Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map of Hazelhearth
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Editor’s Note
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
End notes
HAZELHEARTH
HIRES
HEROES
D. H. Willison
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, businesses, elves, gnomes, or nekos, living or dead,
or actual events is purely coincidental.
No humans were harmed in the making of this novel.
Copyright © 2021 D. H. Willison
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Papaya
Map by C. Willison
Edition 0.97
To Claudia and Aunt Nan. Support, patience, and a high tolerance for my quirky humor.
What more could one ask for?
Prologue
World of Arvia
Elven city of Halamar
Bummm
The palace shook from another near miss. Charlotte, housekeeper to Lord Raloren, leapt to a massive golden oak pantry, barely catching a porcelain teapot tumbling off the top shelf.
The head butler pushed through the double doors from the meeting hall into the kitchen bearing a serving platter stacked with enough silverware to ward off an army of werewolves. If there were such things as werewolves. Nobody believed such silly superstitions these days. “Lady Virris sent her tea back again. Hawthorn tea is apparently supposed to be—”
A pounding on the outside door interrupted them.
Charlotte twisted a brass key, drawing open the carved mahogany door.
“Terrible news,” gasped Erland, a haggard sixteen-year-old human, personal servant to Lady Virris.
Charlotte glared at the young man a moment long. “You do realize you’re on fire.”
Erland whipped his head around, tore off his smoldering cloak, threw it to the floor, and stomped on it. “Right.”
“You’ve finished with our master’s mounts now, I assume? We’re short handed and could use your help in the kitchen.”
“Yes. Umm…” Erland bore the expression of a zoo patron upon realizing that the door labeled ‘Lion’s Den’ did not, in fact, lead to a clever theme restaurant. “There’s good news and bad news.”
Charlotte winced. “Let’s get the bad news out of the way.”
“The northeast stables were hit by an ogre trebuchet. A huge firebomb set the place ablaze. A half-dozen men dead, along with most of the mounts.”
“That’s dreadful. Lord Raloren’s favorite mount was there. So what’s the good news?”
“My mistress, Lady Virris’ mount was in the south stables when it happened.”
Charlotte clapped both hands over her face, unable to cover up her grimace or stifle a groan.
Bummm
“That felt closer,” said a scullery maid. “Are we safe?”
“The elven counsel is meeting in the next room. They wouldn’t be here if it weren’t safe.” Charlotte turned back to Erland and shoved a serving tray at him. “Here. You can serve your mistress her tea.”
“Keep your ears open for any news about Irondale,” whispered the head butler. “My sister was supposed to move there.”
“You overheard anything interesting so far?” said Erland.
“Ogre rōnin are looting and pillaging the surrounding countryside. We’re all probably going to be devoured by monsters. Lady Virris is fussy about her tea. I believe those were the highlights.”
Erland ran a hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, and pushed through the set of double doors to Sunset Hall, where a dozen elf and half-elf nobles and landed gentry were seated at an oblong mahogany table.
None of the assembled nobles paid him the slightest heed. In fact, they showed so little emotion one might assume they were discussing an ordinance regulating the height of topiary in public parks. Yet Erland had served long enough to pick up the subtle clues.
Lord Raloren smoothed a linen napkin in front of him, the elf equivalent of slamming his fist on the table. “Do you understand? Because if Halamar falls, your city will be next. Our settlements are all lined up like little dominoes from here all the way to Arania. This–” he gestured theatrically at the destruction in the distance. “...is the handiwork of ogre rōnin. Former allies under the empire. And even against them we barely hold on. The Melandrach army is still fighting the bulk of the subterranean hordes. But if the Melendrach elves were to be defeated, there’s no telling how far the hordes would push.”
On the bright side, they’re far too short staffed to spare anyone for flogging servants with slovenly uniforms, thought Erland.
“Damn greedy Melandrachs, they’re the reason for this mess in the first place.” An elf whose cheerful mint-green robes contrasted starkly with a morose facial expression made a defiant show of setting a silver teaspoon on bare tablecloth. “Everything so organized. Puppet masters of dozens of species. Until their puppets revolted.”
A flash of orange caught Erland’s eye. Incendiary liquid showered over a tiled roof a few hundred paces away. Too close for comfort, he thought.
“Recriminations are pointless,” said Lord Raloren. “But the fact remains, we need more men. And with an additional three mines shut down, we can no longer afford to pay what the official brokers charge for skilled soldiers.”
Erland barely stifled a snork. What kind of rube, skilled or otherwise, would be foolish enough to come to Arvia at a time like this? He set a saucer, teacup, silk napkin, and two tiny silver spoons in front of Lady Virris.
“I really don’t much care to deal with those two.” Lady Virris enunciated each syllable with a practiced mix of precision and disdain.
“Efficacy must take precedence.”
Erland poured the tea, added exactly six drops of distilled ambrosia, nodded, and stepped back.
