“I knew we were hired swords. I just thought we could still be something more. I thought we had purpose.”
“If the common folk didn’t believe in the cause, how could they stand to have us among them? And if professional heroes didn’t believe in it, how much worse off would we be? The stories of good and noble heroes may be a facade, but when we believe it, it gets a little closer to becoming reality. It’s the lie we need to believe.”
Niln had the mournful eyes of a dog in a downpour. “So, that’s it? We run around killing and looting just to line our pockets and marginally improve people’s disposition.”
Gorm shrugged. “It beats accounting.”
“But didn’t you ever think there was something more? Destiny? A reason for all of this?”
“I did,” Gorm said softly. “And then I learned better.”
“As have I,” said Niln. He wiped a tear from his eye. “And now the party expects me to know what to do. They’re asking me where to go, or what’s next. I couldn’t … I can’t face them and say I’ve no idea what we should be doing. Before, I was following the All Mother, seeking our destiny, but now I’m not sure we have a purpose, and I don’t know what the goddess is doing anymore.”
“She’s giving me and all them other heroes another chance,” said Gorm. “Kaitha, Heraldin, Jynn, Laruna, even Gaist, we all had careers in the gutter before ye came along. If we finish this quest, we have our careers again. I can go home to me old clan, Niln. Kaitha can be the Jade Wind again. Heraldin … Heraldin probably won’t change much, but at least he’ll be gainfully employed. And ye’ll have helped your temple in the eyes of the people.”
“Those may be nice things, but I have dedicated most of my life to this quest, Gorm,” sighed the priest. “I didn’t give all of that up to provide employment opportunities, nor for public relations. It was … it was to bring the Seventh Hero.”
“Jobs and goodwill are more than nice things, lad. And we may not believe everything ye say, but you … you’re good, Niln. The way heroes are supposed to be good.”
“Don’t flatter me.”
“I ain’t in the habit of flattering anybody. People think I’m special because I punched an Elf for Tib’rin, but I treated that Goblin like the dirt on me boots when first we met. It took me days before I’d look him in the eye. And the first time ye met him, ye were as kind to him as ye’d be to anybody. Ye may not be a better hero than me, Niln, but I’ll have Baedrun’s boots if ye ain’t a better person. In the end, maybe that’s worth more than all me strength.”
The high scribe met Gorm’s gaze. “Or maybe that’s the lie you need me to believe.”
Gorm looked away.
“We will go to the Ashen Tower,” said Niln, hopping down off the rock. “I trust you in this.”
“Niln—”
“Please allow me the small dignity of walking back on my own,” said Niln. “I’d not have the others thinking you’ve fetched me.”
“Aye,” Gorm said. “I’ll catch up with ye later.”
The high scribe thanked him softly and walked back to the town gates, leaving Gorm to ponder their exchange. He leaned back on the rock and watched Fulgen’s Light glow in the night sky.
“So was it true?” asked the rock.
Gorm startled and fell, cursing and sputtering, into the dusty road.
“Sorry,” said Thane, mid-shift from stone to troll. “I forget.”
“Where have ye been, anyway?” Gorm hissed. “Ye were supposed to be keepin’ watch.”
The Troll’s spine and shoulders cracked as he stretched. “I have been keeping watch.”
“Well, you’re doing a fine job of it. A whole troop of Orcs marched into our camp!”
“Yes, but they were only selling things. Good things, too. Look at this! New outfit!” The Troll gestured at the bandolier and loincloth he wore. They looked exactly like his old outfit, except cleaner and dyed in the bright colors Orcs favored.
“Aye, but how could ye have been sure those Orcs weren’t going to attack?”
“They were wearing green beads over orange,” Thane said, in a manner that suggested it was obvious.
“What does that even—never mind that. The point is that ye let intruders into the camp without so much as a warning.”
“Fair enough. It won’t happen again. Perhaps we need a signal that there’s something amiss. Like, I could throw a rock to get your attention.” Thane casually picked up a head-sized chunk of granite.
