“Iheen? Or Gaist? Whatever ye call yerself, I can see ye know me.”
The man didn’t move a muscle.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Niln. “Gaist does not speak.”
“Not at all?”
“Not for over twenty years, according to guild records. Not since the Dungeon of … ah.” Niln trailed off awkwardly. “I suppose you know.”
It had been twenty-one years since the dark magics of Az’Anon the Spider King had bestowed a renewed vigor and a misanthropic worldview upon every corpse within a hundred miles of his black lair. It had taken Gorm and his party over a full day to carve a path through the dead army to Az’Anon’s front gate, and then the real horrors had begun.
“I ain’t been the same since,” said Gorm. “I don’t know why I thought he would.”
“Indeed,” said Niln. “However, I believe him to be a valuable member of our team. He was our first volunteer, after all.”
“Yeah, no surprise there,” said Heraldin.
“Oh?”
Niln tried to interject. “I don’t think—”
“Go look up the statue’s file at the Heroes’ Guild,” said Heraldin, gesturing at Gaist. “His license has more points than a Dire Porcupine’s backside, because for the past twenty years he’s been throwing himself at the biggest, nastiest monsters he can find—usually alone. All since he was horribly shamed. Any guesses as to what’s going on?”
Gorm knew. “He wants to die.”
“There’s a clever Dwarf,” said the bard. “And remember, he’s the only one who volunteered for this gig.”
“Yes, well, thank you Heraldin,” said Niln, without gratitude.
“How do ye know any of this if he doesn’t talk?” Gorm asked.
“Oh, he can communicate,” said Niln. “He has official papers, and he fills out enough paperwork to follow guild procedures. And it’s amazing what you can say with body language.”
“Especially when you’re using someone else’s body,” added Heraldin.
Gaist was as still and silent as the stone walrus he was standing beside, yet there was something in his posture, in the manner with which he set his jaw, or in the way his eyes managed to always be staring somewhere else, that said, very clearly, go away.
“Perhaps it would be better to continue this discussion elsewhere,” said Niln. “Come. I’ll see you back to your room.”
Heraldin waved to Gaist. “So long. Watch out for those pigeons.”
“Don’t worry,” Niln said as they made their way back across the terrace. “Gaist may not do much here, but he’s actually quite good with a blade. A rank-six weaponsmaster, in fact.”
“All the more reason to worry,” said Gorm.
“Excuse me?” said Niln.
“Do ye know the number one cause of death among professional heroes?”
“I’m fairly certain it’s getting eaten by something or other.”
“Maybe a long time ago, but not anymore.”
“Oh! Is it falling in pits?” Niln guessed. “I heard a lot of heroes die because they don’t have a rope.”
“Ain’t pits.”
“We’ve bought several ropes,” Niln offered feebly.
“It’s inter-party conflict.” Gorm spoke with a weariness born from experience.
He had lost many friends to fights within their party. Sometimes a hero had something to prove. Sometimes they had a different agenda. Sometimes there were spectacular battles, and sometimes there wasn’t even a fight at all; a “forgotten” healing potion or a lever pulled at the wrong moment was all it took to be rid of an inconvenient companion. Whatever the cause or method, the leading killer of professional heroes was other professional heroes.
“You’ve got an unstable, suicidal man with a small arsenal in our camp,” said Gorm. “And then you brought in a pair of mages with a history of burning down buildings. And a bard who keeps talkin’ like he wants a punch in the face. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Heraldin. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”
“I don’t think I would,” said Gorm. “The point is, you’ve assembled a better powder keg than a party. Ye think these people are going to fight together? Could ye stand and face a tentacled horror from beyond time and space and know, absolutely know, that they’ll have your back?”
Niln seemed at a loss for words. He looked to Heraldin, but the bard gave the scribe nothing more than a shrug before walking away.
“It’s like I said before. Ye don’t know what you’re doin’,” Gorm pressed. “Ye can only play at being a hero for so long before the truth catches up to ye and kills ye in some horrible way. Professional heroics is all a laugh, until it isn’t anymore.”
“I’m not playing!”
