“As I’ve said multiple times, sire, I cannot deploy heroes without paying them.” Weaver Ortson pointed at the offending pieces. “These assumptions move beyond optimism into folly.”
Below the guildmaster’s accusing finger, Mount Wynspar’s dramatic topology was cast in ink and watercolor. The huge map covered the oak table that occupied the majority of Johan’s war room. Hundreds of tiny, painted blocks were arrayed along the thin blue lines that marked Andarun’s walls and ramparts. Each block was painted with the livery of the bannermen that it represented, save for those gold- or silver-plated pieces that stood for parties of professional heroes. Arrayed against the cubical forces were myriad cylinders set in purple, green, and white: the undead.
“Unless we find sufficient gold in the kingdom’s coffers, we won’t have nearly as many heroes as you presume.” Weaver plucked a few gold cubes from the front lines and set them off to the side.
“Those bannermen can’t hold the gates without heroes backing them up, Majesty,” said General Gurgen. “We’ll need professionals of at least the fourth rank, and that’s not even talking about those that are to face the liche.”
“I don’t disagree, but you won’t have such heroes unless you pull them from another rampart.” Ortson avoided looking directly at the general; dark lesions spread from her throat and up across her face. The wounds bore grim testament to the horrors of Gurgen’s escape from Highwatch. “The kingdom doesn’t have the coin to hire that many heroes.”
“They’ll work for loot, of course,” snorted Johan, placing the pieces back in place on the map. “Ha! That’s how professional heroics works!”
“Loot is where they make their fortune, sire. But there’s no guarantees in plunder these days, and most heroes aren’t willing to risk their lives and their estates in the same go.” Ortson reached for the pieces again, but paused when he caught the king’s eye. The guildmaster cleared his throat and tried to explain. “Loot alone can’t attract top talent. Modern quests pay an up-front wage, plus a stipend for housing, equipment, and other expenses.”
“Ha! Are you serious? Aberreth has fallen, for Tandos’ sake! The liche will be on our doorstep soon,” Johan insisted. “Surely they must understand our current circumstances!”
“Indeed, sire,” said Ortson, dabbing his brow. “They’re demanding hazard pay.”
“You’re joking!” The king’s laughter faded as he noticed the somber faces around the table. “You’re not joking.”
“After the… incident at Highwatch, good heroes are in short supply, sire. Other cities are luring the remaining ones away by paying for their defense up front,” said Ortson. “Knifevale is offering exorbitant rates, and our adventurers have taken notice. If we want heroes to defend Andarun, we must pay them a premium.”
“We wouldn’t with proper leadership in the guild.” Johan’s grin was somewhere between a smile and a snarl. “The bannermen have missed their last paycheck, and they’re still planning a vigorous defense of the city!”
“Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask you about that, sire,” interjected General Gurgen.
“The point is, there are more ways to motivate people than money,” snapped the king. “There had better be. Ha! You all know the kingdom’s coffers are empty! We’ve spent just about every last giltin propping up the thrice-cursed banks after their fiasco with the threat indexes. Perhaps the Heroes’ Guild should front the bill for our city’s defense.”
“Our coffers are just as empty, sire,” said Ortson miserably. “We’ve had to pay out on many of our own threat obligations. The banks bought too many for our accounts to keep up.”
All eyes turned to Goldson, Baggs, and several other bankers standing at the far end of the table. Bolbi Baggs choked on his pipe at the sudden attention, sending dark clouds billowing over the miniature city.
“I think you may be forgetting the dire straits the financial institutions of Arth find themselves in, Majesty,” said Fenrir Goldson.
“All that money had to have gone somewhere,” said Ortson.
“Not at all, Mr. Ortson,” Goldson growled through gritted teeth. “Not every giltin is a coin. Most of them are numbers in ledgers.”
“But they’re still there,” said Ortson.
Goldson shook his head. “If we built a house that fell into the sea, where would the money go? If we bought fertilizers for a crop of grain that burned away, which of us would have the gold? We all invested in security, ladies and gentlemen, every one of us. And as the sea can wash away a building or the flames scour a crop, the undead have destroyed our investment.”
