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

by J. Zachary Pike

  “What’s the best way to deal with a necromancer?” said Niln.

  “You have to wait for the right moment to approach him,” said Heraldin.

  “How do you know the right moment?”

  “It’s any time after someone else has chopped the morbid bastard’s head off,” said Heraldin. “We don’t want any part of this.”

  “If there is a necromancer threatening the countryside, we can’t just leave,” Niln said.

  “And we ain’t just leaving,” Gorm interrupted. “We’re also searching the area, and if the gods have any kindness, we’re also finding them thrice-cursed Orc statues. And then we’re leaving.”

  “But think of what a necromancer could do to people around here!”

  “I will think about it. And then I’ll write it down, and I’ll put it in our reports to the guild, and then they will deal with any overactive skeletons,” said Gorm. “Not us. We’re on a job.”

  “But—”

  Gorm wanted to remind the high scribe that if he couldn’t manage to stay on his feet after looking at the remains of Big Blenny, he wasn’t going to do anything to a horde of zombies beyond ensuring that they were well fed. But you couldn’t say as much to someone who believed in destiny. Lots of heroes started out like Niln, wide-eyed children who thought they knew the end to their story and just assumed that the middle would sort itself out. They all learned one way or another that life’s tale doesn’t work that way; many only learned as much when they met their end in an unfortunate plot twist.

  “What if fightin’ the necromancer means the Elven Marbles get whisked away while we’re busy?” Gorm said, switching tactics. “What would the king say? Or, what if someone else owns the looting rights to the necromancer, and another party of heroes is on the way? We don’t know the whole picture, lad. We only have a hint of a piece of it. So we stick to the job.”

  “It just doesn’t feel right,” said Niln. “It’s not … heroic.”

  “No, it’s professional,” said Gorm. “We’ll be sure to report that there may be a necromancer runnin’ about when we get back to a city.”

  Niln sighed. “Very well.”

  “Hey, you may want to see this,” Laruna called to them, waving from the mouth of the cave.

  The solamancer and Jynn had searched a shallow cleft in the granite outcropping. A fine mist hovered around several huge slabs of ice a few yards inside the mouth of the cave. Jynn was sorting through shards and packing that was scattered around several broken wooden crates. One of the box’s sides was stamped with the words RELIC INVESTMENT GROUP.

  “Relic Investments? That sounds familiar,” said Gorm.

  “Isn’t that the company that took the marbles?” said Niln. He rooted through his backpack and pulled out the maroon file Johan had given them. “Yes, Relic Investments was transporting the Elven Marbles from Scoria to Andarun.”

  “So, this could be the crate containing the marbles,” said Gorm.

  “Could have been,” corrected Jynn. “Now it’s more of a pile of debris with some packing under it. And this as well.” Jynn pressed a necklace into Gorm’s hand.

  It was a string of wispy, scratchy twine threaded through colored beads and small, yellowing pearls. Pearls with sharp edges and small roots. Pearls that didn’t actually look much like pearls, once Gorm examined them closely. “Teeth?” he said.

  “Your squire found them behind the ice,” said Jynn.

  “Da shebz’a!”

  “Jewelry made from teeth is a common practice among the Orcs,” said Jynn.

  “And we know that the Orcs have been after the Elven Marbles,” said Laruna. “They must have gotten the Elves’ intelligence as well, and come in to take them.”

  “But what about the necromancer?” said Niln.

  “Necromancer?” said Jynn.

  “We found evidence of the undead,” said Kaitha.

  “What would the undead want with the stones?” said Laruna. “They don’t show much interest in anything they can’t eat.”

  “Why would Orcs drag away the corpses?” said Heraldin.

  Kaitha shook her head. “Nobody dragged away any corpses.”

  “The Orcs could be the necromancer,” suggested Niln.

  “Or the undead?” said Heraldin.

  Gorm rubbed his temples. The problem with the professional heroics industry, he had often said over one-too-many beers, was the title. The fame and the glory and even the very word ‘hero’ had a way of going straight to people’s heads and convincing them there was more to their job than violence and wealth retrieval. Overconfident heroes often tried to act as army commanders or diplomats or, as in this case, detectives.

