Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  “It seems you are in high demand, Mr. Ortson,” said Baggs. “Well, we do wish you luck with your plans. We have a lot invested in your success.”

  “Indirectly,” added Goldson. “Please, don’t let us keep you from your duty.”

  “Ah, but gentlemen…” Ortson began in a quivering voice.

  Two of the most powerful men on Arth swiveled to face him, eyebrows raised, wielding expectant smiles as a phalanx raises shields. It was answer enough. There were no funds coming, and it was too late to spend them even if they did.

  Ortson dabbed sweat away from his forehead. “I think I will have that drink before I depart.”

  “And make this one on the rocks, please.” Duine Poldo looked around the empty common room of The Stranded Sailor. The inn sat on the road between Andarun and Dunhelm, close enough to the capital that it still fell in Mount Wynspar’s shadow in the early morning. The road should have been bustling with carts and caravans, but Poldo hadn’t seen a fellow traveler in days.

  The bartender returned and set a gold-colored cocktail in front of Poldo. “I’m afraid that’s the last of them, sir. I’ve run out of grundant juice. And brandy, for that matter. If you’re still thirsty afterward, we have good Dwarven whiskeys left.”

  “This will do, thank you.” Poldo was too fond of his internal organs to inflict Dwarven whiskey on them. He turned back to the papers in front of him. “I should get back to work while I still can.”

  “As it suits you, sir.” The barkeep turned his attention back to his own task, which involved an unusual amount of shoving things into a satchel.

  Poldo took a stamp from his briefcase and pressed it firmly down on the contract in front of him, leaving “OFFICIAL DOCUMENT” branded in scarlet letters across the top. He initialed the first page, and then the fourteen others after that, and finally signed and dated the last sheet in the bundle. Then he slipped the documents into a brown paper envelope and handed it to a quartet of Wood Gnomes waiting patiently at the end of the bar. “I suppose it’s time to take this to the headquarters of Goldson Baggs,” he said with a sigh.

  The Wood Gnomes chittered a question.

  “Yes, well, Silver Guard may not be worth much anymore, but it was mine,” said Poldo. He drummed his fingers on the old oak bar that was serving as a makeshift desk. “I planned to grow the business into the talk of Andarun, a firm successful enough to show Goldson and Baggs what they’d lost in Duine Poldo. And now, they’ve made a light snack of it.”

  The Wood Gnome closest to Poldo chirruped sympathetically.

  “Ah, well. The gods weave what they will,” Poldo said. “Safe travels.” The words hadn’t left his lips before the Wood Gnomes vanished, taking his document, and his business, with them. Then he drained his Imperial Pepperup on the rocks.

  Two small glasses were set on the bar in front of him. He looked up to see the bartender pouring two Dwarven whiskeys.

  “A toast,” the barkeep explained. “To losing our businesses.”

  “You as well?” asked Poldo.

  “Aye, I’m leaving it all behind and sailing for Knifevale. Even when the thrice-cursed liche is finally sent back to Mordo Ogg, the Freedlands won’t be a place fit for running a business.” The barkeep glared out the window, sending a long-distance evil eye toward Mount Wynspar. “The big banks are all dying off, and the merchants and carters can’t get notes of credit to cover the goods they’re shipping. Not that there’s anyone to ship ‘em to, mind you. The markets in Andarun have all but shut down. It’ll take years to recover from this. More years than I’ve got in these old bones.”

  “That assumes the undead will fail,” said Poldo.

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure the forces of light will find a way to rally and save the day. They’ve done as much against dragons, the Sten, Slaugh, Orcs, undead, the Red Horde, the Dark Ones, Gremlins… Seems to me if the forces of good weren’t adept at that sort of dramatic, last-minute victory over the forces of darkness, a place as volatile as Arth would have burned itself out long ago.”

  “Who’s to say it hasn’t?” Poldo stared out the window at the distant mountain. “The Sten were considered paragons of the light’s forces until they were wiped out in the War of Betrayal. And Andarun was part of the Empire of Man in the Fifth Age. The Imperials must have thought their world was crumbling when the rebels seized it. How many times has the world ended before? Perhaps we are just toiling among its ashes.”

