Son of a Liche

by J. Zachary Pike

  Gorm saw Johan’s eyes narrow dangerously behind the slits in his golden helm. “This isn’t just about the artifact, is it?”

  “No.” Forder hefted the circlet with a smile. “As I’ve often found, a crown isn’t everything.”

  “Fine. Let’s deal.” Any trace of Johan’s typical exuberance had fled from his voice, replaced with hard determination. “What exactly are you hoping I’ll give you?”

  “The Dwarven Kingdoms might be willing to make an enlarged payment back to the Freedlands in their time of need, provided we’re allowed to renegotiate the terms of our loans,” said King Forder.

  “So be it,” said Johan. “The clerks can work out the numbers. And then we’ll become party to the liche’s hoard?”

  “Oh my, no,” said King Forder. “The loot belongs entirely to my Kingdom, the Ruskan government, and the heroes that slew the liche and his army. You might find a way to tax their considerable earnings, of course, but you’d have to negotiate with them.” The Dwarven king nodded to Asherzu and Gorm.

  “Bargain with Orcs and criminals? Ha!” Johan’s laughter was bitter and cold. “I don’t need your gold that badly, Forder!”

  Weaver Ortson and a couple of clerks cleared their throats in unison. A trio of Johan’s advisors stepped forward to whisper into the king’s ear.

  “What?” barked Johan, who was to discretion as a rampaging gnurg was to an Elven pottery garden. “Well of course I know what CTOs are. They—eh?… How much? Good gods, the business community must be going mad… Well how could the kingdom have guaranteed that thrice-cursed sum? We can’t afford anywhere near that much… ah. Ah, yes, I suppose that is the point. Right… yes. Burn the thrice-cursed gods! Fine!”

  When the paladin turned back to Gorm and Asherzu, what little of his skin that was visible was crimson and bulging with veins. “And what exactly do you want, Orc?” the king half-said, half-spat.

  Asherzu held up a hand, silencing an angry snarl from Darak and the other Shadowkin. “I am Asherzu daz’Guz’Varda, daughter to Zurthraka, sister to Char and Darak, Chieftain of the Guz’Varda. These are the demands of my people.” Burt handed the chieftain a lambskin scroll, which she unrolled with a small flourish. “First, the Freedlands will pardon members of the Red Horde for any alleged crimes predating this agreement. Second, the Freedlands will recognize the citizenship granted by the Old Dwarven Kingdom to our peoples, and once again accept us as legal residents. Third, the Lightlings of the Freedlands will abolish the oppressive NPC system and noncombatant papers in general. Fourth, a public recognition of the innocence of the Guz’Varda Tribe in the recent theft of the Burial Stones of Ogh Mag’herd, known to your people as the Elven Marbles. Fifth, the Freedlands will cease referring the Burial Stones of Ogh Mag’herd as the Elven Marbles. Sixth, reparations for property—”

  Johan threw his arms into the air. “How long is this going to take?”

  Asherzu’s shrug suggested that the meeting could take a while. Her smile said that she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

  Gorm lost track of time as the dealing spiraled into a meandering negotiation. The Shadowkin would be reinstated into the Freedlands. Gorm and his party would receive a full pardon and have their ranks restored. In return, they’d pay taxes as normal heroes, and agreed to exclude any belongings left in undamaged buildings on Andarun’s first two tiers from the loot tally. Beyond those terms and several other broad agreements, the exact nature of the deal was too expansive to cover in a few hours.

  Proposals were deferred to committees that would be formed at a future date. Of course, that meant that a committee to form the committees was required. The sun was setting by the time the committee to form the committee that would form the committees was decided upon.

  Finally, it was time to make good on Johan’s chief demand.

  “Stand tall,” the king growled as they assembled at the entrance of the tent. “Remember that we’re all the heroes of Andarun. We all won! Ha! And smile, by the gods. They have to see that we’re happy about this.” The last instruction was directed at Ortson Weaver, as most of the Shadowkin and Dwarves were already beaming at the terms they’d extracted from Johan’s kingdom.

