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

by J. Zachary Pike

  Icy fear crept down her spine as she realized how vulnerable she had left herself. The last vestiges of the hero she had been echoed in the silence of her terrified paralysis, and the memories and experiences of the career that was drifting away from her could finally be heard. Run, you fool, said the remnants of the Jade Wind. Get back to the party.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, and broke into a full sprint down the path. Dark shapes moved through the trees beyond the edge of the garden. She could hear the screeches and squeals of scargs and swamp-beasts and unnamed horrors ringing through the Myrewood around her.

  She stopped when she reached the brambles and turned back to take in the sight of the wondrous garden one more time, a vision of paradise in the midst of a infernal swamp. For a moment, she stood torn between the feeling that she could stay forever and the knowledge that she had tarried too long.

  Something howled in the distance. “Goodbye” she whispered to the garden, and pushed back into the brambles.

  Gorm lodged his axe in the twisted trunk of a tree by the side of the road. Red sap bled from the gouge in the black bark.

  “Do you think she’ll see that?” Niln asked him.

  “She’s a ranger,” said Gorm, wrenching the axe free. “And we’re leavin’ a trail so clear that a drunken Ogre could track us. If she has any of her senses left, she’ll find our trail.”

  “Of course, if she had any of her senses left, she wouldn’t have split the party in the Myrewood,” said Heraldin.

  “I’m still not sure why we didn’t wait for her,” said Niln.

  “Because she didn’t say to,” said Gorm. “She could assume we’ve gone ahead and overshoot our position, and then how’d she find us? And how long will we sit in the middle of the Myrewood waitin’ for her to show up? There’s no good option when the party is split.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Niln.

  “All we can do is keep movin’ and hope for the best,” said Gorm.

  “And keep marking our path.”

  Gorm hacked at another tree by the side of the road. “That too,” he said.

  Kaitha saw another slash in the tree just ahead, red sap painting a crimson streak over the trunk. She was getting closer to the party; the sap was still fresh and oozing. The trail couldn’t have been much more than an hour old.

  Then again, an hour was a long time to survive alone. Dark shadows moved through the forest around her. Kaitha could make out the flowing reptilian shapes of swamp-threshers between the trees, running at a swift lope alongside her. She thought to ready her bow and take a stand against them, but a moment later, the great lizards veered away and left the road.

  The swamp-threshers were only the latest threats to suddenly cease pursuing her. Kaitha had seen boggarts and swamp leeches that had seemed intent on fighting, only to flee at the last moment. At one point, a Tusked Muckbeast had actually charged her from the swamp, only to be seized by something even more terrible and yanked back into the undergrowth. Kaitha didn’t wait around to see what could dispatch the creature so effortlessly; she was sprinting down the road again before the creature’s death scream was cut short.

  She had the sense of a presence keeping pace behind her, although she could never see it, and she wasn’t sure it was actually in pursuit. It occurred to her that the phantom at her back could have been responsible for frightening off the Myrewood’s other predators, but then, it could have done so to claim her as its own prey.

  There wasn’t time to think about it. She ran on, ignoring the fire in her lungs and the ache in her legs. The road turned to the right, and then hooked back to the left before curving around a festering pool. Then, two men were standing in front of her.

  Kaitha skidded to a halt. The men in the middle of the road wore dark leathers and long scarlet cloaks over chain mail. Their swords looked sharp, their smiles looked cruel, and their eyes looked like they saw an opportunity.

  “Well, what have we here?” said the first man.

  “You must be who the others was leavin’ a trail for, eh?” said the second.

  “A good possibility,” agreed the first man. “There was quite a few of them makin’ that trail.”

  “But it looks likes there’s only one of you, miss.”

  “Bandits,” snarled Kaitha.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the first man. “What’s with the hostility and the labeling?”

  “Don’t be so eager to jump to conclusions,” said the second. “Why, for all you know, I could be a druid concerned for the well-being of these precious, pretty trees that some uncouth cur has taken an axe to.”