“Don’t ye think that would get a lot more attention than just mine?”
“Well, you have to make sure it hits out of sight and lands somewhere soft,” Thane said. “But don’t worry. I’m very good at throwing rocks.”
Gorm had a vision of a small boulder crashing through his tent in the pre-dawn hours. “Why don’t ye whistle instead?”
“If you like.” The Troll set down the stone, clearly disappointed. “I just think a rock would be harder to miss.”
“Not missing is what I’m afraid of,” said Gorm. “Regardless, we leave at dawn. I should probably be gettin’ back to the longhouse to hit the hay.”
“Where are we going next?” Thane asked.
“We head to the Ashen Tower.”
“What’s in the Ashen Tower?”
Gorm turned his eyes to the northeast, where Fulgen’s Light glittered over the pines of western Ruskan. “That’s what I aim to find out.”
“This is a fool’s errand,” Jynn muttered.
“No, Heraldin is keeping watch,” said Laruna, clambering over a fallen stone. “Finding a magically concealed door is a mage’s errand.”
“Ha. I spoke of the entire expedition,” said Jynn. “There clearly isn’t anything in the Ashen Tower. We would have seen some sign of activity, would we not?”
Laruna had to admit that the ruined tower certainly seemed empty. They hadn’t encountered a single soul around the courtyard, nor any soulless corpses. There were no coils of celadon mist emanating from its high windows, no violet flames in the baroque braziers that ringed the grounds, no apocalyptic clouds swirling ominously above its ruined spire. If a necromancer was plying his foul trade here, he had forgotten to hang his metaphorical slate above the door.
“Still, all the better to search the place and be done with it,” said Laruna. “Come on.”
Like any good wizard’s stronghold, the Ashen Tower had been designed to be accessed exclusively by the magically gifted. It had no door, nor any windows at the base, nor any seams to use as a hand or foothold. Gorm had tasked the mages with finding an entrance, while the other heroes searched for signs of activity around the tower grounds. After a full walk of the perimeter, however, the mages had yet to see any switches, statues, or similarly promising concealed mechanisms for gaining entry.
Laruna pressed her hands to the wall and was surprised to find her skin blackened when she pulled away. “Is this … soot?”
Jynn nodded. “The tower is said to be white marble under the ash. The pine forests around us are bound to an eternal cycle; they burn down every few decades and grow up again. The tower always stands, either surrounded by a forest or a field of ashes, stained with the smoke of an age’s fires.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I read it on the commemorative plaque,” said Jynn, pointing to a small granite and brass monument. “I think they put it up after Johan’s … adventure here.”
“When he killed the necromancer.”
Jynn pursed his lips and nodded. Many noctomancers were reluctant to speak of necromancers, in the way that templegoers avoid talking about crazed zealots, or kings seldom spoke of past tyrants. The Order of the Moon’s reputation was constantly tainted by those few who had crossed the line between speaking with the dead and inviting them back for a spell.
There had been a time when Laruna had been inclined to join in the disparagement of noctomancers, but lately she found many reasons to reconsider her old prejudices. Of course, she’d gained a be
tter understanding of the Order of the Moon’s philosophy through long talks after training, and her lessons had shown her the skill and dedication of noctomancers, but she’d also gained an appreciation for the fine cut of Jynn’s jaw and the sparkle in his cool blue eyes.
“What’s that look for?” Jynn asked, smiling.
“Nothing.” Laruna blushed and turned her attention back to the tower. She tried running her hands over another section of the wall and gasped. Beneath layers of ancient ash, currents of magic ran along the stone. “Wherever it is, the door’s still working. I can feel the conduits.”
“The conduits might be there, even if the enchantments have failed.”
Laruna concentrated a moment. “No. They’re active. Currents are flowing in them. They’re all over the tower, even up to the top.”
“When did you become so skilled with weaves that you could sense working conduits?” Jynn marveled.
“I had a good teacher.”
Jynn looked doubtful. “Perhaps.”
