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

by J. Zachary Pike

  “Oh, sorry.” Gorm opened the old oak door.

  Burt stopped halfway indoors. “You’ll think about them Orcs, won’t you?”

  “Aye,” lied Gorm. “I will.”

  The Kobold nodded and left Gorm to his thoughts.

  He had a lot of them.

  Jynn shook his head. “Wrong. Again.”

  Laruna knew he would say that. The phrase was the beat behind the endless drone of these thrice-cursed training sessions. She had spent every spare moment of her day standing in the same bleak, empty, and recently charred courtyard behind the temple, hurling fire at a wall of scorched stone while listening to Jynn’s ceaseless litany of correction.

  She’d sent more flame blasts and fireballs at the far wall than even she thought possible, leaving her drained. Exhausted. She felt like a husk of herself. “I need to rest.”

  “Again,” said Jynn.

  A sudden flash of annoyance flared up within her. Laruna stoked her irritation by thinking of Jynn and his inept lessons, of the Dwarf who had suggested this ridiculous arrangement, and of Niln, who had allowed it. The spark grew into anger, and then into a rage that seared down her arms and leaped from her hands as a pair of fireballs, which she flung at the stone ridge.

  The spells hadn’t hit the ridge before Jynn spoke. “Wrong. Again.”

  “How many times do I have to do this?” breathed Laruna. “I don’t even know what you want.”

  “I want you to channel two threads. Try again.”

  “I can’t.” She was beyond anger. Beyond caring.

  “Again!”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m an apprentice,” she said.

  “An apprentice? This is how I train neophytes. This is the first lesson on the first day.”

  Tears welled in Laruna’s eyes. She was too tired to care. “I can’t.”

  “You can. You have enviable power, Laruna, but you don’t wield it like a mage. You must learn to weave magic instead of just throwing it. Now, again.”

  “This is how I cast spells!”

  “We are here to unlearn your bad habits. Again.”

  Laruna raised her hands and reached out, straining to find magic that wasn’t tied to her emotions. To her surprise, she felt something, a faint heat, a whisper of fire building around her fingertips. She gasped as two thin tendrils of golden light spouted from her palm and wavered upward. The magic wasn’t flame, yet it was the essence of flame, dancing uncertainly in her hand.

  “I did it,” she whispered. “I’m weaving.”

  Jynn nodded. “Now split the thread.”

  “No, I’m actually weaving! I’ve never done this before.”

  “You still haven’t, technically. Split the thread, and then we’ll weave them.”

  “I mean, this is new. This is progress. You could say as much,” growled Laruna, shaking her hands at the wizard in frustration. The gesture disrupted her concentration, and the feeble threads of magic dissipated.

  “Wrong,” said Jynn. “Again.”

  Laruna looked at her empty hands, and then back to the wizard.

  Jynn stared back at her impassively. “Again,” he repeated.

  The apathy and exhaustion burned away in a blaze of white-hot fury, searing from her very core outward as she loosed an enraged scream. A pillar of flame erupted from the ground beneath her feet, soaring higher than the temple walls for a moment before she loosed the spell. The whole courtyard was lost in a maelstrom of fire and heat, with Laruna screaming her hatred and anger in the middle of it.

  By the time the flames left her, Laruna didn’t even have the strength to stand. She dropped to the ground next to Jynn just as his magical shield winked out of existence. It seemed like an eternity before she felt her arms again, and even longer before her breathing calmed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Shut up,” Laruna rasped, pushing herself to her knees.

  “Good,” he said. “That was wrong. Again.”

  Chapter 8

  “A titanium rune-forged blade with pyromantic sharpening and recursive honing enchantments,” said Gorm, reverently holding the battle-axe. He could feel the sorcery hum within the weapon as he tested the weight of it. “Magically calibrated haft balancing with a strength-enhancing shoulder, trademarked thunder-strike axehead, and a drake-skin comfort-fit grip.”

  “I can see I’m dealing with a Dwarf of discriminating taste,” said the man behind the counter of The Weapon Store, a wholly owned subsidiary of The General Store Incorporated.