  “And I could be a concerned citizen, going to check on the well-being of those poor, unfortunate travelers.”

  “Get out of my way,” Kaitha panted, hoping it sounded more like a warning than a plea.

  “I would, I would,” said the man who didn’t seem very much like a druid. “But there are economic realities that we have to address.”

  “Most pressingly, we don’t have enough money,” added the man who was not acting like a concerned citizen.

  “Or jobs,” said the first man.

  “Or jobs, yes, which is probably a big contributing factor to us not having any money.”

  “You, however, have the looks of someone with money.”

  “At least valuables that we could sell.”

  Kaitha reached for her bow, but the man who probably wasn’t a druid raised his hand. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you, miss. Something might happen.”

  Kaitha paused.

  The three of them waited. As the men’s patience faded away, so did their confident grins.

  “I said, something might happen,” repeated the man who almost certainly wasn’t a druid.

  “Like a warning shot could be fired from a crossbow,” added the man who was definitely not a concerned citizen.

  “You don’t suppose—” said not-a-druid.

  “He usually stays deeper in the swamp,” said not-a-concerned-citizen.

  Kaitha turned to look at the spot the bandits were staring at. A crossed pair of branches provided excellent cover for a crossbowman seeking to cover any highwaymen plying their trade below. There just wasn’t a crossbowman in them.

  Something fell from the branches above and landed on the road with a clank.

  It was a crossbow.

  “He’s here,” whimpered the man who wasn’t a druid, drawing his sword.

  “The King in the Wood,” said the man who wasn’t a concerned citizen. “What do we do?”

  “Let’s grab her and go,” said the man who wasn’t a druid. The bandit stepped toward Kaitha, although his eyes kept shifting to the dark swamp all around them. In his distraction, he had clearly forgotten he was not dealing with a helpless traveling merchant, but with a well-armed rank-ten ranger.

  More importantly, he had failed to notice that Kaitha had drawn her bow while he and his partner were paying attention to the swamp. It only took one shot.

  “Get out of my way,” Kaitha repeated, training an arrow on the second bandit.

  The man who wasn’t a concerned citizen looked at the twitching body of the non-druid, and then at the Elf aiming at him, and, finally, at the swamp. Finding no good options, he chose the path of least visible resistance and fled into the woods.

  Kaitha didn’t lower her bow. She turned in circles, trying to find a target. Something out there had silently taken the crossbowman. Indeed, it seemed to be killing or chasing away everything that threatened her. And while her follower’s activities had benefited her thus far, that didn’t mean it was necessarily on her side. In the Myrewood, the enemy of your enemy might just be very hungry.

  “Show yourself!” she demanded to the forest.

  A short scream, perhaps from a citizen and certainly very concerned, rang out and was suddenly silenced by a sound that made Kaitha’s stomach turn.

  She pointed her arrow in the direction of the scream. “I know you’re there!” she sho
uted.

  The swamp quietly simmered all around her.

  “Are you friend or foe?” she asked.

  A sudden rush came from the bushes to her left. Kaitha shifted her aim quickly, but it was only a Bog Grouse flying from the undergrowth.

  “Are you the King in the Wood?”

  A hush fell over the swamp; even the insects and scrub-birds ceased their quiet chittering. Kaitha could feel the presence in the shadows growing near, but though she strained her eyes, she could see nothing in the Myrewood but trees and boulders and muck.

  “Are you helping me?”

  A new scent filled the air, like moss and earth, like the garden she’d left behind. The phantom was so close now it was almost palpable. She could feel its nearness in her bones. She could hear its heartbeat in her own.

  It didn’t feel like an enemy. After all, she reasoned, if it was hostile, why hadn’t the phantom struck yet? Surely it had been presented with ample opportunities to end her; for all she knew, her back was to the creature right now.

  Kaitha lowered her bow. “Was that your garden?”

  There was no response.