“Well, ye sure as fire ain’t a professional. And amateurs don’t last long in a dungeon. Ye want to die for the mad queen, it’s your business. But you’re taking me and Gleebek and the others along as well. Why drag all of us into it?”
“I …” Niln began, and then thought better of it and started over. “People always say that we must stand up for what we believe in.”
“They’re not talkin’ to you!” barked Gorm. “They’re talkin’ to people who don’t believe in stupid things! They’re talkin’ to people who think the same way everyone else does, or something close enough!”
Niln’s mouth opened and closed like a fish on the shore.
“Come on, Gleebek,” Gorm said.
“Spooty, Gleebek zuggog nub da bibbot.”
Gorm made it to his chamber before Niln caught him. “I can learn!” the high scribe called, running down the hall. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing. But you do. You did it for years. I read about it: the time they called you the Pyrebeard. I’m willing to learn.”
Gorm could see the earnestness in the man’s eyes, next to the inexperience and the folly. “But I ain’t willing to teach,” he said, and closed the door.
Gorm was half undressed for bed when he heard a knock on his door. Technically, Gleebek was too, but the Goblin was always half-undressed. Gorm took a moment to throw on his chain mail and cloak before answering the knock.
A relatively small member of the Silver Talons, wearing ill-fitting armor, informed them that Mr. Flinn expected Gorm to come and assist him with some recruitment.
“Why me?” asked Gorm. “Ain’t he got a whole troupe of ye Talons?”
“Oh yes, sir,” said the mercenary, pulling Gorm aside. “But if we were to, aha, convince a hero to join us against his or her will, that’s very much akin to capturing them, and attempting to capture or restrain heroes is very clearly thuggery. But the bulk of the Silver Talons’ certified thugs are stationed in Aberreth, and here in Andarun we’re mostly just goons.”
“That makes sense,” conceded Gorm.
The Thugs’ Union and the League of Goons existed to provide discreet protection and rule enforcement to private entities, but thugs also specialized in the control and suppression of licensed heroes. Plenty of taverns, shops, and politicians had a vested interest in keeping nearby heroes in line, and even the Heroes’ Guild employed thugs to retrieve or discipline wayward members. The Thugs’ Union maintained that heroes belonged deep in dungeons, not in intrigues, and it worked to protect the image of thuggery as a respected and valued part of society.
“Attempting to coerce guild members is very dangerous work,” said the pimply little Silver Talon, which was true. Good thugs were nearly as fearsome as professional heroes. Mediocre thugs were famously short lived. “Do you know what health insurance costs if you’re dealing with professional heroes without thug certifications?”
“The premiums must be mad.”
“Totally insane, sir. Technically, my policies could get voided just for talking to a hero for too long. So, uh, if you could …”
Gorm thanked the young mercenary and sent him on his way. Once he was properly dressed, he made his way down to the sanctuary.
Mr. Flinn greeted Gorm with a mocking bow. “Ah, Mr. Ingerson. An honor. It’s not every day that I stand in the presence of a hero of destiny.”
“I was hopin’ it wouldn’t be today either. We’ve no business, mercenary.”
“I’m afraid I must correct you there.”
“I signed the contract. I’m already recruited.”
“Yes, and now you and I share an employer,” said Mr. Flinn. “Master Niln sends a request that you join Mr. Brunt and myself in recruiting the sixth and final hero.”
“Don’t see why ye’d need my help.”
“Our candidate is currently in one of the most disreputable establishments in one of the most unsavory districts of Andarun. More arms are always welcome.”
“Brunt seems like a capable lad,” said Gorm. “I’m sure ye can manage.”
“Perhaps you have forgotten the nature of the employer–employee relationship, Mr. Ingerson. When Master Niln sends an order, your opinion on the matter is optional. Your compliance is not.” Mr. Flinn produced a small slip of paper with an address scrawled on it. “You will meet us at this address in one hour. Wait outside for us, preferably with a professional smile.”
Gorm gave a professional smile, which was very much like baring his teeth at the Gnome. “See ye in an hour,” he growled, and left the Gnome to his own devices.
