Humans were the most common of the races of Man, by virtue of being the genetic default. In ages past, the Gnomes and Elves, and even the Sten, occasionally fell in love with members of a different race, and the result was almost always Human. Of course, when two Humans bred—and it often seemed to the Elder races that they did little else—they naturally made more Humans. Very few Humans could recall their original ancestry.
For a handful of Humans, however, their heritage was much more recent. There were still times when an Elf and a Gnome of some sort would feel Vala’s touch and start a family. The children such couples had were something close to what most Humans were, but somehow seemed more ancient.
“So, you’re the Seventh Hero, then.”
“Uh, yes,” said Niln. “Well, so it is written.”
“Written by whom?” said Gorm.
“Um, written by me,” said Niln, shifting uncomfortably. “Or rather, by the Goddess through me.”
“You’re the one sayin’ that you’re this hero of legend? Sounds a bit convenient.”
“I’m the high scribe of Al’Matra,” said Niln. “The high priestess intercedes on our behalf, and it is I who receive her answers and accounts of history. Most likely.”
“Most likely?” asked Gorm.
“There are two high scribes in the temple currently,” Niln said with some reluctance. “It’s really an unusual situation, especially as there is some … disagreement between my scriptures and Scribe Pathalan’s.”
“So what’s that mean? Is the goddess supposed to be arguing with herself?”
All eyes turned to the diagram of the olives.
“That is a distinct possibility,” Niln said carefully. “But it’s also possible that Scribe Pathalan, with all due respect, is mistaken.”
“Or that ye are.”
“Um, yes.”
“And a pretty good one, given that you’re predicting that you’re a legendary hero,” said Gorm. “I mean, ye look like ye could barely lift a mace, let alone swing it when an Orcish warrior or Venomous Scarg is bearing down on ye. That counts for more than some inklings that may or may not be the ranting of the Mad Goddess. You’re risking your life, to say nothing of my life or Gleebek’s, for a pile of silly Al’Matran drivel. No offense.”
“You know, saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t count for much after saying something really offensive.”
“Fair enough. I’ll stop. But face facts. Ye’ve got no strength, no experience, and ye clearly have no clue what we’re doing here. I mean, do ye even have a quest?”
“W-well, not as such,” stammered the high scribe. “But the prophecy says—”
“Burn the prophecy. This is supposed to be professional heroics,” snapped Gorm. “First ye need someone to find a monster with loot, and they stake a claim on its lair. Then they issue a quest to kill the monster. Then they sell off shares of their claim to investors and use the money to hire heroes to come and kill the beast. And then they split up the loot based on who owns what stake in the hoard. That’s the job. That’s all it is.
“Ye’ve got no monster, no loot, no quest, no investors, nothing. This isn’t professional heroics. It ain’t even amateur heroics. You’ve just got some fanciful dreams of glory and the writings of a barmy goddess.”
“This is actually still pretty offensive,” ventured Niln.
“I didn’t say ‘no offense.’”
Niln’s mouth tightened into a tiny, lipless line. “Be that as it may, I … I have to go on.”
“So how do ye know what to do? Or when the quest is done?”
“When we have saved the world.”
“Ha!” snorted Gorm. “As though that’ll hold up in court.”
“I think it will.” Niln’s brow furrowed slightly. “Follow me.”
The Inner Sanctum was a small white room with little decoration aside from a painting of the All Mother and a silver sculpture of a strange icon: six silver lines radiating from a rune at the symbol’s center, each terminating in a different glyph. Three cords wove around the six outer runes, connecting them to each other so that the sigil looked like an intricate wagon wheel. A thick green folder inlaid with the same icon sat on a small table in the center of the room.
Niln stepped up to the table and flipped open the folder to reveal a heavy document bound with black ribbons and crimson seals that depicted a dripping quill over a well-detailed skull. It was a regrettably recognizable crest.
“Ye hired the Lawyer-monks of Adchul?”
“They’re said to be experts on guild law of some renown,” said Niln.
“There’s an understatement.”