  She tried laying her bow on the ground and backing away from it. She sang as she had sung in the garden. She promised it that she was no enemy, pleaded that it accept her thanks, and begged it to come and show itself before she had to leave. But the phantom would not reply nor reveal itself, no matter what she did. It hovered at the edge of her perception, a hint of a companion, a whisper of a protector, and would come no closer.

  The other heroes were drawing away from Kaitha with every passing moment, and there was no telling how long her invisible guardian would watch over her. She couldn’t stay where she was, as much as she wanted to meet her savior. She surveyed the wood one last time. She didn’t see anything. Perhaps the elixir was starting to get to her. Perhaps there was nothing to see.

  “Thank you,” Kaitha said to the phantom, just in case it existed and understood and cared. She retrieved her bow, slung it over her back, and resumed sprinting down the road. For another moment, the forest remained still.

  Then, something followed her.

  “Definitely male,” said Jynn. “Look at the jaw bone.”

  “I would rather not, thank you,” Niln managed.

  The high scribe was doing his best to assist with the forensic investigation, but he didn’t have the stomach for it. He’d been heaving his lunch into a ditch since the heroes had first stumbled across the body in the road. And in the ditch next to the road. And in the trees nearby.

  Gorm surveyed the carnage. The dossier of intelligence provided by House Tyrieth indicated that the bandits who took the Elven Marbles were somewhere nearby. It was possible that the art thieves were all around them—or at least one of them was.

  Jynn looked up from the collection of bones and scraps of clothing he’d meticulously arranged on the side of the road. “I’d say we’re looking at a Human male, mid-fifties or older. Six foot tall. Has a physically demanding profession. Enjoyed tobacco and the odd spot of rum.”

  “You can’t know all that from a pile of bones,” said Laruna.

  “Oh, but you can. Note the stained teeth …” The noctomancer launched into a lengthy explanation of his findings and methodology.

  Gorm noticed something under the leaf litter. He picked up the smudged slip and examined it. “Male Human, forty-six years old. Six foot one. Weighed eighteen stone. Professional Thug.”

  “Now, how could you possibly know all that?” said Laruna.

  “Found his Thugs’ Union card.” Gorm held it up. “Name’s Blenford R. Curbonfert. Nicknamed Big Blenny.”

  “Well, that doesn’t make any sense,” said Jynn. “Why would a thug be a bandit?”

  “He wouldn’t. Thugs can make better money enforcing contracts or wrangling heroes,” said Gorm.

  “Maybe he was after the bandits?” suggested Niln.

  “Maybe,” said Gorm. “Maybe this has nothin’ to do with the marbles.” But he had a sense in his gut that the body and the artwork were connected. He just didn’t know how. They needed more information. “We need to find where he was comin’ from. And was he alone? And did he find our bandits?”

  “Shebz cluggo Hupsa!”

  Gleebek bounded exuberantly up the road. Relief washed over Gorm, who couldn’t hold back his smile.

  “What’d he say?” Niln asked.

  “Still no idea,” said Gorm. “But I’m betting they found her.”

  Gaist and Heraldin were already rounding the bend, supporting Kaitha between them.

  “Ska dibi!” said Gleebek

  The heroes gathered around the ranger and pelted her with questions. Where had she been? Did she encounter any trouble? How did she make it back? Why did she leave at all?

  Gorm stood back and let them chatter. “Was she followed?” he asked Gaist.

  The weaponsmaster shook his head.

  “Good,” said Gorm. “All right, that’s enough!”

  The reunion tapered to a couple of whispered conversations. All eyes turned to Gorm.

  “I’m as happy to see the ranger as anybody, but we’re still in the Myrewood, aye?” said Gorm. “And I, for one, would like not to be here any longer than necessary. So let’s get in formation, figure out where our friend Big Blenny came from, and find them thrice-cursed Marbles before nightfall. There’ll be time for talk back at the inn.”

  He leveled his eyes directly at Kaitha, though leveling them was more like an upward incline. “And we will talk,” he said. “At length.”