“You took the money, though,” pressed General Gurgen.
“And what do you think we did with it?” snapped Baggs. “We bought CTOs as well! We hedged our obligations with other banks’ obligations, and they with us. Now that your guild has failed to control the threat indexes, all of the gold is wrapped up in broken promises and meaningless assurances.”
“And salaries. And bonus funds,” said Johan. The paladin was smiling, but the grin put Ortson in mind of a Swamp Drake: predatory and dangerous.
Goldson’s gaze was steely and unflinching as he stared back at the king and his advisors. With a deep breath and shaking hands, the ancient Dwarf picked up a few silver and gold pieces from the side of the table and tossed them onto the map. “I suppose our senior teams could forego their annual bonuses this year,” he rasped.
“Given the circumstances,” said Baggs.
“That’s the spirit!” laughed Johan. “Everybody pulling together under a common threat.”
Ortson saw Goldson and Baggs exchange a dark glance, and he knew their sentiment. Threats were becoming increasingly common for anyone in charge of Andarun’s institutions, especially veiled ones delivered by the king himself.
“This many heroes will help, but our defenses are still full of holes,” muttered General Gurgen, arranging the new pieces on the city map. “It’s still not enough to guarantee the walls will hold.”
“It will be enough,” said Johan. He pulled a small block from his belt pouch and placed it at the fore of the army. It was a small cube wrought in gold and red velvet, with a star embossed on its surface.
“Sire?” asked the general.
“I alone will fight the liche,” said Johan.
General Gurgen shook her head. “Sire, after what happened to King Handor—”
“General, I’m the only man who’s ever defeated Detarr Ur’Mayan,” Johan shot her a confident smile, pausing for a moment to let the light gleam on his perfect teeth. “I’m the only one who can take his head again. Ha!”
The king’s advisors looked at each other, making no effort to hide their obvious concern. Weaver Ortson wondered what would possess any man to fight a liche alone. Then his eyes caught Johan’s, and he saw it lurking behind the king’s persistent smile.
“It’s madness,” said Heraldin. “This whole plan is crazier than an Al’Matran hymnal.”
“Shush,” hissed Gorm, peering out through the thick brush.
Down the embankment he could see Gaist in the role of Gorst, standing with a small group of recruits for the Red Horde. The recruiters had led the assorted Shadowkin to a small pond north of Dunhelm, where they stopped by a ruined stone wall with an odd gap in the middle.
“I’m not going to say this was a bad idea,” whispered Heraldin.
“The less ye say, the better,” said Gorm.
“And I’m not going to remind you that I told you this wouldn’t work.”
“I’m pretty sure ye just did,” Gorm grumbled. The bard had been voicing similar concerns since they’d used Jynn’s tracking spell to follow the Red Horde’s newest recruits from Andarun. Now that they had crept to within fifty yards of the Shadowkin, the bard was in the middle of a hushed panic attack.
“It’s just that we did recently risk life and limb to save Gaist. Not half a week ago, you’ll recall. And now we’ve sent him and Burt to act as bait for a murderous army of inv
aders.”
“They’re fine,” sighed Kaitha, peering toward the idle Shadowkin. “They’re just sitting by the pond.”
“As they have been for quite some time,” said Jynn.
Gorm could see Burt sitting on Gorst’s shoulder, idly kicking his feet. “Aye, this is awfully long for a water break.”
“Maybe they’re planning to meet the Red Horde here?” suggested Laruna.
“Gods, I hope not,” said Gorm. “If the Red Horde’s base ain’t close, we won’t have enough time to make it back to Andarun.”
“Does the Red Horde even have a base?” said Heraldin. “There are splinter groups all over the Freedlands.”
“Aye, but the biggest group of them by far is said to be traveling with the Guz’Varda. That’s why they had Char’s picture up,” said Gorm. “And one of the recruiters Burt found was Ghabrang, our old friend from the Guz’Varda Tribe. With any luck, we’ll find a big cluster of the Red Horde and at least a couple of friendly faces in the bunch.”
“You’re counting on a lot of good fortune,” said Heraldin.
“Not to mention the goodwill of the Shadowkin,” added Jynn.