“Very well.” Lady Virris lifted the teacup to her lips, crinkled her nose, and set it back on the saucer. “Lord Raloren, I support your proposal. I do not like it, but I shall support it.”
“Meat for the grinder,” mumbled the mint-green-robed elf.
Must be the well water in this city, thought Erland. Next time I’ll have to bring our own water. If we live that long.
Chapter 1
World of Earth
Human city of Toledo
(The one in Ohio)
“Sam!” A commanding voice boomed, punctuated by the thud of the workshop’s sliding side door. “I told you not to run your damn experiments when our office is open. That last little surge of yours disrupted half-a-dozen messages!” Lee, owner of said voice, stormed toward a lanky figure clad in the typical flannel work shirt and leather bib of a technician.
The former sportsman’s 6’3” frame had seen too little time outside the telegr
aph office this past year, reflected in both midsection and skin tone. The buttons of his uncomfortably starched suit strained against rage and mass.
“We have to ask them to resend, which means I will be late for my gentlemen’s game night.”
“Don’t get your petticoat in a pinch,” barked the smaller figure, managing to ignore both the tirade and minor shower of spittle accompanying it. “I’ve shut down all the Tesla coils. Voltage spiked way above where it should have. Could have sworn it was drawing power from someplace else.”
The open electrical panel with its triple row of sturdy knife switches popped and snapped, sending a shower of sparks onto the shop floor.
“If you’re intent on electrocuting yourself and burning your shop down, fine.” Lee pinched the bridge of his nose as he drew a slow breath. “Actually no, it’s not fine, it would probably set fire to my office as well.”
“There’s nothing flammable in range, and it should be insulated against… hey Lee, could you hand me that monkey wrench?” Sam knelt next to the heavy iron frame bolted to the floor of the shop. “How’d it work loose again?”
“Here. I’d say don’t let it happen again,” said Lee, this time managing to contain a further spray of spittle, “but I’ve said it a dozen times already, so I don’t see the point.”
“And I’ve told you a dozen times it was foolish of your boss to set up a telegraph office next to our shop. We design and test high-voltage transformers. Says so on our business license.”
“It may have been foolish of him. But he’s not here right now. And I am.” He slammed a meaty fist against the workbench. Said workbench cowered in fear, in awe of the wrath of this powerful man. The lightly built, mouse-haired technician and telegraph disturber, however, showed nary a hint of fear. His inquisitive, hazel eyes darted between various electrical connections as he tinkered with the experimental transformer.
Sam shook his head as he glared at the power connection to the transformer, finally glancing up at Lee. “Admit it, Lee, you enjoy coming down here where you can curse to your heart’s content, and you don’t have to call everyone ‘mister.’ ”
“My weekly gentlemen’s game night affords me the same opportunity.” Lee slammed a balled fist into his palm. “At least it would, if you hadn’t disrupted my work.”
“Coils have been off for a good five minutes now. Wish I knew where that extra power came from…” Sam’s voice trailed off as he gathered several half spools of magnet wire and placed them in a cabinet. “Are you going to finish up your work, or would you rather stand around whining about things?”
“Grrrrh!”
◊ ◊ ◊
Lee lumbered up the last flight of stairs to the fourth floor of a brick apartment building and rapped on a worn elm door.
“You’re late,” said Harvey, swinging open the crooked front door. “We were about to give up and play a round of whist.”
“Whist,” scoffed Lee, doffing his hat and pushing his way into the parlor of the three-room apartment. “If we have to live in this damn modern era, we might as well enjoy a more interesting diversion.” He nodded to the three other people in the room. “Greetings, gentlemen.”
Game night was a casual affair among friends. Collars were loosened, first names were used, even nicknames.
“Don’t knock the modern era,” said Ellwood. “Our block is supposed to get electricity next year. Then no more running out of kerosene. Ever.”
“Good evening, Lee,” said Roland. “Is this really the final version of your new game? The one you’re going to pitch to West Erie Diversions next week?”
Lee nodded, shook hands with the three, and sat at the octagonal oak game table. He removed a pair of cloth bags and a folio from his leather satchel and began setting up the playing field. “Roland, you gave me my latest idea two weeks ago, when you joked that you and Harvey should fight the dragon together. Then it hit me, why can’t players cooperate with one another? After all, many games work with teams.”
Harvey turned up the kerosene parlor lamp and poured glasses of chilled tea for the table. “Like bridge, eh? But then you’re limited to even numbers of players of at least four. Isn’t that a problem?”
“Ahh, I thought so too,” said Lee. “But then I thought about it. Why? Why can’t three or four or five people all play on the same team?”
“The same team?” Harvey cocked his head. “If we’re all on the same team, then how do we determine who wins?”
Lee took a long, dramatic swig of tea. “Who says someone has to win?”
Harvey crinkled his nose. “No winners? What’s the point of the game, then? Any game has to have a winner, from croquet to Chinese Checkers. Doesn’t matter if it’s a ball game, a card game, or a board game. You have to keep score.”