  Kaitha winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “Later,” said Gorm. “This ain’t the time or place for talkin’ about it.” Too many heroes met their end when a foe caught them settling interpersonal issues instead of scouting a dungeon or posting watch. Adventurers who lost their heads in a figurative sense often lost their heads in a more literal manner shortly thereafter.

  The heroes formed a huddle around Big Blenny’s discarded license.

  “Right,” said Gorm. “Here’s what we know. This man was a licensed thug. He met Mordo Ogg earlier than he would have liked. And he was probably running from whatever sent him off.”

  “What makes you sure he was running?” asked Laruna.

  “The expression on most of his face was pretty scared,” offered Heraldin.

  “Most of?” said Kaitha.

  “Well, I doubt the rest of it is smiling either,” said Heraldin.

  Niln fell back to his knees and heaved up his breakfast.

  Gorm sent Gleebek to attend to the nauseated high scribe. “A better clue,” he said pointedly, “is that we don’t see any traveling gear around. So either he was waltzing through the Myrewood without a care in the world, or he left his camp in a hurry. Which leaves us with two questions: why was he running, and where was he running from?”

  “How can we know that?” said Niln.

  Gorm grinned at Kaitha. “Luckily, we happen to have our ranger back.”

  Chapter 12

  It turned out that Big Blenny had a horrible sense of direction. The trail the ex-thug left took a wide, meandering path that felt like a tour of some of the Myrewood’s most treacherous terrain. The man had fled through sadistic briar bushes, a sucking swamp, and a thicket of bladewood trees on his last run, only to meet his end no more than a hundred yards from where he started. Kaitha and the heroes followed his trail to a small camp by the mouth of a cave, just off the main road.

  Gorm kicked a charred iron cook pot off the ashes of a dead fire. A faint warmth still radiated from the deepest embers. “Ain’t been more than a day,” he said. “Whatever happened, it happened last night.”

  “Whatever it was, I’m glad I missed it,” said Heraldin. The ground outside the cave had been tilled and churned and liberally sprinkled with blood and debris by some great battle.

  “Something’s not right here,” said Kaitha, joining them.

  “Well, grass shouldn’t be red for starters,” said Hera
ldin.

  “Yes, thank you, Heraldin.” Niln’s skin had a pale green pallor.

  “There’s that. But where are the bodies?” said Kaitha. “What kind of fight leaves a battlefield looking this way and doesn’t have a single casualty?”

  “Or at least doesn’t leave ’em behind,” said Gorm. “Something could have ate ’em, or dragged them away.”

  “No,” said Kaitha. “There’s no sign the corpses were dragged. And I don’t see any tracks big enough for a predator that large.”

  “Well, the bodies didn’t just walk away,” said Heraldin.

  “Unless they did,” said Kaitha.

  There was an unpleasant pause while they collectively shuddered at the implications.

  “Bloody necromancy,” said Heraldin.

  The line between necromancy and noctomancy was ill-defined and fuzzy, but walking corpses were a good indicator that some wizard or mage had violated the Order of the Moon’s strict rules against the magic of undeath. Individually, a walking skeleton or a zombie was a nuisance on par with a door-to-door missionary from the Temple of Oppo; both had unnatural persistence, an unnerving grin, and a single-minded focus on making converts. Fortunately, zombies and skeletons tended to be rather feeble and slow, and so the odd undead was easy to get rid of—certainly easier than door-to-door priests.

  The problem was that every couple of decades or so some wizard would notice that controlling people was enjoyable, and that controlling dead people was easy, and a kind of twisted algebra would lead him down a dark path. Given time, privacy, and a supply of cold bodies, a necromancer could raise a small army to rival that of the kings and queens of the Freedlands. The Heroes’ Guild usually sent the best of the best to deal with such insurrections; inexperienced parties didn’t fare well against the rotting armies of a dark wizard, and a hero lost to the undead was a foe gained.