are tight,” Poldo protested.

  A more insistent chitter.

  “It is that bad!” said Poldo. “I’d be surprised if we haven’t lost another bank by the end of the week.”

  Someone further down the bar must have overheard Poldo, as a sob rang out in the quiet of the tavern. Most of the other traders and brokers crowded into the common room were too traumatized to react. They stared at nothing and sipped their drinks in silent misery.

  Red Squirrel shook his head and looked back to his grog, chittering a presumably unflattering remark. But Poldo could see that he had won.

  “Thank you, my friend,” said Poldo. “I’ll rendezvous with the team later tonight at the city gate.”

  The Domovoy squeaked a question and pantomimed a hook for one of his hands. He drew the other hand across his throat, stuck his tiny tongue out, and went cross-eyed.

  Poldo shook his head sadly as he hopped off the stool. “Oh, I heard that rumor as well. And I hope it’s true,” he said. “But you don’t stay in the business as long as I have by taking bad risks, and I know better than to bet against Benny Hookhand.”

  “Well, well. What are the odds?” Garold Flinn muttered to himself as he examined the broken arrow protruding from the river house’s weatherworn wall. The shaft was perfectly cylindrical and smooth, the fletching precisely spaced. Either it was the work of a master fletcher, or it was made by magic such as that held in the Poor Man’s Quiver. And now that he looked closer, he could see silver wisps trailing from the shaft as the magical arrow slowly dissipated. It would completely dissolve within a few days.

  He knew that Kaitha of House Tyrieth wasn’t the only hero to have a Poor Man’s Quiver. Then again, how many adventurers who could afford such distinctive ammunition were also traveling with a solamancer capable of blasting half of a wall to charred rubble and someone wielding an axe to brutal effect on the inner doorway? Flinn rubbed the stub beneath his metallic claw as he thought about the axe that took his own hand.

  This was Gorm Ingerson’s work. He could feel it in his bones.

  The Dwarven outcast’s return to Andarun was a boon to Mr. Flinn. The assassin’s job wasn’t finished, a point his employer had been emphasizing lately by having gift baskets of fruits and baked goods delivered to Flinn’s residence. There was nothing malicious amongst the baskets’ contents, save perhaps for cookies with raisins in them, and the attached notes from the king were always cordial and pleasant.

  The message wasn’t about the actual contents of the baskets. It was the manner in which they showed up just inside Flinn’s doorway once every few days with a note personally penned by King Johan. No matter where the Tinderkin was hiding, no matter how carefully he covered his tracks, he’d inevitably find a fruit basket sitting on the border of his defenses, broadcasting a threat loud and clear.

  Johan was taking a personal interest in his work. Johan could find him. Johan’s people could reach him. And, oh, by the way, how is that job with Gorm Ingerson coming?

  Flinn flexed his claws. The job was going a little better now that there were clear signs the Dwarf was back in the city. Word on the street was that Barty Ficer had skipped town a couple of weeks back with a new name and new face, and the latter was involuntary. More recently, an informant had seen the Dwarf and some of his party down at the River Otter. And now there were rumors that the berserker had taken on Benny Hookhand in the Riverdowns.

  Yet knowing where your enemy has been, however, is not nearly as valuable as knowing where he will go next. Flinn turned his attention to searching the rubble for signs of Ingerson’s plans.

  He was disappointed. Between the bannermen and the Hookhand’s thugs, the crime scene had been cleared of any valuable evidence. More specifically, it had been cleared of any evidence that would be worth more than a few coppers at the local pawn shop. Aside from the damage to the building and a splintered arrow here and there, there were few clues to go on.

  It struck Flinn that he should check the riverbanks below the ruined shack. This was a new sensation, the Tinderkin reflected as he climbed down the overgrown stone steps to the shore—he’d been struck by thoughts before, but never with the strange force that had just planted the idea in his skull. It was like a slap that bypassed the face to strike the brain directly.

  He ducked down and surveyed the muddy banks obscured in the shadows beneath the creaking ruin. There wasn’t anything but river grass and muck.

  Check by the third pylon.

  A chill ran down Flinn’s spine. The last thought had definitely not been his own. But a quick glance at the rotting support closest to the water revealed the glint of dark metal. He crept closer.

  A metal hook was half-submerged in the mud and river grass.

  Pick it up.

  “I think not.” Flinn smiled at the flash of displeasure that flared in his mind. “I’m quite familiar with the dangers of touching enchanted weapons, let alone the famous Benny Hookhand.”

  Pick me up! Benny snarled in Flinn’s mind.

  “Oh, I’m not going to wield you,” said Flin
n. “But I might be able to help you in exchange for information.”

  What information? Flinn could feel the blade’s suspicion.

  “Just some questions about the party that attacked your building here,” said Flinn. “You answer them, and I’ll return you to your thugs.”

  Pick me up! It was less a suggestion now, and more of an attempt to force Flinn to bend to the weapon’s will.

  “I could spend a considerable amount of time detailing the rigorous training that I’ve endured to protect my mind from such invasion,” said Flinn. “Alas, I’m in a hurry, as is my client, so if you’re not interested in my proposal…”

  Wait.

  Flinn grinned. “Yes?”

  How can you take me anywhere if you won’t pick me up?

  “Oh, I’ll lift you from the muck. Just with the necessary precautions.” Slowly, carefully, Flinn reached down with his enchanted prosthetic. With Benny Hookhand’s iron handle clutched in the metallic talons, the weapon was safely held a few inches away from Flinn’s skin. He regarded the muddy hook at arm’s length. “So, do we have a deal?”

  In place of a response, the iron bands that comprised Benny’s handle suddenly unwound themselves with the swift fluidity of serpents. They flexed as they wove between the mechanical fingers of Flinn’s prosthetic, dismantling the silver claw as they wound down to drive their spikes into the stub at the end of the Gnome’s arm. The scream died in Garold Flinn’s mouth as the part of him that was Garold Flinn was pulled down, back and away from his own eyes, until he was a passenger in his own body.

  Benny Hookhand cracked his new neck and worked his jaw experimentally. “Yeah, I don’t make deals,” he said.

  Chapter 26

  “Come now, everybody has a price,” said King Johan. “Surely the brave men and women of the Heroes’ Guild stand ready to take up their swords and staves when the clarion call goes out!”