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

by J. Zachary Pike

  “The problem is that ye can’t last long in the field if you’re half as distracted as he is.”

  “The bigger problem will be if he goes from demoralized to desperate,” said Kaitha. “He might actually try something heroic.”

  Gorm cringed at the thought. Just a few months ago, the well-regarded Silver Slayers were rumored to have met an unlikely end when their junior member broke rank and charged through a hatchery with an ill-advised war cry, awakening several Acid Drakes and their hungry progeny. “Let’s hope not, aye? Come on.”

  The stairs to the seventh floor were covered in dust like fresh-fallen snow, and the only tracks Gorm could see were those of the heroes who went up before him. “Maybe Jynn’s got a point,” Gorm said, arriving at the top of the staircase. “Don’t seem likely anything’s up here when nobody’s using these stairs.”

  Jynn nodded, but said nothing.

  “On the other hand,” said Laruna, “there’s the door.” She pointed to a massive set of oak doors, bound with black iron and a massive padlock. Faint enchantments of strengthening hummed in the air around the lock. Delicate yet sinister-looking devices lurked within the keyhole.

  The heroes quickly formed a huddle around the padlock. “That looks promisin’,” Gorm said.

  “How so?” asked Niln.

  “A big lock means big treasures,” said Gorm.

  “Also, big traps,” said Kaitha. “What’s the plan?”

  “Simple,” said Gorm. “We need a thief. Or an acquisitions expert.”

  All eyes swiveled to Heraldin.

  “Aha, yes, I can see why this situation warrants a specialist,” said the bard reluctantly. “However, you’ll recall that, as a simple musician, I have left a certain lifestyle in my past.”

  “What’s the harm in temporarily coming out of retirement?” said Gorm.

  “I think I made it very clear at the tower that I don’t—”

  “But that was just a little lock,” said Kaitha. “This one is so big, and full of traps and enchantments.”

  “Aha, yes, I know, but—”

  “It’s the kind of lock people talk about,” said Laruna. “The kind you hear about in legends.”

  “Yes, and as tempting as a once-in-a-lifetime lock such as this is, that kind of talk is exactly the problem. If it were to get back to certain individuals that I had picked such an amazing lock—”

  “It’s only this once,” said Gorm.

  “I’d like to think that, I really would, but the life of an … acquisitions specialist has a certain addictive nature.” Heraldin’s throat seemed to be drying up. “It was very, very hard to stop, you see, although Benny Hookhand does offer a very motivating recovery program.”

  “Well, I understand if ye don’t want to take on the challenge,” said Gorm. “It’s a very big lock.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” protested Heraldin. “I can absolutely pick that lock. I mean, I could, if I did that sort of thing. If I had the tools. Which I don’t.”

  “Oh?” Gorm snapped his fingers, and Gaist pulled a long leather folio from his cloak. Opening it revealed an extensive set of delicate picks and oddly shaped tension wrenches.

  “And you, too, Gaist?” Heraldin said. He hung his head. “You’ve forced my hand. I would truly hate you, Dwarf, if you weren’t bloody magnificent.”

  “So ye’ll do it?”

  “If I must!” The bard snapped into exuberant motion, plucking the lock picks from Gaist’s hands as he practically skipped to the giant lock. “I might as well enjoy it, no?”

  “That ye might,” said Gorm. Seeing the bard kneel before the lock was like watching the old master smiths at their craft. He could see the same care in Heraldin’s gleaming eyes, the attention to detail, the joy of an artist at work as he inspected the padlock from every angle. The bard caressed each tool gently as he considered them, feeling the weight of each piece in his hand.

  “Are you quite ready?” said Jynn.

  “Hush,” said Heraldin. “Selecting the proper tools is the second-most important aspect of a entry engineer’s work. The most important being a high degree of dexterity.”

  “Dexterity?” asked Gorm.

  “The agility of the fingers, the delicate skill of the hands,” said Heraldin. He pulled an odd-shaped pick from the toolkit and flicked it with his finger, striking an odd chime that grew in intensity and caused the tip of the pick to glow. At the zenith of the glow, he plunged it into the lock and made a series of quick, precise motions.

