Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1)

by J. Zachary Pike

  An attendant placed a scroll bound with a scarlet ribbon on the table. “You’ll find these documents lay out the key objectives of your quest,” she said. “We’ve taken the liberty of scheduling a meeting with the ambassador from House Tyrieth for the day after tomorrow. I’m told a Mr. Flinn will have the details.”

  “I just expected something a little more …” said Niln, clutching the pouch and the maroon binder. “It’s just not what I was … I mean, we’re the Heroes of Destiny.” It was almost a question to the royal attendant.

  “Yes, well, right now, we need this conference room,” said the attendant, making an apologetic face. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to continue your meeting elsewhere.”

  The heroes were ushered out of the room and directed down the hall. Rather than follow the others, Gorm excused himself and set off down the stone hallway in the opposite direction. Gleebek came skittering after him.

  Something didn’t settle well in his stomach. It was good that the job was a simple fetch quest, and it sounded more dull than dangerous. Years of adventuring had taught Gorm to appreciate an uninteresting adventure; fewer heroes came back from the exciting ones. But as good as the quest for the Elven marbles sounded, it didn’t make any sense, and only one man had answers.

  He caught up to the man in a small atrium at the top of a short staircase. “Johan,” Gorm called up to him.

  “Oh. Gorm. Look, I really do want to catch up, but no time to talk. You can thank me for getting you the gig later.”

  “Ye can spare a few minutes for a hero of destiny,” said Gorm. “Wait. Ye recruited me for this … this Al’Matran nonsense?”

  “Well, we had the Silver Talons recruit you. Ha ha! But I was the one who suggested it. Like I said, thank me later.”

  “I ain’t thanking ye. I’m blaming ye.”

  Johan’s perpetual grin finally broke. “You … I thought you’d be ecstatic.”

  “Oh, aye, I’m sure ye hired mercenaries to haul me along because ye thought I’d be ecstatic for bein’ wrapped up in the Mad Queen’s schemes.”

  “Hey, listen, I knew I’d need some muscle to keep some of the heroes in line,” said Johan. “People worry about career and image and things like that. A couple of union thugs helps them get their priorities straight. But you, and I say this as nicely as possible, you don’t really have that problem, right? What career or image do you have left to damage? I mean, you’re traveling with a Goblin, Gorm. No offense, little guy. Ha ha!”

  “Gleebek!”

  “I thought you’d jump at the chance to clear your record,” said Johan. “It’s the chance to be a hero again, the chance the guild never gave you. You could get a few points, make it back in the game.”

  “Aye, back in the game for long enough to get cut down in some sort of lunacy. Ye know what happens to Al’Matrans on quests. It usually involves cleaning ’em up with a mop.”

  “Yes, but this is sponsored by the Temple of Tandos. We’re not going to let that happen.”

  “And there’s another thing that don’t smell right. Why are you Tandosians helping the Al’Matrans? Why’s the king involved? Why send the prophet of an insane goddess on an important diplomatic mission? Ye ain’t playing straight with me.”

  “All right, all right!” said Johan, holding his hands up. He dismissed his attendants with a nod, and turned back to Gorm once they were out of earshot.

  “Look, the Al’Matrans have a problem.” Johan leaned in, speaking low and close and fast. “A second high scribe pops up and starts stirring things up with more Seventh Hero prophecies. The Al’Matrans don’t want another batch of dead heroes on their record any more than you do. Plus, most of the last wars between the Al’Matrans and Tandosians were started by so-called Seventh Heroes, and nobody thinks the Al’Matrans can survive another war. And then King Handor has a problem, because this business of the Elven Marbles is blowing up. The markets are down, Gorm, and the king’s coffers are emptying. The last thing he needs is some strife between the Elves and the Shadowkin.

  “So I had an idea. The Tempe of Tandos sponsored this Seventh Hero, and now we get a say on where he goes and what he does. The Al’Matrans can save face, because if he doesn’t like his quests or his treatment, they can blame the Tandosians for holding him back. Do you follow?’

  “Aye,” said Gorm, still reluctant. “So why put him on an important quest?”

