The Malaise Falchion

by Paul Barrett

  “Cover me,” I told Liz as I drew my wand. I ran toward the group with no real plan other than charge the group, shoot the hobgoblin, grab the sword, and hope I could run back and escape in the confusion.

  I never thought it was a good plan.

  I had managed to get less than twenty feet away when some of them noticed me. The gobs had eyebrows bunched and heads tilted as if uncertain they actually saw a dwarf charging at them. Then two of them turned their wands on me. I prepared to fire when several things happened at once.

  Something massive flew over the hills and into view. A Ziploon, painted black and green in a pattern of disjointed zigzags. I could hear the chopping whirr of the steel blades that churned near the vehicle’s back, driving it forward. A cheer went up from the eight or so gobs left alive under the metalworks. Four wooden bolts the size of tree trunks thrummed from the Ziploon. Their sharpened ends flew toward the ground in the vicinity of the staff-wielding quintet. They were designed to take on other flying vessels, but two sickening wet smacks revealed their effectiveness on ground targets.

  At the same time, a fireball came from the other direction. I knew it was our insane magician even if I couldn’t see who cast the spell. It struck one of the iron buckets hanging from the chain that funneled from the mines. The bucket caught fire, engulfed in blue-green flame that immediately billowed dark purple smoke. In addition to being toxic, putrosium is highly flammable. A double danger for those who work with it.

  “Goblet, retreat,” the hobgoblin shouted to his troops. Firing wildly down the street, they fled the cover of the bin and ran toward the middle of the road. Four rope ladders unrolled from the Ziploon along its length. Another fireball blazed down the road, but struck none of the fleeing gobs. Maniacal Mage was getting sloppy.

  The flaming ball struck the side of the hill and exploded, catching the mountain on fire in four spots. The flames on the bucket jumped to the second bucket like a fiery frog.

  Liz broke her silence. “This is going to turn deadly far sooner than we want. We need to get out of here.” Then she coughed.

  The hobgoblin and his friends had the same idea. They scrambled up the ladders, which twisted as they climbed. The sword gleamed on the hobgoblin’s back, taunting me.

  I ran toward the Ziploon. I stopped short of breaking cover as a series of bolts slammed into the girder near my head with deep thuds and bursts of sparks. Two of the black-clad humans had become splotches of blood and flesh on the dirt road, like frogs run over by a wagon wheel. The other three still stood in the street, firing at the gobs and me. Idiots. I peeked around the girder. Aimed my wand. Fired. The bolt caught the middle guy in his chest. He fell back dead.

  The Ziploon had reloaded. I watched as a sharpened tree trunk skewered one of the men, ripping him in half like parchment. The other decapitated its target as neatly as me popping a cork off a bottle. Blood spurted from the neck like the world’s worst vintage of wine.

  The giant ballista bolts bounced down the street and landed at the feet of the bug-eyed magician. He didn’t appear scared or concerned at the death before him. If anything, he was enjoying this whole thing. He flicked his hand toward the Ziploon. A guttural scream made me turn to see an orc twist in the middle like a bartender wrings a dirty rag. Blood shot from his ears, eyes, and mouth. He tumbled from the ladder.

  The Ziploon floated thirty feet above. I could see the deck from my position. The hobgoblin’s female cohort stood at the helm. She wore leathers, a tunic with a goblet painted on it, and a wide-brimmed black hat. She piloted the Ziploon while orcs reloaded the ballistae that crowded the front deck. The dirigible drove forward and began to rise. The hob had just started to climb and hung at the bottom of the ladder. I ran toward him and leapt. Though I’m not acrobatic, being pissed gave me abilities far beyond my norm. Nothing magical about it. Just the enhanced performance of anger. I jumped high enough to snag the hob’s sandal and hung on like Crizlyk with a complaint. “Liz,” I shouted.

  She ran and grabbed my leg before the Zip could take me out of reach. She tugged on me, and I pulled on the hob.

  “Let go,” he snarled as he shook his leg. “You’ll kill us all.”

  “Give me the sword,” I snarled back. I still had my wand and tried to aim it while both hands held his sandal. Not as easy as it sounds.