The brothers of the Order of Adchul once famously saved a town from flooding by drafting a cease-and-desist letter to the river. Everyone in professional heroics knew that the only way out of a contract with the Lawyer-monks was death, and even that wasn’t guaranteed; rumors held they had once successfully filed a motion with the gods themselves to claim a large portion of a Tandosian priest’s eternal reward.
“The Lawyer-monks have drafted an agreement using a campaign structure with a set of open objectives,” said Niln, carefully reading from the contract. “If that isn’t specific enough, just know that you’ll be bound to any quests, side quests, bounties, and such that the party engages in, until you are released from service by decree from the Temple of Al’Matra or the Temple of Tandos, or the event of your death.”
“The Temple of Tandos?”
“They funded our quest as a gesture of goodwill. Our temples are seeking to end ages of religious conflict.”
“That’s generous.”
“Well, they do have a lot of money.”
“I meant calling it a conflict.”
Long ago, the wars between the Al’Matrans and the Tandosians had been protracted, bloody affairs, but in recent centuries, the wars had grown progressively more petty, more lopsided, and much more succinct. The last Al’Matran crusade started just over four hundred years ago, when the Tandosian High Priest insulted the All Mother by falling asleep during a holy ritual. The Tandosians crushed the uprising without waking him.
“Hilarious,” sighed Niln. “Will you sign the contract and join us?”
“Do I really have a choice?”
“Mr. Flinn would say you do, but since your only other option leads to your execution, I’d imagine that you would say you don’t.”
“And what do ye say?’
“I’d say you have a destiny, and choices are the steps you take to reach it.” Niln offered him a quill.
Gorm took the quill and pulled the contract toward him. “Ye wait till ye’ve seen a bit of the world,” he grumbled, initialing the first page of the contract. “Ye’ll stop with such nonsense.”
“And what makes you think that I haven’t seen enough of the world?”
Gorm looked up from the contract straight into the priest’s mismatched eyes. “Yer still tryin’ to save it.”
Chapter 4
The upper levels of the Temple of Al’Matra were small towers occupied by bunk rooms and private chambers. Niln showed Gorm and Gleebek to the southwest tower on the third floor, to a tiny chamber illuminated by a thin slit of a window on the south wall. It was furnished with two decrepit bunks, two small chests, and an old wash bin.
“You may have your things sent here,” said Niln, inviting them in.
Gorm dropped his rucksack on the bottom bunk. Gleebek set down his single giltin and a dead rat he’d somehow acquired. “Done,” said Gorm.
“I see. Well, we shall have to pay a visit to the General Store. Come. I’ll take you to meet the others.”
“So I ain’t the first hero you’ve recruited, then?”
“Oh no, Mr. Ingerson. You are the fifth hero of destiny, and once we have the sixth, I shall become the seventh. We are remarkably close to beginning our quest.”
“I’ll try to contain my excitement.”
They exited the tower to a large rooftop terrace. Topiary bushes and s
mall tea trees grew from decorative pots, while weeds and small shrubs crept through cracks in the cobblestones and shingles. The air smelled of old wood and new leaves.
There were also a lot of statues. Many were the sculptures one would expect: depictions of the All Mother and her saints and her sacred falcons, but they were scattered around pieces that didn’t belong in a temple—or anywhere, as Gorm would have it. He glowered at a giant teacup carved from marble, filled with mahogany brew; scoffed at a large sandstone eyeball clasped delicately in a great onyx hand; and was disgusted to see an extensive collection of granite sea creatures scattered though the bushes.
A man was draped over the bench closest to them, plucking a cedar and mahogany lute. He wore a bright gold and vermilion tunic beneath a leather jerkin, and matching tights. He was thin, as was his neat black mustache. His hat was wide, as was his grin. “Hello, Master Niln,” he said. “Another successful day?”
“Indeed. Gorm Ingerson, meet Heraldin Strummons, our party’s bard,” said Niln.
“A pleasure,” Heraldin said. “Why does your name sound familiar?”
“Couldn’t say,” said Gorm.
“Mr. Ingerson is our new warrior,” said the high scribe.
“My condolences. What are you in for?” asked Heraldin.