The address was outside of Andarun’s walls in the Riverdowns, a network of rickety docks and ancient warehouses that looked to be slowly sinking into, or perhaps pulling themselves from, the Tarapin River. Gorm and Gleebek made their way along a rotting boardwalk, past decrepit hovels and timber skeletons of boathouses, until they came to the tavern Flinn had directed them to.
The Randy Goat leaned over the river’s main channel, leering at the trade barges and river skiffs that bobbed on the water. Its broken widows glowed with golden light in the sapphire evening; through them rang laughter, swearing, and raucous commotion. Battered men, broken stools, and other wreckage from a bar brawl were heaped along the boardwalk outside.
Gorm stamped up to the tavern, eyeing a sign that depicted a young barmaid trying to preserve her modesty while a mischievous goat consumed her skirt.
“He calls this disreputable?” he said to Gleebek. “Me Da took me to worse places when I was knee high.”
An unfortunate patron burst through a third-story window and plunged screaming into the swirling river. Gleebek edged closer to Gorm.
“Fair ’nough,” Gorm said, scowling at the window. “I still seen worse.”
Gorm leaned against a dock post while he waited, and Gleebek sat down uneasily on a large coil of barge rope. Whenever the Goat’s patrons quieted to a dull commotion, they could hear the Tarapin burbling beneath them, and the creaks and bumps of the barges tied at the docks down the way.
It was well past the hour they had agreed upon when Mr. Flinn finally arrived, Brunt thundering along behind him. The Tinderkin greeted Gorm and Gleebek cordially and thanked them for waiting.
“Just tell us what ye want us to do.” Gorm snorted.
“Wait here,” said Flinn.
Gorm felt the veins in his forehead throbbing. “But ye—”
“Not all of the heroes we recruit are as cooperative as yourself, Mr. Ingerson,” said Mr. Flinn with a small laugh. “We need the exit covered should our newest recruit decide to flee.”
“So we’re just to stop anyone who comes runnin’ from the tavern.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Flinn. He watched a figure lurch out the bar door and shamble down the causeway. “But with any luck, it won’t come to that. People usually can’t walk straight after a stint at the Goat, let alone make a successful run. Come, Mr. Brunt.”
Gorm glowered after the Gnome and the Ogre as they pushed their way into the bar.
“Grot ga gi’zub?”
“Nothin’ to be done,” snorted Gorm. He leaned back against the wall, and startled something some way down a half-submerged alleyway.
“Hey!” called a pile of rags, dragging itself from the shadows. It was a man, draped in old cloths and rusting chain mail. He stared at Gorm with dark eyes set in sallow skin, and clutched his freely bleeding forearm. “Hey, you gotta help me!”
“Get lost,” Gorm told him.
“I’ve been wounded,” he gasped, crawling over to Gorm. His words came in bursts of gravelly slurring. “I need salve. Bad. Got any … got any salve?”
“Gub ga’dubba sa?” said Gleebek, glancing worriedly at the man.
“What? No, don’t worry about him. He’s a salve-head.” Gorm pantomimed a swig from an imaginary bottle. “He’s addicted to healing potions.”
The miraculous elixirs known collectively as healing potions saved countless lives, but easy access to draughts that could bring a man from the brink of death to perfect health in seconds had some less-pleasant consequences. It wasn’t unusual for a hero to sustain multiple life-threatening wounds on any given quest, and a hero in demand might end up consuming his or her weight in salve during a busy month.
After that much exposure to sorcerous healing, a person could begin to like the sensation of the elixirs, or even to need it. The streets of Arth’s cities were littered with ex-heroes who had become too dependent on salve to adventure, or to find another job, or to do anything beyond acquire more healing potions.
They sat in gutters and alleyways, hacking at themselves and bleeding on passersby until they found someone either kind or disgusted enough to toss them the potion they craved. Some of the greatest heroes in history wound up bleeding to death on a busy sidewalk, waiting for someone to pass them a taste of elixir.
Gleebek tugged at Gorm’s cloak. “Sa’kubbat,” the goblin insisted, pointing at the wounded man.
“No, look, you’re being …” Gorm shook his hands in consternation, and then tried to pantomime a man slitting his own wrists. “He … cut, see? Cut … himself. He did it to get free potions.”