  He shook his leg again. By now the Zip had risen high enough that Liz lifted off the ground. I could see the hob’s hands slipping on the rope ladder. He couldn’t hold our combined weight much longer.

  I heard a thin ripping sound. Before I could wonder what it was, I fell and hit the ground. I barely missed landing on Liz. The Zip continued upward. The hob kept climbing. His sandal sat in my clutched hand, the worn leather straps torn.

  “Son of a bitch,” I shouted as I pounded the traitorous shoe against the ground.

  Another explosion slammed the hills. A plume of flame and purple smoke reached toward the sky. Screaming goblins fled, some of them on fire, others thrown through the air. The magician giggled. Sitting on my butt, I popped off a wand shot at him. It bounced off an invisible shield that emitted a brief flare of blue as the bolt struck it. This boy had an impressive number of magical disciplines under his belt. Shame he was as nutty as a squirrel’s cheeks.

  He giggled again, flicked his hands, and fired an arc of lightning at the Ziploon.

  The floating ship had its own surprise. His lightning stopped several feet short and zagged back toward the caster. It struck the road and turned the rock into shimmering glass. The mage danced back with a goggle-eyed look of shock on his face as he barely avoided incineration.

  “That’s…not very nice,” he yelled in his wheezy voice. “Well, there’s more…than one way…to skin…a goblin.” He held up both hands and rotated them. A ball of orange flame large as my head appeared between them. He flung his arms outward, and the ball leapt. Not at the Ziploon, but straight toward the mountain. Instead of impacting on the side, it went down one of the holes as if directed there. The Ziploon continued lifting into the air. All the buckets on the chain burned like a giant’s string of candles. The stench of burning putrosium made it hard to breathe. I heard a rumbling in the hill. Brilliant blue flame erupted from several holes and jets of fire created more openings.

  “Oh fuck,” Liz said.

  The mountain exploded, and everything went white.

  10

  The white faded away and I expected to find myself in Clanhome, embraced by my ancestors. Or the Gray Wastes, embraced by nothing, since my Clan had disavowed me.

  What I didn’t expect was to find Quinitas standing in front of me with a wand inches from my face.

  There were others. The two orc goons I had tangled with before. The two-headed ogre. And lots of elves, dressed in their gleaming chain mail. A shining Ziploon sat behind them thirty feet away. It screamed its elvish ownership. The blimp, longer and slenderer than the average Zip, glimmered with a pattern of interlocking gold and silver rings. The polished mahogany deck glistened. The elvish hemp guide ropes shone.

  The sun still gleamed, and we were still in the hills. A breeze blew. The hobgoblin’s sandal rested in my hand. I heard faint rumbling behind me. The reek of putrosium lingered in the air.

  On my left, Liz sat in a daze. On my right, Criz hunched on his hands and knees, retching.

  I observed all this within seconds. Then my eyes focused on Quinitas, who had a frown on his exceptional elven features.

  I grimaced at him. “You could have saved all of us a lot of irritation and just killed me in my office.”

  He returned my grimace. Then he lowered the wand to my chest and fired.

  The bolt slammed into me. I fell backward, writhing at the pain. I had my eyes closed, waiting to feel the cold grip of death and again wondering if I would see Clanhome or the Gray Wastes.

  “Get up,” Quinitas said. “I wouldn’t waste a charge on killing you. I’d just have Grunk pitch you over the cliff. You’re free.”

&
nbsp; I opened my eyes and stared at the sky. It had a purplish haze from the burning putrosium. My chest hurt, but I felt no blood welling. I sat up and looked at Quinitas. He still wore the fine clothing of a rich, city-dwelling elf: an emerald-colored doublet with the Greenstreet crest, light green silk pants, and polished black leather boots. The rapier on his side cost more than I had seen in two years.

  He held the amulet Siralanna had given me, now a melted pile of slag. “We’ve given my sister enough of an advantage, I think.” He flung the amulet away and looked at me, his pale elf eyes narrowed in anger. “Now you can help us try to undo the damage you’ve caused.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “That was a protection amulet.”