  He watched the rest of his party wrestle with the clues like a litter of kittens attempting to take on a loom. They reviewed evidence and discussed possible scenarios as though they were town guards and thief-catchers, rather than a team of hired killers specializing in monster removal.

  He looked over and saw that Gaist was watching him. The weaponsmaster titled his head toward the arguing heroes, and then gave Gorm a nod that summed up the Dwarf’s thoughts quite succinctly.

  “Aye,” Gorm said. “Amateurs.”

  Gaist nodded and resumed watching the squabble.

  When they started discussing the possibility of thieves flying in and out of the swamp atop giant birds, Gorm couldn’t hold back. “Stop overthinking this,” he barked. “There’s a time and a place to figure out who took the marbles and why, but it ain’t when the Elven Marbles themselves are less than day’s ride away and leavin’ fast. The point is to get the marbles back.”

  “How are we to know where to find the marbles if we don’t know who took them?” said Laruna.

  “Somebody walked out of here, right? Orcs or walking dead or a troupe of mummers, but somebody carried the stones out through the woods,” said Gorm.

  “Unless they rode away on great eagles,” said Heraldin, a vocal proponent of the theory.

  “Shut up. If someone walked out, they left tracks. And if they left tracks, we can follow them. And if we follow them—”

  “We could find the stones,” said Kaitha.

  “I suppose we could,” said Niln.

  “Yes, but do we really want to go chasing after an unknown threat?” said Jynn.

  “We could face a necromancer with an undead army,” said Laruna.

  “Or Orc sky-knights,” suggested Heraldin.

  “Whoever has the marbles probably intends to keep them,” said Kaitha. “If it’s the undead or an Orc horde, what then?”

  Gorm held up his axe. “We kill ’em all and let the guild sort it out.”

  Two things were quickly apparent when the Seven Heroes started tracking whomever had stolen the Elven Marbles (again).

  The first was that the thieves had made for the road by the most direct route possible. There had been a good-sized group of them; Kaitha thought ten to twelve individuals, creating a broad path of signs through the undergrowth straight to the dirt road that curved around the camp.

  The second truth was that there was no use trying to track anything on the road. The gravel path saw too much use from the swamp’s denizens and was crossed by too many shallow streams. Kaitha lost the trail almost immediately, and after a mile in either direction, she couldn’t pick it up again.

  The shadows were growing long by then, and it was a long hike back to Ebenmyre. Gorm didn’t like the idea of leaving the trail to grow colder than it already was, but he preferred it to a night in the Myrewood. Reluctantly, he announced they should head back to the inn, as the road would soon become too dangerous to travel.

  Except that it didn’t.

  For the entire journey back to town, Gorm didn’t spot so much as a scargling. Even the murderous whipvines seemed to shrink back at their approach. There were no howls from the forest, no threatening growls, no magically empowered weasels scampering into the road. It was the kind of peace that made Gorm uneasy: quiet where there should be noise
, respite that wasn’t hard earned. In his experience, it was usually the calm before the storm.

  The others felt it too, he saw. Gorm caught Kaitha staring into the woods at times. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn she looked wistful, almost yearning for something out among the black trees. It was hard to tell, though; the Elf always turned back to the task at hand whenever she noticed someone watching her.

  The fallout Gorm anticipated never came, and they made good time back to town. They were still on the first torch when they saw the lights of Ebenmyre and the Red Sow through the trees.

  The innkeeper welcomed them back with an easy smile. “Good journey?”

  “Unproductive,” said Gorm, stamping the dirt from his boots. The other heroes filed into the tavern behind him.

  “And did you encounter much trouble on the road?”

  “No, surprisingly,” said Heraldin, hanging his cloak.

  “Ah. See? That’d be the King in the Wood,” said the innkeeper. “Did you leave him the purple?”

  “I suppose we forgot,” said Gorm.

  “Oh, you’ll have to leave it out on a post in town. He’s taken them off the one behind the stables before.”