The addict shook his grisly appendage at the Dwarf. “No, no, I didn’t … Look … Help! I got cut on … on a something! It was sharp.”
“Sod off. I ain’t got any healing potions, anyway.”
“How … how about some gold, then? I can buy some at the Goat.”
“That’s the last thing ye need,” Gorm grumbled, eyeing a couple of bleeding figures slumped outside the Goat’s door. “Go see the Temple of Fulgen instead. They’ll help ye.”
“Hey … Hey, I’m a hero,” tried the addict, pulling himself to his feet and staggering after them. “I … I can kill that goblin for you. For some gold. Or salve.”
Gleebek squeaked and ducked behind Gorm. “Easy on the threats, lad,” Gorm said. “He’s an NPC.”
The addict squinted in confusion. “You … you don’t want me to kill the goblin?”
“Course not.”
“Okay, fine.” The hero took an unstable step forward as he drew a bloody knife. “Give me some gold or I kill the goblin.”
“Pauperz!” Gleebek chirped, presenting his documents.
“I ain’t got time for this,” grumbled Gorm, standing. He stamped up to the bleeding addict, grabbed him by the collar, pulled him closer, and delivered a punch like a hammer blow to the man’s forehead. The man’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed with a feeble groan.
“Thrice-cursed salve heads,” Gorm muttered, shaking the grime off his hand. He started away, but then thought for a moment and returned to bind the man’s wound with one of the fellow’s cleaner rags. When the wound was stable, he relieved the unconscious hero of the dagger.
“Grot zub?”
“Payment for medical services,” he explained to Gleebek, cleaning the blade on his cloak as he leaned back against the side of the Goat. He offered the knife to Gleebek. “Here,” he said.
The goblin seemed unsure what to do, as if this was the first time someone had ever pointed the dull end of a blade at him. He pointed to the weapon. “Ra gub’pogti Tib’rin ixit nork?”
“Aye, whatever ye said. Take it.
”
Gleebek lifted the weapon with reverent claws, and stood up straighter to carefully slide it into his fur belt. “Ra da’pogtiz,” he said fiercely. “Da’klibbo.”
“Aye. Look, it’s just a knife,” said Gorm, trying to suppress a grin.
Flinn’s voice rose above the Goat’s din. “No, Mr. Brunt, this way! Yes, and mind that table. Oh, please excuse me.”
“Sounds like Mr. Flinn’ll be needin’ us soon,” Gorm told Gleebek.
“Grot?”
Someone else was shouting something, but Flinn cut him off. “Mr. Brunt! Would you assist this fellow in excusing us?”
Gorm took a step back, directing Gleebek to do the same. A moment later, the door was blasted from its hinges by an airborne bouncer, who skidded across the boardwalk and barely managed to avoid falling into the river by catching the edge of a plank.
Brunt rumbled through the newly widened portal. “Beg … pardon!” he roared, and then, noticing the bouncer dangling from the plank, he stomped heavily on the boardwalk. Boards shook and cracked under the force, neatly depositing the hapless bouncer in the river. The Ogre gave a semi-satisfied snort.
“Woo! Look out!” called an Elf, stumbling through the doorway.
She was tall, with slender features and long pointed ears, as is the nature of Elves, but she was shouting and gesturing in a way that wasn’t Elven at all. Her fern-green leather armor and matching jade and drake-hide bracers were stained with what Gorm could only hope was a spilled drink. She was the very image of grace and beauty, leaning on Flinn’s shoulder to avoid falling on her face.
“Ah, Mr. Ingerson,” said Flinn through gritted teeth. “Perhaps you and your squire would be so kind?”
“I suppose.” Gorm threw the Elf’s other arm over his shoulder. She reeked of spiced wine and grog.
Flinn handed Gleebek a rucksack and a fine bow. “Ah, excellent. It has been, shall we say, an eventful outing.”
“I’m a hero of destiny!” hollered the Elf.
“Apologies. I forget my manners,” said Flinn, grimacing. “May I introduce—”
“Ay! Someone’s gonna pay for that door!” someone shouted from behind them.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 7