  He shook his head. “How did you stay alive this long? It was a tracking focus, you dirt-grubbing moron. My sister has been with you every step of the way. How do you think her assassins got here so soon?”

  I frowned. “What assassins?”

  “The ones who killed the gnome and burned down his house.”

  “That was you,” I said.

  He shook his head again. “A bouncing pair and a sob story and you lose whatever few wits you may have had. My sister—” The sound of rocks bounding down a mountain interrupted the elf. The ogre had cleared his throat. Quinitas turned to find the ogre staring at him with both heads. The duller looking face spoke.

  “Perhaps we can discuss while we pursue,” He said in his gravelly voice. He pointed with the staff. Through the haze of the smoke covering the town, I saw the outline of the hobgoblin’s Ziploon. It was a long way off. I had no idea how they would catch up with it.

  “Agreed,” Quinitas said. He regarded the three of us. “Please join us aboard the Valley Flower.”

  “Is that a command?” I said.

  “Absolutely not,” Quinitas said. “I commanded you not to help my sister. We see how well that worked. If you want, I can have Siga-Sanda,” he pointed at the ogre, “teleport you back to Stinkhole. You can deal with the survivors and explain what happened. Assuming the fumes don’t kill you, whoever is left certainly will.”

  I didn’t have many options. It was a long walk back to Slagbottom, and Quinitas was right about the fumes. I would be fine, but the tears in the eyes of Liz and Criz told me they wouldn’t last much longer. Besides, I needed to get to the bottom of who was lying to me, Quinitas or Siralanna.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  We moved to the Ziploon. The orcs flanked Quinitas. Several of the elves formed behind us. I guess to make sure we didn’t change our minds.

  No sooner had the last of us touched on the deck than the anchors were lifted and the craft floated into the air. I grabbed the railing and clenched as if my life depended on it. I had only been in a Ziploon twice. They weren’t much different than being on a ship, except falling overboard was far deadlier. I didn’t like either mode of transportation. Anything that took me from good solid rock was an abomination.

  The crew moved with efficiency. Soon the prow in the direction of the other Zip and worked to overtake it. I heard the slow thrum of the propellers on the aft, driven by an unseen workforce below decks. At this distance, I couldn’t tell if we were catching up. Even if we were, the old sailor’s adage was going to apply: a stern chase is a long chase.

  Quinitas and I stood amidships, me flanked by my companions, the elf flanked by his goons. The magic-wielding ogre stood near the back of the craft. He moved his arms in strange gestures and passed his staff from hand to hand.

  After half a minute he walked aft and pointed over the railing. Blue light flashed from his hand. The craft lurched forward, and the tone of the blades changed to a higher pitch. Speed boost. So the chase was going to be shorter. It would still take a while. The ogre trundled back to tower over us.

  “Can we go below?” Liz asked, keeping her lips as tight as possible. “The smell is seeping into my pores.”

  Quinitas looked at her and became all smiles and courtesy. “Where are my manners? Of course, this must be incredibly nauseating for you and the short one. And not just because you have to work with the dirt peddler.”

  “Your parents should have spent the charm school money on something useful,” I told him.

  Quinitas clapped his hands, and a young elf appeared from somewhere. He wore gray clothing and a gold tabard with the Greenstreet insignia embroidered in red thread. He had long blond hair and the stupidly impossible beauty of elves. He looked to be about twelve, but the age in his eyes suggested closer to thirty.

  “Take these two to the guest cabin, get them cleaning cloths and soap, find fresh clothing, and clean the reek out of what they’re wearing.”

  The young elf, who was probably only ten years younger than me, nodded uncertainly. No doubt trying to figure out where he could find clothing to fit the tall Liz and tiny Criz. “Follow me,” he said in a light voice.

  “You going to be okay, boss?” Criz mumbled, also declining to open his mouth more than he had to.

  “Yeah,” I said. “If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead.”

  “First sensible thing you’ve said since I’ve met you,” Quinitas said. I offered him a rude gesture.

  Liz nodded and gave me a tight-lipped smile. Then she and Criz went below deck. Quinitas watched them, grinning the whole time. I don’t know why Liz had that effect on men, no matter the race. If I did, I’d bottle it and retire rich.