“I can follow the currents,” Laruna added, walking along the walls, her fingers drawing faint lines in the ash. The sorcerous conduits ran over ornate stonework and beveled arches to a nondescript wall, where they changed course and joined new flows. “There’s something here. Didn’t you already search this area?”
“I must have missed it,” said Jynn. “Still, the spell could be decades old, and there’s no telling how they’re configured.”
“True,” Laruna said. “But I don’t need to.”
“Wait—”
Jynn’s caution was too late; Laruna was already channeling. Glowing, ethereal strands wrapped in serpentine spirals down her arms, spread out from her fingers, and drew a glowing sigil of rings and jagged lines across the wall as her weave flowed into the conduits that ran along the tower.
“Laruna, you don’t know what you’re doing,” Jynn cautioned.
“That’s the thing,” said Laruna. “I know exactly what I’m doing.” Channeling magic through anything, be it an enchantment or a wand or even a mage, strained and weakened the channeler. Too much channeling would break enchantments, melt wands, or cause an overzealous mage to pass out. The amount of magic a channeler could handle before failing varied, but two things were certain: a channeler could handle only a finite amount of magic in any given timeframe, and that finite amount was less than Laruna could manage.
She poured more magic through the conduits. Her weaves were simple compared to the intricate enchantment they were illuminating, but they were also more powerful. The glowing lines along the tower began to wobble and heave under the stress. Safeguards and control mechanisms in the enchantment began to fail under the pressure of Laruna’s magic. She didn’t stop channeling until the enchantment gave a final, tortured shudder and dissipated in a burst of golden light. Patterns of warm luminescence rippled over the stone beneath Laruna’s hands, and then the wall partially crumbled inward.
“These stones were probably supposed to swing open like a door, or fly out in some fancy pattern,” she said, kicking in the masonry. “But this works.”
The Ashen Tower was open.
Jynn stepped up to the ruined door, staring in awe at the portal hewn into the side. “You’re ready,” he said softly. “No apprentice would think to overload the enchantment. Most mages couldn’t do it, even if they had the idea. You aren’t an apprentice anymore. You … you have my vote.”
As he spoke, Laruna’s robes began to change.
A mage’s clothing is not chosen for its appearance; instead, its appearance depends upon the stature of the mage who wears it. A wizard who advances within his order finds that his robes grow more in finery, while a wizard who falls in rank may find his robe’s gems receding back into the fabric. Each mage’s attire is attuned to his or her sorcerous abilities and to the order to which he or she belongs.
With Jynn’s proclamation, Laruna finally had all of the votes needed to advance in her magical career. Gold and royal purple threads grew from the cuffs of her sunrise-orange robe, embroidering flaming designs around the trim and hem. Ruby buttons and golden tassels sprouted. Laruna knew that distant enchanted ledgers were rewriting themselves to include her new rank.
The sudden praise, the advancement, the change in her attire, everything caught Laruna off guard. The surge of emotions caught in her throat. “I … I had a good teacher.”
The wizard seemed troubled. “No. I have not been fair to you … I have … I was not—”
Laruna struggled to speak, and her words were barely a whisper. “You were right to hold me back. I wasn’t ready. Now I am.”
The wizard was too wrapped up in his own apology to see the joy behind her tears. “You just have to know that I’m sorry, and I never meant to hurt you. I’ve never meant anything to hurt—”
Laruna cut him off by pulling him into a kiss. His apologies and protests melted under the press of her lips.
“No more apologies,” she whispered, when she eventually loosed him from her embrace. “The past is behind us.”
The wizard’s expression fell somewhere between elation and slack-jawed zombie. “Gah …” he managed.
“We can talk more when we’re done in the tower,” Laruna told him. “For now, let’s go tell Gorm.”
“Gahaha.”
“Or, why don’t you stand watch over the door instead?” Laruna told Jynn with a quick peck on his cheek before making her way to the spot where she’d last seen the other heroes. She tried to hold back a wide grin as she walked, and couldn’t bring herself to care when she failed.