  “Because at the end of all this trouble someone is going to be angry that they didn’t get all of the Elven Marbles, be it the Orcs or the Elves. By appointing the Seventh Hero to sort out the business and choose who gets the stones, we make sure they’ll be angry at you, or the Al’Matrans, or maybe even the Tandosians. Ha! But they won’t blame the crown, or at least not as much as they would have, and that’s the key. Stability.”

  “True,” said Gorm.

  “Everybody wins,” said Johan. “The Al’Matrans are spared embarrassment or even a war over this Seventh Hero business. The Temple of Tandos avoids an unsightly conflict with the Al’Matrans and gains influence with the king. The king gets to hand this headache with the marbles to somebody else. And you and your friends traveling with Niln get your careers back on track after one simple fetch quest.”

  “Aye, but only until Niln dreams up some sort of suicide mission,” said Gorm.

  “Gorm, if he does that, how do we benefit? People knew the last Seventh Hero was mad once he took on the dragon, and it was a public relations nightmare for the Al’Matrans. Why would I want that for my own temple?”

  “I suppose ye wouldn’t,” Gorm conceded.

  “I definitely wouldn’t,” said Johan. “I just need you to be on board with this one job. You settle the matter of the marbles, we declare your quest a success, and then we say the Seventh Hero is awaiting his destiny or something. You can even take on other gigs while you wait. You’ll have a career again.”

  “Just one quest,” said Gorm. All that stood between him and his old life, the good life, was finding a set of rocks and handing them to the Elves.

  “That’s all I’m asking,” said Johan. “Unless that statue comes to life. Then we might have to call you up again. Ha ha!”

  “Ha.” Possibilities danced before Gorm’s eyes. The Khazad’im Clan might take him back in. He could see his brothers, visit Da’s urn at the ancestral shrine. He might even make it to this year’s Feast of Orchids. If they could finish the quest in time.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “Ha ha! I knew it!” said Johan. “That’s why I chose you for this mission. I know that in the end, you’ll always do the right thing.”

  “Aye.” Gorm nodded, barely listening. They’d need more training, of course. It was just a matter of managing personalities and getting the combat dynamics down. They could start preparations tomorrow. Tonight, even. With any luck, he’d be catching an orchid in the autumn festival.

  “Look, I can see you’re already excited about the job,” said Johan. “I’m excited. This is exciting. But I really need to be going. Are we good?”

  “Aye,” said Gorm, momentarily surfacing from his plans. “Aye, we are.”

  “Great. And let’s keep this conversation to ourselves, shall we? The whole plan will kind of go south if Niln gets wind of it, I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Aye. Aye, I’ll not speak of it. I … thank ye, Johan.”

  Johan’s teeth gleamed an uncanny white, “Don’t mention it, Gorm,” he said. “I’m counting on you.”

  Chapter 6

  Something had excited the market.

  Whenever something riled up the traders around the Wall, the Broad Steps would fill with merchants and businessmen waving certificates and bank notes. They whirled around the banks and markets in a raucous squall, buying and selling shares in a flurry of trades. Dungeon hoards, plunder funds, companies, and commodities changed hands rapidly, driving impossibly complex trends that every broker was desperately trying to predict.

  Gorm didn’t care whe
ther the prices were rising or falling, but he had a lot to say about the market activity—especially the parts of it that were blocking the Broad Steps.

  “Bloody thrice-cursed ashen bones,” he shouted as another trader bumped into him. “Get out of my way!”

  The merchant ignored him, and rushed off shouting for someone selling Dragon of Wynspar.

  “We’ve got to make it back to the temple before dark,” Gorm told Gleebek. “We start training tonight.”

  “Grot?”

  “Burn this mob. This way!” Gorm ducked off the Broad Steps, turned down a side street, and headed Ridgeward. He moved like a Scribkin steam engine, pounding down the street so fast that Gleebek had to run to keep up. As fast as he moved, he couldn’t catch up to his mind. A professional hero again! A reinstated license, a clean record, and all the riches and fame that professional heroics could bring were within reach once more. Success wasn’t a certainty, but it was a possibility, and that was better than he’d had a couple of nights ago.