  “Magical lightning trap.” A small burst of electricity fizzled harmlessly over the lock as Heraldin removed the glowing lock pick.

  “Well done,” said Laruna.

  “It’s all in the wrist,” replied the relapsed thief. His hands darted over the picks and selected another to thrust into the lock. “Picking locks is all about deft hands.” He paused in his work long enough to turn and waggle his brows at Kaitha. “And I am very good with my hands.”

  “It’d be a shame to have to break them again,” said the ranger.

  “You can’t ruin this for me,” said Heraldin, happily returning to his work. “Do watch yourselves. Nightshade needle trap.”

  Heraldin twisted his pick, and a thin steel spike dripping with ominous purple fluid snapped from the lock hole. He inserted another strange tool, twisted them both counterclockwise, and caught the needle as it fell harmlessly from the lock.

  “Two traps on the same lock?” asked Niln.

  “No,” said Heraldin, working several picks simultaneously in and out of the lock. “Three. Acid gas trap.” With a coppery, tinkling sound, several small mechanical parts poured out of the keyhole. A moment later, the bard extracted a small glass globe filled with viridescent liquid.

  “And now, the defenses are down,” said Heraldin. He attacked the lock with manifold tools and renewed vigor, his picks probing and plucking, twisting and clicking.

  “Can you hurry this up?” said Jynn.

  “Not at all,” said Heraldin, inserting another pick. “I’m going to savor every last moment.” He chose one last pick—a large, ornate-looking tool—and delicately inserted it into a keyhole that was already sprouting a thick bouquet of picks and torsion wrenches. “And, there you are,” said the bard, leaping to his feet.

  “It’s unlocked?” asked Gorm.

  “Unlocked?” smirked Heraldin. “Don’t be pedestrian.” He twisted the largest pick half a twist to the left. The padlock shuddered for a couple of seconds, shedding bits of machinery as it spasmed, and then the lock fell apart and rained down on the floor.

  “Shall we?” asked the bard. He took a bow, to light applause, then slipped the lock’s dangling shackle from the doorway.

  A warmth spread over Gorm as the heavy doors swung open, and his grin spread with it. Old feelings were stirring within him, long forgotten thrills shared by every veteran hero. “Looks like we found us some loot,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  The great study was filled to the brim with strange treasures and arcane equipment. Books and scrolls spilled out of overstuffed shelves. Paintings and icons and charms hung from the walls. Statues cast long shadows in the cobalt and crimson light of massive stained-glass windows. Strange crystals perched on a contraption of great brass and steel rings that hung from the ceiling, spinning slowly on several different orbits. Everything looked old, and powerful, and—best of all—exceedingly valuable.

  “These … these are priceless artifacts,” breathed Niln.

  “First rule of professional heroics, lad. Nothing’s priceless,” said Gorm, giving an antiquated shield an appraising look. “Perhaps there’s some money to be made on this job after all.”

  “But what is all of this doing back here?” said Jynn, staring in wonder and confusion. “It was all hauled away after Johan…”

  “And the Master hauled it back,” said Kaitha. “Whoever he is.”

  “Come on,” said Gorm. “Let’s find them statues.”

  They
split up and attacked the room with merciless efficiency. Safes were cracked. Chests were broken open. Drawers were forced. Shelves were stripped and lockboxes pilfered as the heroes swept through the study.

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” said Jynn, his voice sounding almost distraught as he stared at the artifacts. “Why is all this here?”

  “Don’t turn up your nose at good fortune,” Kaitha advised him.

  “Yes. Just take what you can carry,” said Heraldin, his pockets bulging with treasures.

  “I’ve found them!” cried Niln. “The Elven Marbles!”

  Gorm let out a small whoop as he and the other heroes rushed to the table Niln had uncovered. The high scribe pulled back a heavy blanket to reveal the remaining burial stones. Gorm couldn’t hold back a whoop of joy when he saw the four smooth, milky-white sculptures almost glowing in the cool light. “Well done, lad! Well done!” he shouted, grabbing Niln by the shoulders and shaking vigorously.

  The high scribe allowed himself a slight smile and gave a small nod of appreciation. “We should probably get these out of here.”