“Poot spug,” said Tib’rin, waving a claw in front of his nose as he stepped through the doorway. “Bad smell.”
“Aye, it stinks of a tomb,” agreed Gorm. The base room of the Ashen Tower was stale and cool, but there were acrid hints in the musty air. “One with recent arrivals.”
“And a lot of visitors,” Kaitha added, pointing to the floor. Innumerable tracks had been stamped and dragged through the thick dust. “Somebody has been here recently.”
“They don’t seem to be here now,” said Laruna.
“Well, then, let’s search the place as fast as we can,” said Gorm. “I want to leave it far behind before dusk.”
The Ashen Tower’s interior was granite and ash-gray limestone, built in the stark, angular motif favored by dungeon architects everywhere. The furnishings were likely sparse and functional before Johan’s triumph over Detarr Ur’Mayan, but now the rooms were bare. Everything left was broken and rotting; anything of value had been carted off twenty years ago as Johan’s spoils. Even the wall sconces were missing. “I’m surprised they left the door hinges,” sneered Jynn.
The first floor of the tower contained just a couple of rooms filled with dust and cobwebs. The second floor held more promise; one of its chambers was filled with discarded crates, several bearing the piscine sigil of the Leviathan Project.
“Ghabrang’s story checks out,” said Gorm, searching through the empty crates. “Somebody’s definitely been through here recently.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” said Jynn. “Why would this … Master come back here? Why go to the effort of bringing this back?”
“Perhaps it is Detarr Ur’Mayan’s son, come back for revenge,” said Laruna. Gorm saw her give Jynn a strange smile.
He didn’t return it. “Doubtful,” he said.
“We should be so lucky,” said Kaitha. “If the songs are half accurate, he’s the kind of villain you’d want to face.”
“Yes, the kind that would soil his pants and flee when we arrived,” said Heraldin, laughing.
“Indeed,” said Jynn humorlessly. “But barring that hilarious possibility, I wonder who actually did this.”
“Only one way to find out,” said Gorm. “Let’s head upstairs. Stay close, Tib’rin.”
“Stah close!”
The third floor was made up of long empty larders and servants’ quarters built around a small kitchen. The fourth was an old
laboratory filled with broken glass and bloody stains and rows and rows of cages of various sizes. The fifth floor was the old living quarters, with ruined beds still rotting in two large bedrooms. The stairs to the sixth floor arrived at the remnants of a large door. Beyond the splintered oak, the entire floor was one ballroom, featureless aside from an old pedestal and a back staircase that led straight to the servants’ quarters.
“I didn’t think there would be much call for a ballroom out here,” said Kaitha.
“It probably doubles as a space for dark rituals,” said Heraldin.
“Or weddings,” said Laruna.
“Weddings?” asked Niln.
“Detarr Ur’Mayan was trying to wed his son to Princess Marja when Johan killed him.” The solamancer pointed to a claret-colored stain on the stone by the altar. “I bet this is where Johan beheaded the wizard.”
“It’s like we’re standing on history,” said Kaitha.
“Or stepping in it,” said Heraldin, checking his boots.
“What we’re doing is wasting time,” Jynn barked from the staircase. “Whatever happened in this room, it didn’t include the storage of the Elven Marbles.”
“He’s right,” said Niln, already shuffling for the stairway.
Gorm chewed the edges of his beard as watched the high scribe head for the stairs. The apathy in the young high scribe’s eyes, combined with his gait, put Gorm in mind of a Scribkin walking engine: a slow, purposeless plodding. He’d seen young heroes get distracted and hopeless before, and much like a Scribkin walking engine, they almost always ended in calamitous tragedy.
“Something wrong with Niln?” asked Kaitha.
“I think he’s learned the difference between being a hero and being a professional.”
“Ah.”
“He’s also probably figured out that he ain’t either of them.”
“That’s harsh. Not untrue, but harsh,” said Kaitha. “No wonder he looks so out of sorts.”
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 28