“Which is unfortunate, as they hate us,” said Heraldin.
“We ain’t got the luxury of anything better,” said Gorm.
“Hush!” hissed Kaitha. “Look.”
The stones bordering the gap in the ruined wall sputtered and sparked. Azure flames flared in old runes, engulfing ancient mosses and lichens as they blazed up the sides of the stones. The magical energy raced beyond the last stones in the wall as they traced an archway that must have stood there in ages past. They met at the top, and a shimmering doorway blinked into existence.
“Bones! It’s one of them waygates,” said Gorm.
“How could they create one of that size?” asked Laruna.
“They didn’t,” said Jynn. “It was made by whomever was on the other side.” He pointed to the faint, blurry figures moving beyond the static sheen of the waygate.
“The Orcs are moving through,” said Heraldin, pointing. Below, the recruiters and their charges had formed a line, and one by one they stepped into the portal. Burt was glancing around nervously as he rode toward the waygate on the doppelganger’s shoulder.
“Bones again!” swore Gorm, hopping to his feet. “Come on!”
“But we don’t know where they’re going!” protested the bard as the other heroes followed.
“We had better find out, ‘cause we can’t afford to lose ‘em!” Gorm leapt through the bushes and slid down the embankment. The other heroes fell in behind him, cursing as they slipped in the loose gravel.
Ahead of him, Gaist and Burt winked away. Only the two recruiters remained. “Hurry!” Gorm shouted.
Kaitha passed him, sprinting across the field. The Orc and Gnoll, alerted by Gorm’s shout, stared in wide-eyed surprise at the adventurers sprinting toward them. The Elf was almost upon them before they scrambled through the waygate, and she leapt through after them.
“Wait!” Gorm sprinted for the waygate, but the Dwarven physique is built for holding ground, not covering it quickly. His arms and legs pumped like pistons in a Gnomish engine, but he was still a ways away as the glowing line around the doorway began to waver and close.
“No! Not again!” Gorm’s muscles burned and his lungs heaved, but with a final jump he managed to fling himself through the shimmering portal.
Passing through the waygate gave Gorm the sensation of stepping through a summer breeze, followed closely by the sensation of slamming into a surprised Elf’s back. He and Kaitha tumbled into the loose, smooth gravel of a rocky beach. The scent of salt and pungent seaweed assaulted his nostrils as he righted himself.
The perplexed recruits stood in a ring around the waygate, but beyond them were ranks of veteran Red Horde soldiers. Shadowkin of every race and size stared in surprise at the Dwarf and Elf untangling themselves on the shore. A moment later, the mages and the bard spilled through the portal just before it winked out of existence.
“Uh, hello,” Gorm said, raising an empty hand into the air. “I suppose this doesn’t look too good.”
The only reply was the steely whisper of hundreds of swords and axes being unsheathed.
“Kill them!”
Asherzu was startled from her charts by a cry on the edge of her hearing. If she strained her ears, she could just make out a commotion coming from down by the beach. The raucous sounds were growing in volume and intensity, and she could see a few whelps and Gnoll pups running into the camp. Hurriedly, she packed her research away.
There was already a mob in the center of camp by the time Asherzu donned her beads and rushed from her hut. Red Horde warriors shouted with jubilation and wrath in equal measure, and they hurled insults and the occasional rock at someone in the middle of the throng. Orcs, Goblins, and Gnolls hollered and howled threats.
Amid the fighters’ cries for blood and justice, the shouts of a familiar voice rang out in the tongue of the Lightlings. “Don’t fight back! Raise a weapon and we’re done for!”
The Dwarven brogue had burned itself into Asherzu’s memory. “Gorm Ingerson?” she gasped.
She glimpsed him through the masses, a bruised and bloodied face amid the screaming Shadowkin. The other Lightlings from his party were there as well, bearing their punishment with determined stoicism.
The Dwarf’s face lit up as his eye caught hers. “Lady Asherzu!” he shouted. “I’ve come in peace! I’ve a way to save your tribe and restore them to—oomph!” An armored elbow to the ribs cut Gorm off. The Orc closest to him growled something that was lost in the screams of the mob.