  “A good point, but it stands to reason that if the forces of Mannon or their ilk triumphed, none of us would be here,” said the barkeep. “Evil’s never really won.”

  “Perhaps,” said Poldo grimly. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

  The innkeeper held up his glass in toast. “Well then, to the status quo, and gettin’ by among the ashes,” he said.

  “As best we can,” said Poldo, holding up his own glass. They drained their glasses in unison, and then endured synchronized facial spasms as the Dwarven whiskey lived up to its reputation.

  “And on that note, I’ve a few matters to attend to,” said Poldo. A trio of Wood Gnomes carried a folio of papers to him. The first page was a letter from Mrs. Hrurk, letting him know that more tenants were arriving daily and requesting that he move some funds around. Vilma of the Fire Hawk Tribe had attached the necessary documents.

  “You’ve got to keep fighting the good fight, eh?” The barkeep resumed packing up his bar.

  “Indeed,” Poldo muttered, dipping his quill in ink. “And there will always be more paperwork.”

  “It always comes down to paperwork,” muttered Laruna. “Though to be fair, it usually doesn’t involve this much effort.”

  “Not to mention this much sorcery.” Jynn nodded at the structure erected by the Orcish wise-ones and a few Goblin shamans.

  It was a timber archway, built on the sea-smoothed foundations of some long-forgotten building and propped up by barnacle-encrusted rocks. Runes were carved into the bark of the trees and filled in with red paint, apparently for emphasis, but they could do little to attract attention in light—literally—of the huge, luminous crystal set at the top of the arch. It rested in a cradle of hewn logs, where Gremlins and Goblins in shaman’s garb fawned over it incessantly.

  “Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures,” said Gorm. “That thermal crystal is the key to gettin’ back to Andarun in time.”

  “Thaumite crystal,” Jynn corrected him.

  “Whatever ye call it,” said Gorm.

  A voice spoke up behind the four heroes. “My people call it Worbo Zaberb’farast, the Path of the Stars.”

  “Chieftain,” said Gorm, leading the other heroes in a bow as Asherzu strode up to them, accompanied by a retinue of wise-ones. The chieftain wore a fresh set of gold and violet silks, and any sign of her wounds had been washed away by her shamans’ healing magic. Darak loomed behind her, studying his knuckles in the idle manner of someone prepared to put them to good use.

  Asherzu acknowledged them with a nod, and then pointed at the great hunk of thaumite atop the ramshackle arch. “The crystal came from the Gremlins of the Shadespear. They gave it to the Guz’Varda when Char saved them from a Lightling band soon after… after Father’s death. And before Char gave it a new name, the Gremlins called it ‘Fulgen’s Rest.’”

  “So, they followed Fulgen as well?” asked Laruna.

  The chieftain watched the Gremlins and shamans work over the great crystal. “I think they mostly thought it a good joke. Father Tinderhope is the light at the end of the tunnel, and these… waygates, as you call them, are the tunnels at the end of the light. But I suppose they wouldn’t have known to make the joke if there weren’t so many followers of the Underglow among our peoples.”

  “Including yourself,” said Gorm

  Asherzu gave a small, private smile. “My father always said that silent gods are the easiest kind to follow. Beyond that, Fulgen teaches us to strive onward and take hope when all seems lost
. It is a message my people need.”

  “We all need it, sometimes,” said Gorm.

  “You speak truth.” The chieftain turned her attention back to the archway. “Let us begin.”

  The waygate attendants nodded and began weaving threads of magic over the runes. The glyphs flared with light, and a moment later a shimmering portal winked into existence beneath the arch. Through the waygate, Gorm could see a cadre of Dwarves clad in the blue and white heraldry of the Old Kingdom. A familiar figure led them.

  “This way, this way!” Heraldin ushered several Dwarves lugging heavy-looking chests through the shimmering gateway. “Mind your step! Loose gravel ahead.”

  “I see ye managed to convince King Forder to send a delegation through a magic portal,” Gorm said, ambling up to the bard.

  “Was there ever any doubt?” asked Heraldin. “I can talk my way through just about any situation.”

  “Aye, but they say half of diplomacy is listenin’,” said Gorm. “And you’re rubbish at that.”