  “Suggich! Ra gi’deek nub zib!”

  “Of course I’m going for it!” Gorm barked. “I got a chance to get back everything I lost, everything I dreamed of for the past twenty years. And me only other options are facin’ guild justice or sulking until the so-called Seventh Hero gets us all killed. I’d be mad not to try to make it work.”

  “Grot?”

  “The high scribe is totally green, if ye’ll pardon the expression. He wouldn’t last two minutes against a Goblin, no offense. Eh …” It dawned on Gorm that a surprisingly large portion of heroic jargon centered on demeaning, if not killing, Shadowkin, and for once he was glad that Gleebek probably had no idea what he was saying. “Look, point is, he ain’t really a professional hero. We’ve got to get him enough skills to stay alive.”

  “Spooty, da zuggog na’guggin ra’root.”

  “Aye, and ye too. I’ll teach ye knife work with Niln. Just enough to keep ye on your feet while we’re on the quest. Then we can get ye a real job …” Gorm trailed off. Of course, once the quest was over, Gleebek would need a new line of work as a servant in a tavern, or a stablehand, or a farm worker. Almost any job would be better than roaming about with Gorm; Goblins, as a general rule, don’t last in close proximity to professional heroes.

  Gorm shook his head and charged on.

  “I don’t know how good the bard is. If he used to be a thief, he should know how to handle a dagger or a short sword. And we’ll have to find a way to get the mages fightin’ like a team if they’re to be any use. But they’ve got the foundations of heroics, something to build on. This could work.”

  They took a shortcut through a small park, to stairs that led down another three tiers.

  “And we’ve got a top-notch ranger. Well, at least she’s been on big campaigns before. I know it’s been awhile, and I’ve heard about the bad spells, but let me tell ye, Gleebek, Kaitha used to be something.”

  “Tib’rin!”

  “All the bards were singing about her back when I was on me Da’s knee. There’s greatness just beneath the surface. We just got to bring it out. Keep her head in the game and out of the bottle. I can make it work.”

  “Gi’nub zib been.”

  “Well, of course I can always count on Iheen. Or Gaist. Whatever he’s callin’ himself. Might be a bit unstable now, but it sounds like he can still handle a sword.”

  They were almost to the Temple of Al’Matra. Gorm was nearly running.

  “Take me, and that’s three veterans. Then we’ve got three unknowns, the high scribe, and a Goblin squire.” Gorm rushed through the temple gate. “We won’t be slayin’ any dragons anytime soon. Ha! I doubt we could take on a young wyvern.” He bounded up the temple stairs. “But for a fetch quest? We’ll be fighting bandits and giant rats. Maybe a few Orcs, if things go badly. We can handle that.”

  Heraldin was waiting at the top of the steps. “There you are,” he said. “I was asked to—”

  “We can do this,” Gorm shouted, grabbing the bard by the arms and shaking vigorously. “It’s going to work!”

  “What’s going to work?”

  “This quest. This plan. We’re goin’ to make it, lad! We just need to work together. It’s going to—”

  The temple wall erupted, a wall of scarlet fire blasting from it like a sideways volcano, spouting over the edge of the stairs just a few feet from where Gorm stood. Marble pillars around the obliterated wall began to glow red with the heat. Ceremonial shrubs ignited. Gorm could feel his whiskers singing.

  Heraldin shot him a knowing grin. “Good luck with that,” he said.

  Gleebek stared at the flames, his arms limp by his sides. “Spug …”

  A figure became visible within the torrent of fire, steadily skidding backwards as the force of the assault drove him toward the edge of the stairs. Jynn’s sorcerous shield winked out as the flames subsided. The cobbles on either side of him were charred and bubbling, but the wizard and the stones behind him were unharmed.

  “Do you see?” Jynn snarled at Gorm. He waved a hand at the smoldering hole in the temple. “Do you see what I have to deal with here? This is the kind of rank amateurism that marks an apprentice! I … uh!”

  The noctomancer barely had time to re-weave his shielding spell before another blast of fire slammed into him. Gorm could hear Laruna shrieking something unintelligible over the roar of the fire.