  “Yes,” said Jynn, absently. “Yes, lets get out of here.”

  “Did anyone hear a whistling?” asked Kaitha.

  “A what?” asked Gorm.

  The heroes stopped and listened.

  “It’s more like a wet blowing noise, like a child spitting loudly,” said Heraldin.

  “Or like someone is trying to whistle,” said Kaitha, cupping a hand to her pointed ear. “And there!”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” said Gorm.

  “I very distinctly heard someone mutter ‘sod this.’”

  Gorm was about to ask for more information, when something crashed through the largest of the stained-glass windows and tumbled to the floor. The heroes dove for cover under the assault.

  “What is it?” hollered Kaitha.

  “It’s a large rock,” Laruna shouted.

  “No …” Gorm breathed. It was more than just a stone. It was a signal. “Trouble’s comin’!” he cried, already sprinting for the doorway. “Shut the door!”

  Gaist had just pushed the great doors closed when something cried out at the base of the tower, a long, horrible howl that sent spiders creeping down Gorm’s spine. “Intruders,” said a voice as cold and dry as a tomb.

  “Build a barricade!” shouted Gorm, pushing an empty bookshelf against the door. Gaist and Kaitha joined him, while Heraldin and Niln grabbed an old table. Tib’rin struggled to push a heavy chair into place.

  “What is it?” asked Niln.

  “It’s comin’ back to a necromancer’s tower, and it’s got a shout like a banshee’s ballad,” said Gorm. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to meet with it. And why aren’t ye helping?” he shouted at the mages.

  Jynn was standing transfixed, his face paler than the Elven Marbles. “It … it can’t be,” he said.

  “Snap out of it,” Gorm told him. “Help us with the barricade!”

  “N-no good!” wailed Jynn. “No … no!” He lurched into motion and grabbed a bench, but instead of throwing it atop the barricade, the noctomancer began his own stack of furnishings against the back wall.

  “What are ye—what is he doing?” Gorm shouted to Laruna.

  The solamancer wasn’t any more helpful. She was totally engrossed, even perplexed, by a large painting set on the back wall. “Look,” Laruna said.

  It depicted a man in royal purple robes standing next to a boy in a skull-themed sailor suit. Someone had slashed the painting about the wizard’s head, obscuring everything between his thin beard and cruel eyes.

  “Aye, it’s Detarr Ur’Mayan,” said Gorm.

  “Nobody used the stairs up here!” wailed Jynn, pushing a bookshelf onto his pile. “He never used the stairs!”

  “No, not Detarr!” said Laruna. “Look!”

  “What are you gaping at?” hollered Kaitha, throwing an ancient statue on the makeshift barricade.

  “It’s just a painting of the necromancer and his…” Gorm lost his words. The boy in the painting looked every bit as dull and spineless as the ballads made him out to be, with a feckless face and a mop of shaggy, raven hair. Yet there was something undeniably familiar in the way his heavy-lidded eyes regarded the viewer, a subtle strength in his jaw, an arrogance in his tiny smile.

  “Is that—?”

  Sorcerous light flared on the wall behind Jynn’s makeshift barricade and a thousand pinpoints of magic raced through ancient paths to form the frame of a great doorway. The wall behind the furnishings parted like a sliding Elven door, and the feeble barricade the noctomancer had erected was blown inward with a crack of thunder. Jynn himself was thrown to the floor in the blast.

  “Who dares enter the Ashen Tower?” intoned the cold, hollow voice. A figure floated through the doorway in the wall, its feet hovering inches above the floor. It was like a tall man clad in dark, ornate robes, yet its hands were nothing but bone, and where its head should have been there was a pillar of amethyst flame surrounding, or perhaps suspending, a bleached skull. Orange pinpricks of light blazed from the eye sockets. “Who would face the wrath of Detarr Ur’Mayan in his own—oh, by the gods, it’s you.”

  The heroes followed the undead wizard’s gaze to their own noctomancer, sitting up amid the rubble of his barricade.

  “F-father?” said Jynn.

  Chapter 16

  “I should have known it was you,” sighed Detarr Ur’Mayan, rubbing the bony ridges where his temples used to be. “If there’s a problem with my plans, it’s always safe to assume you’re near the center of it.”