“Let him speak!” Asherzu screamed. Some of the warriors in the mob fell silent, but now shouting Shadowkin from all throughout the village were surrounding the throng. “Let him speak!” she called again in the tongue of the Lightlings.
“Yes, let the chieftain speak!” cried a foul voice behind her.
Asherzu turned to see Grignot practically dancing his way to the front of the crowd. Darak loomed behind him, looking over the crowd’s heads at the Lightlings.
“Your honor!” Gorm Ingerson had found his lungs again. “We come in peace! We’ve a way—”
“Peace?” Grignot shrieked, a cruel grin flashing amid his straggly beard. “You dogs who betrayed the Guz’Varda for blood gold, and now you mewl for peace? Ha! The great Chieftain Darak daz’Guz’Varda laughs at your feeble words!”
Darak was not laughing. His face was completely devoid of mirth, or warmth, or anything but the murder that flashed in his dark eyes.
The Dwarf kept shouting, hints of desperation creeping into his voice. “It was all a misunderstanding! The guild tricked us as well! We never meant any of that to happen, but now—”
But now the rest of the Shadowkin were shouting as well, and any point the Dwarf might have made was washed away in a tide of jeers.
Asherzu’s mind was racing. Any message the Dwarf brought could be another trap by the Heroes’ Guild, but then why would Gorm and the others be wanted as criminals? Besides, the guild didn’t need a pretext for killing the Orcs anymore; if they had sent Ingerson here, they could have and would have sent more powerful heroes to wipe out the tribe.
Not that they’d need to. Asherzu had heard about how Gorm Ingerson and his party had battled a liche to retrieve the burial stones of Ogh Magerd, and she had believed it. And any Shadowkin in the Freedlands had heard of the Jade Wind and the Pyrebeard; their deadly reputations had been one of the hardest things for Zurthraka to overcome when convincing her tribe to trust them the first time. The heroes in the throng were more than capable of defending themselves, yet they were clearly opting not to.
There was a chance the Dwarf was telling the truth, a chance that the only heroes wily enough to recover the burial stones were still the heroes who had listened to and befriended the Shadowkin. And with that chance came the slim hope that Gorm Ingerson had found a way to restore her tribe to her father
’s path, if the Shadowkin would only listen to him.
Darak shouted for his warhammer, a roar that rang out over the Red Horde’s bloodthirsty calls.
“No!” Asherzu ran to place herself between the chieftain and the prisoners. “No, my brother. Let the Dwarf speak!” she pleaded in Shadowtongue.
Darak reared back as though from a venomous snake. “What are you doing?” he growled under his breath. His eyes darted back and forth among the mob of Shadowkin, like a cornered animal. “Do you not see where we are?”
“I have seen posters, brother. Back in the guildhall of the Lightling town we raided,” Asherzu blurted. ”I saw posters about Gorm Ingerson and his warband! They were wanted by the gold-hounds as well! They may not have betrayed us!”
“The people grow impatient,” said Grignot, tapping his foot.
“These are the dogs that befriended you only to try to kill you!” hissed Darak. ”The tribe is calling for their blood. If ever there was a simple decision for a chieftain, here it is! And yet you still see fit to try to complicate everything! And in doing so, you shame me in front of the entire tribe!”
“This is not about you and I, Darak!” said Asherzu. ”This is about our peoples’ survival! This is about the life our tribe longs for!”
Pain flashed in the huge Orc’s eyes, and it left grim determination behind. “If it isn’t about family or honor, I have no time for it.” The chieftain extended his hand, and his massive warhammer was placed in it by a pair of young warriors. Without another word, he stepped around Asherzu and strode toward the Dwarf and his companions with dark purpose.
“Darak!” Asherzu called after her brother’s back, but he would not turn from his task. Fear and anger and desperation welled up within her, and it all burst out in a sentence that surprised even her. “I challenge you!”
A hush fell over the Shadowkin who could speak the old tongue. Darak froze.
“I challenge you!” Asherzu said again, this time in the tongue of Lightings. Her mind was racing and her pulse was keeping pace, but she squared her shoulders. “I challenge you for the throne of our tribe.”
Son of a Liche Page 49