  “Okay, talk,” I said when they were gone. “You’ve got one chance to convince me.”

  “Convince you of what?” Quinitas said, all traces of friendliness gone. “That you’re an ignorant mud muncher with no concept of what you’ve stumbled into? I can do that, and we’ll still have time for tea and dinner.”

  “Your arrogance isn’t helping your cause,” I said. “Convince me why I should believe you over your sister.”

  “Let’s start with you. Tell me what she told you.”

  I gave him everything. No sense holding back now. I started with her hiring me on the promise of exoneration for my errors at Pastrik Forest. I mentioned her revelation of his failure with the Assassins’ Covenant and his membership in the Cult of Caldere. I let him know I had followed him, heard their destination, then fled as the undead attacked.

  “Thanks for leaving us to our fate,” he said.

  “If you recall,” I said, “I didn’t have any particular reason to care if you lived or died.”

  “Fair point.”

  I continued. I went over the attack at his sister’s house, her convincing me to go to Stinkhole, and my encounters with the hobgoblins. I finished with the ill-fated meeting with Silas One-Eye.

  As I talked, his face grew grimmer while the ogre’s smart face nodded thoughtfully, and the other face drooled.

  When I finished, Quinitas looked at the ogre. “That fits with some of what we know, but doesn’t tell us everything.” He studied me for several seconds, then said, “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Grog if you’ve got it.”

  “We have wine.”

  “That’ll work,” I said. I’m not a big fan of elvish wines. Too fruity. I am a fan of alcohol, however. Elvish wine contained alcohol. So it would do.

  Quinitas clapped again, and another youngster appeared. He looked similar to the last one, even down to the clothing. His darker, shorter hair would be the only way I could tell them apart.

  “This ship have its own playground?” I asked.

  “These are Clan members,” Quinitas said, “and they’re learning the family business. Some people want their Clan to be proud of them.”

  I clenched my fists and reminded myself I was outnumbered and couldn’t fly.

  “A bottle of Greenstreet Reserve and two chairs,” Quinitas told the boy. “This is going to take a while.”

  “You have your own wine?”

  “Every Clan worth the name has their own wine.”

  “Okay, your turn to spill.”

  “In a moment.”

&n
bsp; We waited with the wind whipping across the deck for the boy to return. The rigging lines sang with the breeze, a light sound that made me think of fields and trees. We sped over Stinkhole. A far cry from the rigging song, it truly lived up to its name now. The explosion had obliterated the town and half the hills. Though most of the smoke was gone, a grape-colored miasma drifted close to the ground. The bulk of the buildings had been flattened. The tents were gone. No goblins moved anywhere. How the hobgoblins had managed to escape without their Ziploon bursting into flames was beyond me.

  “Thanks,” I sputtered as I looked at the devastation. “You may be an arrogant prick, but you saved my life and the lives of my friends.”

  “Only because I need your help.”

  I nodded. The boy returned carrying a tray with two crystal goblets and a tall bottle filled with red liquid. The first boy I had seen followed with two chairs and a small table. They quickly set everything up, uncorked the wine, and left.

  “Have a seat,” Quinitas said as he poured the wine. He acted like we were on the porch of his house during a quiet summer evening and not floating past a devastated town chasing a blimp full of goblinoids carrying an evil sword. I sat.

  Quinitas picked up his wine glass. Gave me a small salute. “Ninety percent of what my sister has told you is a lie.” He took a sip of the wine.

  I gulped mine. As I suspected―too fruity. It had a nice punch, though. I poured another glass. “Easy for you to say. Prove it.”

  “I’ll start with something she didn’t tell you. She’s a necromancer, which is why she was able to have the undead attack us and also make it look like she was attacked.”

  That one surprised me. All the necromancers I had ever seen were twisted, ugly people, not beautiful female elves. Of course, the only ones I had ever encountered all worked for the Demon Twins. So maybe that affected them. Thinking about undead cascading into the tunnel brought a realization. “She lied to me about being able to teleport.”

  Quinitas shrugged. “Yes and no. She can teleport, but only undead.”