  “Right. That would be Gaist’s half.” The bard nodded to the weaponsmaster, who was carrying a large crate through the waygate.

  Gaist rolled his eyes.

  Within an hour, a long line of Shadowkin shuffled toward rows of Dwarven clerks sitting at desks made from repurposed chests and crates. A sibilant whispering filled the air as a multitude of pens scribbled furiously on reams of forms. A swarm of Dwarves worked behind the line, fetching paper and ink, reviewing and stamping applications, and trying to fight the growing pile of paperwork to be filed away. It was a losing battle.

  Gorm walked along the line with Asherzu and several of the leaders of the Old Dwarven Kingdom, surveying the progress. “How long do ye think this’ll take us?” he asked.

  Guildmaster Korgen pursed his lips. “If we work hard and Khazen is with us, we might be mobilized in five days.”

  “Five days!” exclaimed Gorm. “The liche is bearin’ down on Andarun. We don’t have a week for thrice-cursed paperwork! How do we get this goin’ faster?”

  “Faster?” Korgen waved toward the crowd of Shadowkin “Do y’know how many steps we’re skipping to get these Shadowkin sworn in as citizens and conscripted into the guild? The clerks are going to be sorting this out for weeks. Maybe months! You can’t just hand them a bit of paper and call them a hero! Or a Dwarf, for that matter.”

  “Congratulations. You’re a Dwarven hero.” A nearby clerk handed a small red booklet and a bundle of loose pages to an Orc across the table.

  “Da gub Zed’farast!” The Orc held his new papers over his head as he shouted back to the lines of Shadowkin behind him. Several cheers and whoops rang out in reply.

  “Yes, well, it takes a lot of steps to get there,” said Korgen airily.

  “Of course, honored guildmaster, but I wonder if there is not a way to save time,” suggested Asherzu. “Many tribe-mates share the same homeland, for example.”

  “Hrmm. Much of the same family history too.” Korgen stroked his beard absently as he watched the clerks work. “And they share a dialect, of course.”

  “Dialect?” asked Gorm.

  “Language,” Korgen snapped, waving the question away. “The form assumes it’s a dialect of the Dwarven tongue, naturally, but it works well enough.”

  “It is so,” said Asherzu. “With so much common information, is there not a way to fill out the pages faster?”

  The Dwarf scratched at his beard. “Aye, since it’s going to be the same for so many, perhaps we could make a cover sheet for a docket of applications. And that would mean they don’t need to fill out Guild Form 1974….”

  “Then let it be said that we have found many opportunities for efficiency,” Asherzu said.

  “Looks as much,” Korgen acknowledged grudgingly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Gorm watched the guildmaster trudge off to confer with his clerks. “I thought it’d take a team o’ minotaurs to get Korgen to take a step he didn’t think of. And ye’ve got him toddling off like a forge-lad fetching water.”

  “People move mountains, but words move people,” said Asherzu. “Such is the way of persuasive selling. My father showed me its power, and now I shall sell the world a vision.”

  “Heh. It’s a nice thought, chieftain, and I wish ye luck with it.” Gorm watched Korgen and his clerks working furiously to alter a running process. It put him in mind of trying to build a dam while the river was flooded. “But the dream won’t be worth much if we can’t get these fighters to Andarun fast enough.”

  “Or if we don’t have enough of them,” said Kaitha, walking up behind them.

  “That too.” Gorm looked over on the neat rows of troops, softly chatting with one another as they waited in queue. Many Shadowkin had declared that they would never follow Asherzu, and several tribes and factions splintered away from the Red Horde. Or perhaps they left to be the new Red Horde. It was hard to follow the politics, but any way you looked at it, the Old Dwarven Kingdoms lost a third of their new army before a blade was drawn against the undead.

  “How goes the strategy session?” he asked.

  Kaitha shrugged. “It’s looks to be a long, hard fight. Nobody knows which way it will go.”

  “Aye, but the point of having a strategy is to improve your odds,” said Gorm.

  “I was talking about the strategy session.”

  Gorm squeezed his eyes shut and let out a heavy breath as he rubbed his eyebrows. “Trouble cooperating?”