“I’ll thank you for not making such jokes, Mr. Strummons,” said Niln, frowning.
“I’d wait until I stop first, were I you. What’s with the gobbo? Target practice?” The bard produced a throwing knife and casually sighted it on Gleebek, who yelped and ducked behind Gorm.
Gorm decided that Heraldin wasn’t quite so tolerable after all.
“Gleebek is Mr. Ingerson’s squire,” Niln interjected.
“You can’t be serious.” Heraldin sneered. “Why would we possibly bring a Goblin along? It’s unhygienic. And what use would it be?”
“I was thinkin’ the same thing about a bard,” Gorm shot back. According to the Heroes’ Guild’s Official Guide to Professional Heroics, bards were a class of hero possessing varied talents; uplifting songs could inspire a party to even greater acts of valor and daring. In Gorm’s experience, they weren’t good for much beyond absorbing incoming arrows.
“Mr. Strummons is more than just a bard,” Niln said. “He’s actually a rather accomplished, ah, improvisational locksmith? Or perhaps an acquisition specialist?”
“Why don’t ye just say he’s a thie—”
“Don’t say it!” The bard hushed him, leaping to his feet. After a conspiratorial look around, he continued in a hurried whisper. “We don’t use certain words to describe certain professional services that I used to provide, because if certain parties were to think that I was engaging in certain professions, a certain Benny Hookhand would certainly take me out to paint the town red. And I’d be the paint, if you catch my meaning.”
“We’re on top of a building,” said Gorm. “Who’s going to hear?”
“Don’t underestimate Benny Hookhand. Besides, I prefer to be a bard.”
“What, really?”
“Oh yes,” Heraldin added, strumming a chord and waggling his eyebrows. “You’d be surprised what women will do for a man with a lute.”
“Now that’s unhygienic.”
“Perhaps we should continue on,” said Niln hurriedly.
They walked across the terrace to where Gorm could see two figures facing away from each other on opposite ends of a stone bench, near the balcony that overlooked the city. One was a man in royal purple robes, reading a book. His head was shaven, although he had a neat black goatee. The other was a young woman in vibrant orange. Her long dark hair was loose, save for a single thin braid. She was not reading anything but was instead very actively engaged in not looking at the man. Both wore deep scowls.
“Oh gods,” said Gorm. “Ye hired a solamancer and a noctomancer?”
In the threads of magic that weave the world of Arth, there are two directions: the warp and the weft. A mage is a person who, through birthright and scholarship, can see and harness these threads for power or profit, or, as is so often the case, both. The great orders of wizardry are most notably distinguished by the threads of magic their members can see and touch. Solamancers, of the Sun, grasp the weft—the powers of fire and water, light and life. Noctomancers, of the Moon, wield the warp of magic—the forces of air and earth, shadow and death. There are many other differences between solamancers and noctomancers, of varying degree and nature: ceremonial, cultural, philosophical, and, all too often, violent.
“Oh, it gets batter than that,” said Heraldin.
“Master Jynn, Lady Laruna,” said Niln. “This is Gorm Ingerson, our new warrior, and his squire, Gleebek.”
“Gleebek!”
The wizard looked up with a face too gaunt to be friendly. Narrow Ruskan eyes peered from within pools of shadow above a hawkish nose and a thin mouth. “I see,” he said, scratching his beard. His vowels spun out slightly longer; traces of a Ruskan accent. “I am Jynn Ur’Gored of the Order of the Moon, High Councilor of the Circle of the Red Hawk.”
“I’m Laruna Trullon, Order of the Sun,” said the solamancer, talking over Jynn. “Eighth-rank mage with the Heroes’ Guild.” Her face, like the rest of her, was sharp and thin, and not unhandsome.
Gorm introduced himself and Gleebek. “I find it hard to believe ye two don’t mind workin’ together,” he added.
“Actually, I’d prefer if we don’t talk about it,” Jynn said.
“It’s best if you address us one at a time,” said Laruna, staring at Gorm pointedly. “And pretend the other isn’t there.”