“Oh, we’ll keep score,” said Lee, setting hand-carved wooden pieces atop a board resembling a stylized map of a medieval kingdom. A stone tower. A snarling lion. A menacing dragon. A half-dozen more wooden figurines took to the miniature field of battle. “And I suppose eventually I’ll figure out something to do with that score. But that doesn’t have to be the point of the game. The point is to have fun.”
“Fine,” said Harvey. “But I want to play as Lancelot tonight.”
Skeptical grumbling turned to acceptance, which turned to merriment as the game played out.
Although the substitution of brandy for chilled tea may have contributed to the mood.
Lee packed up the game: hand-carved playing pieces, a thin board, laboriously inked by hand, and a sheaf of papers—rules, character sheets, descriptions of beasts most foul. Saying his farewells, he donned a black felt cahill hat and heavy overcoat. Anxious to cover the mile and a half distance back to his own apartment, he set off down the dimly lit street.
After scarcely four blocks, a pair of shadowy figures stepped from an alley.
The first, matching his own height, but slighter of build, tapped his brown derby with a pair of fingers and addressed him. “Lovely night for a little stroll, ain’t it, guv’nor.”
Lee’s shoulders tightened as he clenched his cane. “Yes.” Damn Harvey. Why did he have to live in such a shady quarter of town. Maybe these two were simply being friendly. Unlikely, but…
The second man, shorter, stouter, eyes hidden under the wide brim of a gray slouch hat, continued, “Nice case you’ve got there. You wouldn’t mind showing us what you’ve got in it.”
“It’s just a game,” he said, gripping his cane tighter. He’d thought numerous times about getting a sword cane. If he were living in the real Toledo, he might have even had a sword made. But no one in Toledo, Ohio, made swords. They made glass.
The first man drew a dagger, “Ain’t that a kick. My friend and I here, see, we like games.”
No sword. No sword cane. Hell, even the weapon of cowards and con-men, a vest pocket derringer, would be welcome about now, thought Lee.
The second drew a cudgel from his overcoat as he shuffled casually to the side.
Lee may have cut an imposing figure, but fighting two on one?
Lee growled, turned and fled, losing his hat as he dashed down the street.
If I have to fight, let’s see if I can split them apart, he thought.
Droplets of water began to splatter in his face, a distant rumble signaling a summer thunderstorm. “Just what I need,” he growled. Fueled by frustration, fueled by brandy, he wanted to fight. But he couldn’t lose the only copy of his game. Nearly a year of correspondence to get that appointment next week. Who knew if he could get another? He cut a hard right, heading toward the old canal. A calculated risk. But was his brandy-fueled mind making the right calculation?
He glanced behind him. The taller of the two thugs was on his heels and gaining, the shorter trailed a dozen paces back.
Lee panted hard but couldn’t push himself any faster. He cursed under his breath. Had three years at that stuffy office made him soft? No. He would be a sportsman to the end.
The
stench of the canal met him as he rounded the next corner. It was a mix of the old world, manure of draft horses, waste of slaughterhouses, and the modern world, the turpentine, sulfur, and resins of industry. The stouter thug now trailed by thirty paces. Now was his chance: before he exhausted himself from the chase like a frightened antelope. The thin man held the dagger in his right hand. That would be the biggest threat.
Lee feigned a stumble, dropping his satchel.
The thin man was an arm’s length away.
He spun, slamming his cane down hard on the man’s extended right arm. The cane cracked a solid blow, but Lee misjudged the distance, and the man slammed into him. The blow sent him sliding several paces backward on the rain-slicked surface, but he held his balance. He spun, pulled out of his overcoat, and caught the man in a chokehold. Dagger or no, the third-ranked wrestler at his university would not lose to a street thug.
Something thudded to the ground. The dagger? Motion caught his eye. The second attacker. He spun again, trying to put the thin man between him and the other. The second thug lunged, tripped, and slammed into the both of them, sending all three toppling into the canal.
Lee surfaced a moment later to a jumble of sensations: shock of the cold water, thrashing of two thugs, biting stench of manure, of turpentine, and of dead vegetation. Every instinct drove him to get out of the foul water, yet he couldn’t. An arm, driven by aggression, or perhaps panic, wrapped around him, pushing him under.
Distance yourself from a drowning man, or they will pull you under too. The cautionary words of his uncle flashed through his mind. A river crossing from his teen years.
He ducked underwater, wiggled his right elbow free, and slammed into the thug, weakening his grip. He elbowed three more times, the last connecting solidly to the thug’s ribs, and dove deep under the surface before swimming away.
He swam underwater until his lungs burned, finally popping to the surface to hear a thrashing fifty yards distant.
Lee grasped at the slick embankment, pulled himself halfway out of the canal, then slid back into the murky water. He clawed at slick clay, dead weeds, but couldn’t pull himself out. This section of the canal, haphazardly built to begin with, was now in disarray: the rise of railroads had forced draconian cutbacks.
Hazelhearth Hires Heroes Page 1