  The Elf nodded. “There’s more than a little tension between High Commander Harak and the Shadowkin generals. Orcs and Dwarves were often in fights together, but never on the same side.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything, ain’t there?” Gorm bowed to Asherzu. “Pardon, chieftain, but I’ve got to go settle a matter if we’re to ride out anytime soon.”

  Asherzu smiled and inclined her head. “May your words be persuasive and your dealings be successful, Gorm Ingerson.”

  Gorm answered through his teeth before he stamped down the muddy path. “I’ll leave that to better speakers in better times. If ye want to get anything done, there comes a point when ye have to crack a few skulls.”

  Chapter 28

  “And don’t think I won’t dock pay, either,” Feista Hrurk snarled, stalking through the kitchen of Mrs. Hrurk’s Home for the Underprivileged. “I ordered five barrels of salted riverfin! Five! Who accepted a delivery of three?”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Aubren trailed after the Gnoll, clipboard in hand. The Human girl was still locked in the gangly phase of adolescence, and her face looked perpetually uneasy with her circumstances. The effect was appropriate for the moment. “Um… I think everybody’s really distracted. They say the undead are gathering outside the city.”

  “Exactly! The undead are here!” Mrs. Hrurk glared up at Aubren. “And when you’re about to be under siege, getting the right amount of food is important!”

  “Um, ok. I’ll let Mr. Blackgum know you’re unhappy,” said Aubren, making a note in her clipboard.

  “I’ll do it myself. Mr. Poldo paid for two more barrels of fish, and that Orc is going to see them delivered!” Mrs. Hrurk stopped at the door, her hackles up.

  “Let me get that for you,” mumbled Aubren, opening the door.

  “Thank you,” growled Mrs. Hrurk. Mr. Poldo had bought the new home in a hurry, and in his haste he had neglected to account for the fact that it had been built for Elves back in the Fifth Age. All of the doors and fixtures were designed for someone taller than a Human, when Feista barely reached a Scribkin’s height.

  The Gnoll made her way through the hallway quickly, her thoughts lost in inventories, schedules, and the rising prices for salted fish. She stopped short when she passed the common room.

  Much has been made of the power of a mother’s intuition, but a share of the credit for maternal insight belongs with a child’s inability to keep a secret. Two of the Hrurk pups were sitting in the common room, conspicuously not des
troying it. When Mrs. Hrurk cleared her throat their heads snapped around, their faces filled with terror, guilt, and feigned indifference.

  “What’s going on?” said Mrs. Hrurk. “Where’s Rex?”

  The remaining pups responded with unconvincing shrugs.

  “Where is Rex?” Mrs. Hrurk repeated, leveling her most effective glare at the younglings.

  Little Terrie broke first. “He wanted to protect you from the zombies,” she said, her tiny jowls quivering. “He said he was going to the first tier.”

  “We tried to stop him—” Dogo added, but Feista wasn’t listening. Her insides had turned to ice.

  “Go! Go tell Mr. Zug’Gath what happened, and do everything he says. I’m going to find your brother!” Mrs. Hurk was bolting for the front door before she finished barking the order.

  “Mrs. Hrurk!” called Aubren, following closely. “Wait—!”

  Feista was nearly frenzied. “Open the door before I tear it down!”

  “I know, Mrs. Hrurk.” Aubren took a couple of garments down from a coat hook and extended one to the Gnoll. “I just wanted to grab our cloaks.”

  “T-thank you. But we have to hurry,” said Feista, throwing the cloak around her shoulders. “They’ve already begun evacuating the first and second tiers. If Rex… if he’s made it down there somehow…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “I know,” said Aubren, opening the door. “You don’t need to say it.”

  “Doom,” whispered Ignatius, staring at a menacing spiral of clouds circling above Andarun. A deep shadow crept over the city as the ominous weather blotted out the afternoon sun.

  The priest of Mordo Ogg looked at his master’s shrine. The lights set within the eyes of the stone skull were flashing green as much as red. The old man set his jaw in snaggletoothed determination and marched up to the sculpture.

  Mordo Ogg didn’t demand much of his followers. Usually, priests of the Lord of the End had few duties beyond observing their god’s endless task and reminding people of their ultimate fate. It was easy work, though the pay was atrocious and being a death priest could really kill your social life. That was the joke among the priests and priestesses, anyway.