  Gorm smiled and set the enchanted blade on the counter. “I pick up a little here and there,” he said with false modesty.

  Niln stood next to him, clearly attempting to conceal his ignorance with the most thoughtful and focused expression he could muster. It wasn’t working; Gorm thought the high scribe looked like he was sick in the bowels, and it was still plain as day that he didn’t have a clue what he was looking at.

  “How much does it cost?” Niln asked. He tried to heft the axe, failed, and settled for testing its edge instead.

  “A thousand giltin,” said the clerk.

  “A thousand—ow!”

  “Do be careful, sir,” said the clerk, wiping the blade clean with a little cloth. “It’s very sharp.”

  Niln sucked the tip of his bleeding thumb and glared at them both.

  “Will you be purchasing the axe, then, sir?” the clerk asked Gorm. “Or perhaps some time with the training golems would help you make your decision?”

  “Nay,” said Gorm. “I’d wager ye’d have to be rank four before the Heroes Guild would let ye use that axe.”

  “Five,” said the clerk.

  “Well, either way ye slice it, I ain’t got the ranks. Not anymore.”

  “A pity, sir. You held it well.”

  “A pity for sure, but the guild does as it must. If ye let just anyone off the street wield enchanted weapons, well, ye know what would happen.”

  Gorm and the clerk both looked at Niln, who was still attempting to staunch his bleeding thumb.

  “Indeed, sir,” said the clerk. He offered Gorm a short sword. “Perhaps you would consider a sword of truth?”

  Gorm took the blade and gave it a thorough examination. “What’s it do?”

  “It glows white-hot whenever you have an epiphany,” explained the clerk.

  “Ain’t sure how often that happens in the heat of battle,” said Gorm. “How much ye asking?”

  “Eight hundred giltin.”

  “Eight hundred?” snorted Gorm. “This thing’s overpriced.”

  The sword flared with white light as Gorm set it back on the counter. “No, I think a couple of vials of blade-flame for old reliable will do it for me weapon,” said Gorm, patting his old axe.

  “Certainly, sir.” The clerk made a small note on the heroes’ tallysheet, which was growing rather long. “Anything else?”

  “What have ye got for armor?”

  “I think you’ll be quite pleased with the newest full plate, sir,” offered the clerk. “Made with Tru-lite Steel and forged with crystals harvested from snow elemental hearts. Doesn’t smother you like the old full plate models. Guaranteed to stay cool and breathable in battle.”

  “Party’s not running any heavy duty,” said Gorm. “More of a skirmishing outfit.”

  “With two mages? Who takes the punishment?”

  “Well, hopefully the other guy,” joked Gorm. He and the clerk shared a good laugh.

  “Well said, sir. We do have a chain-mail model from the same line. Very resilient. And a padded-leather interior.”

  “Ye’ve got me attention,” said Gorm. The clerk nodded and headed out back.

  Niln and Gorm watched the other heroes moving through the store, browsing racks that bristled with every sort of weapon imaginable. Laruna and Jynn hovered around a collection of staves. Heraldin was experimenting with glass globes that burst into brightly colored clouds when thrown to the ground. Gaist stood, arms crossed, in front of a huge rack
of knives and swords, while Kaitha browsed through a collection of bows. Gleebek roamed aimlessly throughout the store, followed by an uproar of sound and light as weapons sang, leapt, lit aflame, and glowed various colors whenever the Goblin walked too close.

  “What was it you and the clerk were discussing?” said Niln. “About running heavily or being punished?”

  “Oh, that? We don’t have anyone in heavy armor to get in close and keep a monster busy while the mages kill it,” said Gorm. “Instead, we have a ranger and thief—”

  “Bard!” yelled Heraldin from across the store.

  “Which basically fills the same job twice,” Gorm continued. “It’s your standard hammer and anvil arrangement, except we’re all hammer.”

  “It’s not just about filling jobs,” said Niln. “We were chosen by the All Mother. We are all here for a reason.”

  “Well, unless that reason is to die as a spectacular example of how not to pursue a career in professional heroics, I suggest we gear up. And seein’ as we’re likely headed for the Myrewood, we’ll want armor that’s venom- and water-resistant, maybe some flamin’ weapons. That sort of thing.”