  The king signaled, and the tent flaps were drawn open. Gorm walked with the procession out of the tent into a maelstrom of adulation. Lanterns of every hue from amber to lilac lined the ramparts of Andarun’s tiers, and beneath them the city’s citizens and denizens screamed their adoration down at their leaders and heroes. They made their way to the broad steps before parading up the stairs, flanked by jubilant crowds, sharing the credit for Andarun’s rescue.

  The victory march had almost reached the Palace when Gorm felt a hand on his shoulder. “Here now, Ingerson, I hope you don’t think this is over,” Johan growled in his ear.

  “How could it be over?” Gorm spoke from the side of his mouth as he waved at the admirers lining the steps. “Nothin’s finished so long as ye and I are both still breathin’.”

  “Ha! Good. So long as we understand each other.” The paladin slapped Gorm on the back again before they both returned their attention to the celebration.

  Not everyone in the city was reveling, of course. Fallen bannermen and unfortunate citizens needed to be laid to rest, provided they hadn’t walked away. And there was little to celebrate for those Base-dwellers whose homes and businesses had been in the path of the Dark Spire. Beyond that, many people were simply exhausted after the most harrowing night of the age.

  Feista Hrurk counted herself among their number.

  She let Aubren push their way through the crowds. Throngs of celebrants filled every street, keeping their movement to a slow crawl. Rex watched the people pass from the cradle of her arms, his leg resting in a splint provided by a kindly priest at the temple of Oppo. Mrs. Hrurk occupied her mind planning a letter to Mr. Poldo; he’d want to hear how she and the home fared.

  The sun was dropping over the Ridge when they finally made it back to the third tier. Mrs. Hrurk was so exhausted that she could barely hold her head up, let alone focus on anything but Aubren’s heels. She just wanted to be back at the home, with all her pups and tenants safe.

  “Mama, look!”

  “Very nice, Rexxar,” she said automatically for the hundredth time that day.

  “No, look!” The pup grabbed her jowls and swung her head around. The lowest tiers of Andarun glowed in lantern light, framed by the great archway of Malcolm’s Gate. Part of the Dark Spire was visible through the rooftops of the second tier, as was the huge gouge that it had carved up the Base.

  “It’s kind of pretty, if you don’t pay the destruction any mind,” said Aubren, staring back at the scene.

  Even in her half-dazed state, Mrs. Hrurk couldn’t help but agree. The lanterns sparkled like a reflection of the stars.

  “Still, there is a lot of destruction,” added Aubren. “It will take a long time to rebuild the gates, let alone the city.”

  “And then everything will go back to normal, right, Mama?” Rex said, his tail wagging nervously.

  Feista couldn’t stop herself from glancing at her son’s leg, still bent and buckled in the splint. The priest had been kind and optimistic, but not so much as to lie when Feista asked her frantic questions. Yes, it was bad. No, you couldn’t give a child salve, not with the known risks. No, the magic alone wouldn’t fix everything; the fracture had been present too long, the crushing of the bones too complete. Yes, the pup would walk again. Would he run again? That was a harder question.

  “There will be a new normal,” she told her son. “Normal is always changing. But we Gnolls are a strong people. We will find our way forward. Come on. Let’s get back to your brother and sister.”

  Aubren nodded as she shouldered her way through the crowds again. “Well, be that as it may, I’d hate to be one of the poor wretches who has to figure out how to move that big pillar the liche flung sideways into the gate.”

  Mrs. Hrurk laughed as she followed the girl. “Y
ou haven’t lived here long enough,” she said. “Mark my words, someone will build a restaurant on top of that stone within a month.”

  Chapter 33

  The massive simulacrum of the Dark Spire of Nephan became the subject of intense legal fights. The bannermen annexed much of its northernmost mass to rebuild part of Fafnir’s Gate. Meanwhile, the Academy of Mages declared the runes covering the spire to be a magical hazard, and halted any construction near the spire until surfaces could be properly disenchanted and removed. With the property mired in legal battles, the site’s developer sold it for residential lots and shattered the dreams of several aspiring restauranteurs.

  Still, the entrepreneurial spirit is a resilient one. People find a way forward. A new normal always emerges from the ashes of the previous status quo.