Gorm turned to Niln. “Is this how it’s to be? They spend the whole quest not acknowledgin’ one another?”
“Gods, let’s hope so,” said Heraldin. “It’s so much better this way.”
“I think Mr. Ingerson was hoping to see that you can act as a team,” Niln told the mages, nodding in earnest encouragement.
“Oh, I’ve worked with many apprentices before,” said Jynn. “She won’t get in our way.”
Laruna spoke over him. “The newblood? Rank-one heroes go on quests all the time. He’ll catch up.”
The mages shot each other loathing glares.
“I don’t trust the Heroes’ Guild on matters of magic,” said Jynn to Gorm loudly. “They’re clearly working with forces they don’t understand.”
“I’d say the guild knows a lot about effectiveness,” Laruna remarked to no one in particular. “They’re far more able to get things done than stodgy old councilors from the academy.”
“Old?” Jynn demanded. “I’m not yet thirty. I’m the youngest man ever to sit on the Academic Council of Mages.”
“And it’s gone straight to his head,” Laruna told Gorm. “Besides, it’s all books and theory at the academy. I’ve actually been on quests. I’m eighth-rank.”
“Perhaps you’d value academic achievement more if you had any, apprentice,” snapped Jynn.
Laruna ignored the wizard. “I only need one more councilor’s vote and I’ll advance instantly,” she told Gorm. “Guess who’s holding me back?”
“You’ll have my vote when you’re ready,” said Jynn.
“I am ready,” said Laruna. “You’re just too stuck up and self-important to see it.”
“It only seems that way to the ignorant.”
“Watch your mouth, candle-wand!”
“Enough!” said Gorm. “Honestly, if ye two find each other so awful, I don’t see why you’ve chosen to sit at the same bench.”
The mages seemed somewhat perplexed by the sentiment.
“This is the best view in the temple,” said Jynn.
“Why should he have it?” said Laruna.
“Just … please don’t burn anything down,” sighed Niln.
They left the mages to their silent feud and worked their way to the side of the terrace, opposite Gorm and Gleebek’s bunk.
“Well, there’s an interestin’ party dynamic,” Gorm remarked. “Solamancer
s and noctomancers don’t always get along so great, but that was somethin’ else.”
“They share an unfortunate history,” Niln conceded. “After Jynn objected and blocked Laruna’s ascension to full magehood, they had a rather nasty duel.”
“So? Mages blast each other all the time.”
The Academy of Mages recognized sorcerous duels as a valid method of establishing social standing, or settling personal disagreements, or figuring out whose turn it was to do the dishes.
“Yes, but said duels are supposed to be sanctioned,” said Niln. “Unsanctioned duels must be reviewed in a committee hearing to determine how said duel started. That’s the problem.”
“Why? How’d the duel start?”
Niln stopped short. “Please don’t ask that question,” he said, pointing at Gorm. “Ever.”
Heraldin stepped in. “They’ll each swear the other started, and then they’ll just swear at each other, and then the fireworks will start.”
“They’ve burned down three courthouses so far,” said Niln, shaking his head.
“They’re that bad?” said Gorm.
“Bad enough to land them here,” said Heraldin with a grin.
Niln rebuked the bard again, but Gorm wasn’t listening; he was watching a tall figure who leaned against the far wall, a very large man wearing dark leather armor and a black hood. Most of his ebony face was concealed behind a crimson scarf, but even at this distance, Gorm could recognize him. The man’s face had haunted Gorm for twenty years.
“Iheen,” Gorm whispered.
“Who?” asked Heraldin. “No, that’s Gaist.”
Gorm shook his head. “It’s Iheen the Red.”
“Iheen the Red?” Realization lit up the bard’s face. “That’s where I know your name! You’re the berserker who ran and abandoned Johan!”
Gorm had already stopped paying attention to the bard again. There was a flicker of surprised recognition on Iheen’s face, but he quickly resumed staring stoically into the distance.
“Iheen,” Gorm said, extending a hand. “Iheen, it’s me—Gorm Ingerson.”
Iheen, or perhaps Gaist, said nothing.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 6