  Gorm was in no mood to settle a bill with a reclusive forest spirit that was fixated on a particular color. “Look, I—”

  The innkeeper’s wife burst through the back door and affixed her horrible, fishy eyes on him. “Y’ain’t paid tha king?” she demanded.

  “Was just steppin’ out to do it now,” Gorm finished. Cursing superstition under his breath, he hurried out into the night.

  The horses whinnied and nickered as he walked around the decrepit stables. Thordin’s month was well underway, and shrubs outside the inn were beginning to show hints of amber. Soon, the month of Fireleaf would earn its name, setting trees alight with brilliant reds, yellows, and hues of orange. Not long thereafter, the Festival of Orchids would start in the halls beneath the mountain of Khazad’im, and Gorm would be absent yet again—if he couldn’t manage to find the thrice-cursed Elven Marbles.

  He thought about the campsite in the Myrewood. He’d expected bandits to be there, but instead they’d found signs of almost everyone else. What were licensed thugs doing at the bandit camp? How could the Orcs have gotten wind of Elven intelligence on the marbles’ whereabouts? And what would a necromancer want with old Orc statues?

  Something skittered away into the shadows, and it reminded Gorm of Burt, the handbag performer who’d told him about the Leviathan Project. The exact nature of the project was unclear, but it must have been a reason an evil wizard wanted the marbles. Otherwise, Detarr Ur’Mayan and his cohorts never would have stamped the project’s sigil on them.

  Gorm placed the handful of purple baubles on an old post between the stables and the wood. As luck would have it, he knew where he could talk to someone about the Leviathan Project. And talk to some Orcs. And find at least one thug. All his best remaining leads pointed to Bloodroot, the Orc settlement One-Of-Each Magrash had directed him to.

  As he passed the stables again, he was surprised to see Mr. Flinn and Brunt leading their mounts from the pens. “What are ye doin’ here?” he barked.

  Mr. Flinn seemed equally surprised by the encounter. “Why, Mr. Ingerson,” he said, attempting to recover, with some measure of grace. “What a coincidence that we should meet here.”

  “Especially since ye was supposed to be on business elsewhere,” said Gorm. “What are ye doing here?”

  “I’m afraid the nature of the mercenary business means that Silver Talon assignments and the locations they take us to are highly confidential,” said Flinn.

  “Top … secret!” rumbled Brunt.

  “Right you are, Mr. Brunt. But let us focus on the affairs we have in common. Have you found your marbles, Mr. Ingerson?”

  “In the works,” said Gorm.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Flinn. He added with calculated casualness, “It seems your best course of action would be to return to Andarun.”

  “‘If’n I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded like someone attempting to interfere with Heroes’ Guild business.”

  “Oh, certainly not! Mere speculation between professionals.”

  They exchanged smiles of cordial loathing.

  “As a matter of curiosity, I would enjoy learning where your adventure will take you,” added Mr. Flinn.

  “I’m afraid the nature of professional heroics keeps our plans highly confidential,” said Gorm. “And the nature of our relationship means I’d sooner knock your teeth out than tell you.”

  “Aha. Clever. Your intimidating nature is matched only by your subtlety, Mr. Ingerson. On a probably unrelated note, Mr. Brunt is in an unusually poor mood this evening.”

  “Out … of … chewing … gum!” rumbled Brunt, petting his ox.

  “And not a confectioner for miles,” lamented Mr. Flinn. “Ah well. Where did you say you were going again, Mr. Ingerson?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’m sure I misheard you.”

  “Do ye think ye scare me, Tinderkin?” Gorm asked. “Did ye really think it was ye and an Ogre made me join this outfit? Ye had the full force of the law behind ye then, remember? Contractually obligated death? Ain’t that way anymore. The law is on my side.”

  “Ah, but law is an interesting thing,” said Mr. Flinn. “It only works so long as people want it observed. Those regulations nobody wants have a habit of slipping, no? Nobody obeys the old statutes on not selling meat on temple days, you see, because people enjoy steak regardless of how holy a festival is.”