  “I’ve heard it said that gear does not make the hero.”

  “Aye, but gear does make the hero live longer,” said Gorm.

  “If you say,” said Niln’s voice. His face very clearly said, but it’s not supposed to be this way.

  Gorm remembered seeing the world through similar lenses. There was a time when he once thought heroes could set out from home with little more than a walking stick and a plucky attitude and return a few short years later stronger, wiser, and rich enough to bleed silver. Back then, he thought character and perseverance brought a hero through a quest, rather than flaming weapons or enchanted armor. But those dreams died quickly in the world of professional heroics, as did the adventurers who held on to such ideals too tightly.

  He put a hand on Niln’s shoulder. “You’re still thinking like it’s a story, lad,” he said. “This ain’t a legend. It’s a job. A career. Ye need to set aside your ideas about what should be and start thinking about it like a professional. Quests succeed and fail now, lad. Right now, before the heroes are on the road. Because a party of heroes is like a Gnomish flame cannon: give it the right chemistry, point it in the right direction, and it’ll do wonders. Do any one part wrong, and the whole thing blows up in your face.”

  Gorm waved a hand out at the retail armory. “This here is the chemistry part. This is where ye get the right team filling the right roles and wearing the right gear; it’s all got to come together in this strange alchemy that fuses a small mob of sell-swords into a company of heroes.”

  Niln struggled to take in the advice. “I will try to learn,” he managed.

  The clerk returned with a fine suit of chain mail. The armor felt light and comfortable when he tried it on, but it was strong enough to shatter the fist of a training golem that punched it. Gorm added it to the pile of purchases the other heroes were heaping upon the counter. The clerk hummed happily as he made an additional note on the heroes’ tallysheet.

  “And I suppose you’re expecting me to ensure that the temple sees to the bill,” Niln said to Gorm.

  Gorm grinned. “Well, we’re all here for a reason.”

  Laruna tried to act naturally as she made her way through the aisles of The General Store. Kaitha hadn’t given her any reason not to be comfortable, after all; Laruna had met many famous heroes, and few had been as down to Arth as the Elf seemed to be.

  Still, this was the Jade Wind, the ranger who had helped clear the Temple of Elemental Unpleasantness, the scourge of the Slave Lords of the White Sea, the heroine who brought down the Duchess of Jackals. In her heyday, the Jade Wind had been a legend even among her peers. And now she was standing just down the aisle from Laruna, loading a market basket with vials from a shelf of health potions. How could Laruna not be nervous?

  “That’s a lot of healing potions,” Laruna said, immediately cursing her awkwardness under her breath.

  The ranger glanced at her and shrugged. “You have to be prepared in the field. Accidents and ambushes happen.”

  “Buying anything else?”

  Kaitha glanced through her basket. “Just a Poor Man’s Quiver,” she said, pulling out a plain leather quiver with a single protruding arrow.

  “Why do they call it a Poor Man’s Quiver?”

  “Two reasons,” said the Elf. She drew the arrow from the quiver and set it on the shelf, and then nodded back to the quiver.

  “Wow,” said Laruna.

  “It’s always got one arrow,” said Kaitha, drawing forth the quiver’s lone arrow. Another lone arrow sprouted behind it.

  “That’s some expensive enchantment,” whistled Laruna.

  “That’s the other reason it’s called a Poor Man’s Quiver. After you’ve bought one, you’re poor.” The Elf nodded to Niln, who was up at the weapons counter with Gorm. “Professional tip? Always buy your best gear on a well-financed project.”

  “Good idea,” said Laruna. Emboldened by camaraderie, she added, “I’m sorry if you get sick of hearing this, but can I just say that I’m a great admirer of your work. Any pointers you can give me are much appreciated.”

  Kaitha seemed to scrutinize her for a moment, though it was common for Elves to do so. As strange as the fair folk often seemed to Humans, Laruna reminded herself that from an Elven perspective, Humans seemed remarkably difficult to keep track of. One of her Elven professors at the academy had frequently mistaken Laruna’s classmate for his ancestors.