  So it was that by early in Fengelde’s month, well before the Festival of Sunheight, the rebuilding of Fafnir’s Gate was already underway. Bulletin boards posted near the construction showed woodcuts envisioning Spire’s Landing, Andarun’s newest community of luxury condominiums. The bright illustrations showed how the first weapon to breach Andarun’s defenses in ages would be completely paved over by the summer’s end.

  The Dark Spire’s history lived on, however, in the names and dishes of many food-carts clustered in its shadow. Fafnir’s Grille, the Spire Diner, and Bonereaper’s Roast Ribs served creatively named variations of the city’s favorite street foods. The Dark Pile of Enough Ham was a particular favorite among locals.

  Fafnir’s Gate itself was slated to be replaced with a pair of smaller, more defensible staircases on either side of Spire’s Landing, which meant the gates to the second tier at Mycen Avenue needed to be widened. The groove carved by the Dark Spire across the Base was paved with cobblestones and renamed Fafnir’s Way, and the buildings along it needed extensive repair. All of this construction and reconstruction brought excitement and industry to Andarun’s lower tiers.

  Of course, the work brought traffic as well. The streets of the lower tiers clogged with people of every race—when they weren’t closed for construction. Confused travelers shuffled along detours and alternate routes throughout the city, asking directions of just about anyone who plied their trade on the roadside.

  Some of them should have been more selective.

  “Another lost soul!” Ignatius thrust a finger in the air, startling the young Goblin that had stopped by his shrine.

  “Um, yes,” she said. “It’s just that I need to get to the Heroes’ Guild today, so—”

  “And a fighter at that!” The priest of Mordo Ogg scrabbled over the cobblestones to stare into the eye sockets of the shrine of the god of death. The crimson pinpricks of light in the skull’s eyes shone with fierce, prolonged intensity.

  “It’s just that I need to get my papers this week, and I heard it could take a while.” The Goblin tugged at her braid as she looked around with her bulbous, yellow eyes for an escape.

  Ignatius leaned in until his nose touched the sculpture’s face and stared with wide eyes at the dancing points of light. “Just let go. Just give in,” he whispered. “All things end. Time passes. Don’t fight it.”

  The light in Mordo Ogg’s granite eyes winked out.

  “Ha!” Ignatius cackled, rearing back and pumping his fist in demented victory. “Nobody can resist the call of death!”

  “You know what?” said the Goblin. “I think I see it up ahead.”

  “A Heroes’ Guild office?” Ignatius glanced to where the Goblin pointed. “No, that’s not—ooh, there goes another! Ha! And another! A two-fer! Double murder, maybe? A suicide pact?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s where I need to go,” said the Goblin, taking a step back. “I’ll just go check.”

  “Couldn’t be,” Ignatius said without looking up from the skull. “The nearest one’s up two tiers, and then a block Wallward.”

  “T-thank you,” she stammered, and then scurried away at a speed that few but a terrified Goblin can manage.

  “See you eventually!” called Ignatius, waving to the retreating Shadowkin. She sped into a mass of other souls, chattering and bustling as they went about their business. They talked to neighbors that hadn’t been there once, and who wouldn’t be there again soon enough. They worked to rebuild a city that would one day crumble. A beautiful city, and all the more so for being fleeting.

  Ignatius smiled and filled his lungs with the musk of the city. Everything was as it should be.

  “Or at the very least, it’s not as bad as one might expect.” Heraldin stretched and cracked his neck as he waited in line at the Heroes’ Guild office.

  Gaist gave a barely perceptible shrug.

  “Oh, don’t be so irritable. The guild’s doing the best they can, given the circumstances.” The bard pointed to the long line of people that ran from the service desks out the door. As he spoke, a young Goblin woman trotted up to join the end of the queue. “They’ve a ton of work now that so many people need NPC papers.”

  Chieftain Asherzu’s case against the injustices of the noncombatant paper carrier system was well-received in the light of the Shadowkins’ valiant defense of Andarun, but her suggestion to abolish the program was a different matter. A bureaucracy is a difficult organism to dislodge from its host, and the NPC administration had deeply embedded itself within the guild and the government. Lobbying against the Orcs’ proposal began immediately after King Johan announced it. Clerks and bureaucrats cited dire complications that could come from an end to noncombatant papers, from invalidating a host of standing regulations to trouble reconciling license points with those from Imperial heroes.