  The Tinderkin removed an apple from his pouch and started carving it with a long dagger. “It brings Shadowkin to mind, no? I mean, you can give a Goblin a job, let’s say a squire, but just having a job doesn’t mean that people want a greenskin around. How loudly would they protest if such a creature was snuffed out?”

  Gorm’s eyes narrowed.

  “Makes you think,” said Mr. Flinn, popping a slice of apple into his mouth. “What’s to stop me from going out and just killing a Goblin? Can a few papers really protect it?”

  “Oh, the law is way more than papers,” growled Gorm. “Why, if the law didn’t always matter, how could a shopkeeper put out his wares and know they wouldn’t be stolen? How could men buy land if there was a chance the deed might not mean a thing? And if the law can’t protect a Goblin from you, what on Arth could protect you from me?”

  Mr. Flinn’s grin grew wide and genuine. “I imagine that would be Mr. Brunt’s job.”

  “Oh. Right.” Gorm had gotten so caught up in defending the Goblin that he had forgotten about the Ogre behind Flinn. A great hand closed over his shoulders.

  “’Nother … day! ’Nother … giltin!” rumbled Brunt.

  It’s remarkably unusual for anyone to be caught unaware by an Ogre, as they generally possess all the stealth and cunning of an avalanche. It’s remarkably unpleasant as well, Gorm reflected as he was hoisted into the air.

  “I’m afraid he tends to be overprotective,” said Mr. Flinn. “Do try to remember that, when we meet again. And we will meet again. Good day, Mr. Ingerson.”

  With a flick of Brunt’s wrist, Gorm sailed through the air, through the stable door, and through the stable’s back wall. He blasted through the old building in a cloud of rotten splinters, and still had plenty of time to think up a witty retort to shout at Flinn before he hit the ground. The wind was knocked from his ribs when he came to a skidding, rolling landing. He probably would have rolled for another house length, had he not slammed into the old post where he’d balanced the trinkets for the King in the Wood.

  Gorm opened his eyes, and the curses he planned to holler at the Gnome died on his lips. He was staring up into a pair of startled eyes. An apelike face with gray skin the complexion of granite and long, daggerlike teeth stared back down at him. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but a massive hand closed over him and smothered the cry. In another instant, he was lifted into
the air and carried back into the Myrewood.

  “What’s taking Gorm?” Kaitha wondered aloud.

  “He’s probably seeing to the horses,” said Jynn.

  The heroes sat around one of the tavern’s round tables, nursing bad grog and waiting for cold sandwiches.

  “How is the bathwater coming?” Laruna asked the innkeeper.

  “I’ve got swamp muck in places I’d forgotten I even had,” said Heraldin. “I must smell worse than the Goblin.”

  “Grot?”

  “Oh, my Burlinda is working on your bath,” the innkeeper told them. “You’re welcome to speak to her if you’re in a hurry.”

  “It can wait,” said Heraldin. He turned back to the heroes. “I’m fairly certain half of that man’s business model is blaming his wife.”

  “It’s surprisingly effective,” said Niln.

  Gaist tapped the bard on the shoulder and held up a box with a thrones board.

  “Good idea,” said Heraldin. “I think it’s going to be a long night.”

  So they settled in. Heraldin and Gaist started a game. Jynn and Laruna reviewed magical theory. Niln quietly began cross-referencing his book of prophecy with the king’s notes on the Elven Marbles.

  Kaitha watched the door. She wondered where Gorm was, although truthfully she was almost as worried about his return. They had yet to discuss her foolishness in the Myrewood, and she was certain it wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation. But it was getting long for him to tarry, and something might have followed them from the swamp.

  Or someone.

  She felt a clammy hand on her shoulder. “Da wugga nip.”

  Kaitha smiled at the little Goblin. “Thanks,” she said. “If he’s not back in a few minutes, we’ll go and have a look, shall we?”

  “Havva luk,” Gleebek attempted. “Havva luk Gurm Ingerzon.”

  Kaitha smiled. “That’s right. And in the meantime, we do the best we can.”

  “Bast weggan.” Gleebek’s smile was like that of a puppy: enthusiastic, clueless, and full of needle-like teeth.