  “Y-y-you … I thought y-you were d-d-dead,” stammered Jynn, groping his way to his feet. The noctomancer was shaking, and seemed unable to stand upright, as if his spine had been pulled from his body.

  “I am dead, you yammering fool,” said Detarr, floating into the study. “Use your eyes. My head is a flaming skull, by the gods. I have made myself into a liche.”

  All necromancers courted death, but only the most potent among their number had ever approached the mastery required to make a return trip from the other side. When such wizards rose again as liches, they were free to pursue their dark craft unfettered by the frailties of a mortal body or the constraints of a sane mind.

  Gorm felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He looked to Kaitha. The color had drained from her face, and sweat was already beading on her brow. Necromancers were hard enough to kill the first time around; liches were foes of legend.

  Jynn tried to recover. “I-I meant that—”

  “We all know what you meant,” said the liche, looking around the study. “But why wouldn’t I let you think I was destroyed? You knew utterly nothing of my plans, and it only took you twenty years to come blundering in here and destroy half of my work. Imagine how quickly you could have ruined everything with a clue as to my whereabouts.”

  “B-but—”

  “Stop stuttering,” snapped Detarr. “And stand up straight. You look like a buffoon. If people must know that you’re an Ur’Mayan, at least try not to embarrass the family name.”

  The wizard stood rigid upon command, and collected himself enough to say, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m continuing my research, of course. I thought that was clear. The better question would be: what are you doing here? How did you find out about my plans?”

  Niln straightened, his face rigid with impetuous determination. “We serve as protectors of the people of light, vile necromancer!”

  The liche’s skeletal grin seemed more of a smirk as he contemplated the high scribe. “People of light? Vile necromancer?” he asked, amusement plain in his hollow voice. “Are we still hung up on branding people as good or evil? Why, little priest, you travel with a Goblin; surely you’ve seen the good in the ‘barbaric’ Shadowkin. And I’ll tell you I’ve found no greater example of the depravity of the world than the olive markets of Kesh. My work has nothing to do with your outmoded labels of morality. It’s a
bout research and progress.”

  “We’re here for the Elven Marbles,” said Gorm, trying to steer the conversation away from the grand conflict between light and darkness, or any conflict, really.

  “What? The Orcish sculptures?” said Detarr. “You came all this way for a few carved heads? I had hoped they had some traces of Stennish enchantments in them, but they’re not even the least bit magical. Believe me, I’ve done the tests. They’re just worthless stones.”

  “Then … you’ll let us have the marbles?” asked Jynn.

  “Oh, don’t be stupid,” said the liche. “I can’t have my research exposed prematurely. You’ll all have to die. Though, if it’s any consolation, I’ll bring you all back to join my project. Except the Elf,” he added, looking at Kaitha. “I’m afraid raising Elves is technically impossible. Most inconvenient for us both, I assure you.”

  “N-no!” said Jynn.

  “Oh, don’t fuss about it,” said Detarr. “Undeath is like so many things: it only seems horrible until you’ve tried it. Trust me, you’ll hardly even miss having flesh.”

  “You’re an abomination!” said the high scribe.

  “Am I? I couldn’t say,” said Detarr with a shrug. “As I said, your labels are of no concern to me. Progress marches on, and you are but a bump in its path.”

  A casual wave of the liche’s hand sent a burst of violet electricity arcing from his skeletal fingers toward Niln’s heart. The priest looked shocked, and all the more so when a tiny green body knocked him from harm’s way. Tib’rin let out a garbled shriek as the spell struck him in the back.

  “No!” shouted Gorm, already running across the room.

  “That was unexpected,” said the liche, energy still arcing from his hand to the screaming Goblin. “But it doesn’t matter what order I finish—” A lance of violet lightning struck Detarr’s skeletal hand, blasting it apart. The bones slowed to a halt in mid-air before drifting back into place and reforming the liche’s hand, but his spell was already broken. Tib’rin slumped to the floor.

  The pinpricks of light in Detarr’s eye sockets seemed to narrow as he glared at Jynn. “So,” he said, “my son has finally learned to weave a half-competent spell.”