  “Don’t let anybody take advantage of you,” said Kaitha eventually.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re young. You still have that sparkle in your eye, that drive to go out and save the day and let the rest sort itself out. But when you think like that, people can take advantage.” The Elf got a distant look in her eye. “Employers want your services. Agents want a cut of your pay. Companies want your image to sell their products. And men want, well, what men always want. If you’re not careful, you give yourself away for less than you’re worth. You trust people that you shouldn’t. You play with fire, and you get burned.”

  The ranger shook her head and gave Laruna a small smile. “That’s my tip. Don’t get burned.”

  “Oh, I usually don’t get burned,” said Laruna. “In any sense of the word. I was more looking for things like fighting advice and keys to advancement.”

  “Oh … that. Just survive. Live through enough quests, and you’ll rank up. For a strong heroine with your kind of magic, that’s the easy part. But if you do that long enough, eventually you learn that your job isn’t about being self-sufficient in the wild or defending the weak or the pursuit of justice. Really, we just kill things for money. And when that finally starts to sink in, you face the hard part of professional heroics: the big questions.”

  “The big questions?”

  “Yeah. Is there more to life than just killing and looting? Are we more than just numbers in some Guild Master’s ledger, statistics written on our license? And the big one, the one that haunts you every night on the job: Why are we doing this anyway?”

  “Why are we doing this anyway?” Heraldin asked.

  “We’re following a lead,” said Gorm. He led the other heroes through the back alleys of Sculpin Down, a craggy slum shrouded in the shadow of the Ridge.

  “I thought the lead pointed us to the Myrewood,” said Kaitha,

  “That would probably be preferable,” said Jynn, stepping over a figure slumped in the street.

  “Well, the smell wouldn’t be so bad,” said Heraldin. Sculpin Down had an unenviable position, sitting just above the stream where the stockyard waste met the city sewers. The sorcerous devices employed by the League of Sewer Workers kept most of the district merely unpleasant, but small faults in the system left pockets of stench powerful enough to bring tears to the eyes.

  “We follow all our leads,” said Gorm, shrugging off their complain
ts. He’d never worked in a party of heroes that could entirely agree on what to have for breakfast, let alone how to complete a quest. Managing egos was as much a part of the job as slaying monsters, and often far less pleasant. The other heroes could gripe and complain until they were bluer than a Slaugh in summer, so long as they got in line.

  They walked along one of Sculpin Down’s fouler alleys, which teemed with unsavory characters. The beggars carried daggers here. Glowing eyes watched from every corner. Gorm tried asking for help finding One-of-Each Magrash, but his inquiries earned him little but sneers and snarls from retreating figures.

  A coven of three omnimancers walked by, drawing dark looks from Jynn and Laruna. Mages of the Twilight Order had sided with the Sten in ancient ages, and they had been all but wiped out for it. Now the third order of wizardry was nothing but an informal gathering of those mages cursed with the ability to touch both solamancy and noctomancy, but without the decency to suppress it.

  The alleyway opened up into a small cobblestone square with a broken fountain at the center. Even for the late hour, the square seemed preternaturally empty. Its only inhabitant was an old man in black robes who sat near an alcove carved into the base of the next tier up, laughing sporadically. A blood-red light flickered behind him, casting ominous shadows in the falling twilight.

  “Where are you going?” Niln asked when Gorm started crossing the square.

  “To see if he knows where Magrash is,” Gorm said.

  The man in the distance cackled. “So long!” he screeched to himself. “Off you go! I bet you didn’t see that coming!”

  “You don’t set much of a standard for whom you’ll seek out for advice, do you?” said Heraldin.

  “Of course I do. Ye just don’t meet it.” Gorm headed toward the strange man.

  The red light turned out to be coming from a statue set within the alcove. It was a granite representation of a skeleton seated on a small chair, its fleshless hands steepled beneath its lipless grin. A shrine of Mordo Ogg, the god of death.

  Tiny crimson pinpoints intermittently flared within the skull’s eye sockets, prompting hoots of delight and comments from the robed man. It took a special kind of person to serve the Lord of the End—the same variety that made undertakers smile politely and edge toward the door.