  “Oh, very mature!” Jynn hollered. He strode back into the smoldering temple as his shield blinked away again. “As if that’s a rational argument!”

  Heraldin turned to Gorm. “Well, it was a nice thought,” he said. “But I still don’t think our chances are good.”

  “I didn’t say anything about chances,” Gorm growled. “I said it’s going to work. Come on.”

  Inside, the temple was chaos. Acolytes rushed around with buckets and urns of water, while several priestesses tried to spare some ancient scrolls and statues from the growing flames. The other heroes were rushing toward the fight as well. Gorm spotted Niln shouting and waving his arms at Jynn. The wizard, however, was engaged in a shouting match with a pillar of fire that was rising from the floor. And at the center of the pillar was Laruna.

  Blazing energy spiraled around the solamancer in a sorcerous cyclone. The young woman’s face was a mask of rage, and something behind it burned with a fury bright enough to send a fiery orange glow streaming from her eyes and mouth.

  “Blood and ashes, that’s a lot of fire,” said Gorm.

  Heraldin nodded in agreement and subconsciously checked his eyebrows.

  “Still, only one thing to be done for it,” said Gorm. He leapt over a fallen pew and started at a full sprint.

  Gorm had fought his fair share of wizards and mages in his day. They tended to turn villainous more than any other class of hero. When one made a habit of unraveling the fabric of the universe and twisting the strands back together to suit one’s whims, things like guild rules and the law and basic decency seemed less and less immutable. And since there were so many magic-using foes out in the field, warrior heroes came in only two varieties: those who knew how to fight mages, and extra crispy.

  Gorm ran around the sanctuary until he was directly behind Laruna, and then he switched suddenly to a full sprint directly toward her. The Solamancer was so engrossed in her conflict with Jynn that she didn’t even turn until Gorm was launching himself into the air. The pillar of fire around her dissipated as Gorm’s shoulder slammed into her, sending her flying into the wall. She slid to the ground with a faint cry.

  Jynn approached as Gorm was struggling to his feet. “I must say, that was surprisingly effective,” said the wizard.

  “Aye. On account of the first principle of fightin’ wizards.”

  “What’s that?”

  Gorm dropped him with a hammer punch to the jaw. “Surprise,” he said.

  It took a bucket of water to rouse the mages. By the time they were standing, the other heroes had gathered around.

  �
�Listen up,” said Gorm. “I know better than to say there ain’t going to be any more fights in the party. Nobody ever stopped inter-party violence just by askin’. But I will say that if there are any more fights in the party, I’m gonna join them. And I’m gonna win. And whoever loses is going to very much regret it. Understood?”

  He stared at each of them in turn. The mages nodded sullenly. Kaitha and Heraldin seemed more surprised. Niln looked decidedly suspicious. “Why do you care all of a sudden?” the high scribe asked.

  “Because we’re going into the field soon, and this kind of nonsense gets heroes killed every day. So tomorrow, first thing, we start training. And we’re going to work together, like a bloody team of thrice-cursed professionals who know that our lives depend on each other. And then we’re going find those thrice-cursed marbles, and finish this bloody quest, and we’re going to do it fast! Because this is going to work, burn it!”

  Niln sat at his desk. A honeycomb of cubbies and drawers ran around the walls of his study, all crammed with scrolls and parchments. Pale moonlight shone through his solitary window; candlelight illuminated the blank page in front of him. He held a quill at the ready, waiting.

  The scripture began.

  And Lo, the six were gathered by the High Scribe and blessed by the King, as was foretold by the prophet Asepth.

  Niln’s quill glided across the page quickly, effortlessly, and without thought. Holy text was left in its wake.

  And I saw two vines: one growing from the sea, and one from the forest.

  A vision of two titanic vines, spread from the ocean to the Green Span, appeared behind the goddess’s words.

  The vine from the sea grew up a great mountain, and entwyned the top, and set out roots. And the vine from the forest grew up the same path, and bloomed in Death, and smote the vine from the sea. And the sea vine burned, and the blossoms of the forest vine rose up, and the vine of the forest Lived once more, and entwyned the mountain.