  Eventually, it was mutually agreed that the only system that was both just and feasible was to require all non-hero citizens of any background to register as NPCs or risk classification as Forces of Evil. The compromise both pleased and overwhelmed the guild’s administration, which found itself flooded with Humans, Elves, Dwarves, and Gnomes of every variety, all eager to get their papers by the end-of-year deadline.

  “Even in the middle of the summer, every office is buried in paperwork. Just imagine how much longer it would take to replace these this winter,” said Heraldin. He held up his Heroes’ License, complete with a woodcut that made him look as though he was about to suffer a violent sneeze. “Gods, let’s hope they do a better job this time.”

  Gaist shook his head and pointed to his own license. Beneath his name and class, it listed his race as “Doppelganger.”

  “What? Are you still upset about that? Is that what you’re trying to fix today?” Heraldin asked. “Everybody knows about it anyway. It’s not a big deal.”

  Gaist looked away.

  “No, seriously. You—” Heraldin wanted to tell his friend that you should never hide who you truly are, but realized just in time that it was a stupid thing to say to a shapeshifter. He took a deep breath and stepped in front of the weaponsmaster. “You feel how you want, but as far as I’m concerned, you have nothing to hide, my brother. Nothing.”

  The faintest hints of a smile were visible beneath Gaist’s crimson scarf. He reached out and clasped the bard’s shoulder.

  “Least of all this woodcut!” Heraldin added, snatching the paper away from the doppelganger and examining the portrait in the corner. “I mean, how did you get someone to render you so well? A flattering pose and good line work? It just doesn’t happen!”

  Gaist gently elbowed him in the ribs.

  “He even shaded you in three-point lighting,” said Heraldin, peering at the document. “Did you bribe the artist?”

  The weaponsmaster gave the bard a firmer nudge.

  “No, I’m serious.” Heraldin ran a finger over the woodcut as he searched. “Do you know how many women will ask to look at your heroes’ license? An impressive one can mean the difference between going home alone and a chance at—ow! All right, that one hurt!”

  Gaist nodded to the front of one of the lines. Heraldin looked and saw a hulking, tattooed figure approachi
ng a desk occupied by a one-eyed clerk.

  “Gods, is that Mr. Brunt?” the bard exclaimed. “I thought Gorm killed him at Bloodroot, but I’ll eat a dragon’s toenail if that isn’t the big oaf.”

  Gaist nudged him again.

  “You’re right, it definitely is,” said Heraldin. “And look, he’s in the wrong line. That isn’t for NPC papers. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to—”

  “Brunt… hero!” The Ogre’s rumbling was clear even over the din of the busy guildhall.

  “Well, that answers that!” smirked the bard. “I pity the monsters that—”

  Gaist grabbed the top of the bard’s head with two fingers and gently twisted it five degrees to the left. A pair of mismatched figures swiveled into view as they made their way from the front desks to the door. One was a large Human in hide armor, while the other was a solamancer with a familiar face.

  “Oh, is that what this was about?” Heraldin muttered to the weaponsmaster. He waved at the pair and called out, “Laruna!”

  “Heraldin? And Gaist!” The solamancer rushed over to embrace both heroes in turn, and she and the bard exchanged warm greetings, followed by the traditional declarations that it had been too long since they’d seen each other.

  “I know it’s only been a few weeks, but that feels like forever after spending so much time together in the wilds,” marveled Laruna. She nodded back to the barbarian, who was reluctantly trotting toward them. “Oh. And this is Hogarth.”

  Hogarth had straggly hair, a rictus grin, and the wide, wild eyes of a caged animal. He gave a timid wave to Heraldin and Gaist. “Hello!” he said.

  “We’re a couple now,” the solamancer declared. Hogarth winced a little when she said it, but the grin held fast.

  “Oh?” said Heraldin, looking at Gaist. “And how did you two meet?”

  “We met in a dueling ring back when we’d all split up. It was a normal enough fight, but I could tell there was something special about Hogarth. And he saw something special in me. Right?”