“B-better than h-half!” stuttered Jynn. “Y-y-you don’t g-get to—”
A wall of nether energy washed over the noctomancer. He barely erected a shield in time to prevent the flesh from melting off his bones.
The liche stalked across the room. “If you are to fight, son, then fight! Don’t make some foolish speech about—” Jynn’s blast of sorcery forced Detarr to raise his own shield. An arrow from Kaitha’s bow bounced off it as well, followed closely by a dagger from Heraldin, which nearly made it through the liche’s defenses. The liche prepared to retaliate, but had to dodge a sudden slash from Gaist’s broadsword.
“So it is to be something of a fight after all,” said Detarr. With one hand he erected a shield of violet flame around him, and with the other he flung bolts of black energy at the heroes around him.
Gorm reached Tib’rin’s side and found Niln already checking the Goblin for a pulse. “He’s not long without healing,” the priest told him.
“Get him elixir,” said Gorm. “Keep him alive.”
“What will you do?”
“Me job,” said Gorm.
In the seconds it took to ready his axe and shield, Gorm made a quick survey of the battlefield, which only confirmed his suspicions: the heroes were going to lose. Behind his shield of amethyst flame, Detarr was impervious to everything the heroes could throw at him. His spare hand cast spells that wreaked havoc on the heroes running around him. The liche flung Gaist against the eastern wall with a gust of enchanted wind. He conjured a series of bolts that struck at Kaitha’s feet, forcing her to dance away from the study’s western hemisphere. An arc of lightning chased Heraldin to the spot where Gaist had landed, and finally blasted the bard from his feet.
Gorm froze. The liche was herding them, guiding the heroes toward the leftmost point in the room. No, not toward anything, but away from something on the far side of the chamber: a large desk overflowing with scrolls and books.
“Laruna!” Gorm shouted. “His research!”
“What?” Laruna screamed, narrowly dodging a blast of arcane energy.
“The papers!” He pointed to the desk. “He’s protectin’ his papers!”
Understanding flashed on Laruna’s face as Detarr let out a cry of despair. She leveled a blast of white hot flame that likely would have incinerated the papers, the desk, and the floor beneath it were it not for a shield of violet energy that suddenly crackled to life around the research.
“Do you have any idea what is in that desk?” shrieked Detarr.
“Nope,” said Gorm. “And neither will anyone else if ye drop that shield.”
“It’s more than twenty-five years of painstaking work!”
“Then I wouldn’t drop the shield,” said Gorm.
Detarr didn’t drop the shield that protected the papers, nor did he lower his own defenses; yet maintaining both defensive spells left the liche without a hand free to mount an effective offense. Laruna’s relentless streams of fire aimed at the research, and the other heroes’ combined assault, denied him the opportunity to cast spells in retaliation.
“It seems we’re at an impasse,” said Detarr, deflecting a blow from Gorm’s axe, even as he dodged a strike from Heraldin at his back.
“It’s whoever’s magic dries up first,” said Gorm. “And I’d not bet on Laruna running out.”
“You’re a fool if you think I will let myself be destroyed before I let the research burn,” said the liche, catching an arrow from Kaitha in his shield.
“But would ye rather us die or flee with the research?” said Gorm. “Ye leave the stones, we don’t burn the papers. In a way, everybody wins.”
“Or, I kill you all and win in a much more satisfying way,” said Detarr. “Come, Bonereaper.”
The terrifying howl rang out again, but it was much closer now. Something massive banged against the barricaded door.
“Bonereaper?” asked Gorm.
“Does that sound gauche?” asked Detarr, deflecting a blow from Gaist. “It seems heavy-handed, but I need it to be instantly recognizable. And its not like I have anyone else to bounce ideas off; a zombie is an efficient shock troop, but they have no sense for this sort of thing—”
“What’s a Bonereaper?” The door shook on its hinges with the rhythmic pounding of a battering ram.
“The name may not be elegant, Master Dwarf, but I feel it gets the point across sufficiently,” said the liche. “All you really need to know is that my sorcery can hold out against your attacks far longer than your barricade can hold against the Bonereaper. Or you can, for that matter. I’m afraid this is the end for your little—”
A new voice roared behind the door, a bellow deeper and more gravely than that of Detarr’s Bonereaper.
“What was that?” asked Detarr.
The door began to shake again, but rather than the slow thudding of a siege, it sounded like a frantic battle was raging outside. The Bonereaper’s howl rose in pitch and intensity, and then cut off in a series of loud, grisly thuds.
Detarr seemed perplexed. “Is there another—?”
The shrieking resumed, with a mad scrabbling at the door. A great tusk, thick with black blood, punched through the doorway, only to be hauled back a moment later. Silhouettes of struggling titans locked in mortal combat flashed through the hole, and then the melee could clearly be heard descending the stairs and spilling into the ballroom below. With another shriek, the Bonereaper fell silent once more.
Detarr paused for a moment. “What in the hells would—?”
The Bonereaper howled again, and a brief struggle erupted beneath them. A few bone-crunching thuds rand out before the howl faded.
Heroes and liche alike waited in silence. “Well, I built the thing to be resilient,” said Detarr eventually, “but this is getting—”
Another chilling shriek rang out below, along with the crash of shattering glass. Screams and bellows echoed through the pine forest as the unseen combatants fell from the tower and struck the ground below. Sounds of battle rang out again, although slower and less vigorous, and then a sickening snap prompted a final, charnel wail from the Bonereaper. Silence descended once more.
Detarr looked around. “Is that it? Do we think this is done? Yes?” The liche backed over to the enchanted doorway in the wall and stared down into the tower’s courtyard. “By the gods, how did you manage to get a Tr—?”
But Gorm had seen the liche’s surprise coming, and he took it as the only opening he was going to get. Launching into the air, into the amethyst flames of Detarr’s shield, he swung his axe in a desperate strike that, against all odds, connected. Detarr’s head bounced on the floorboards.
“Oh, flaming ashes, not again!” said the liche. His hand slapped the air where his forehead had been moments ago. “Do you know what a pain it is to align that properly? If it’s a fraction of an inch off, I can’t walk in a straight line!”
“Won’t be a problem for long!” said Gorm, lunging for the skull. He swung his axe for the killing blow, but the liche’s skull flitted away like a flaming gnat.
“Very well. Keep your burial stones, or Elven Marbles, or whatever you call them,” said Detarr’s head, hovering above the heroes. The liche’s body clenched its fist and gestured firmly, and the entire desk of research lifted unsteadily into the air and bobbed toward the doorway in the wall. “Should we meet again, I won’t underestimate your strength. I should endeavor to avoid such an encounter, were I you. Jynn, stop slouching. You look like a peasant.” With that parting admonition, the liche, his research, and his head, glided out the door and into the air.
Gorm rushed to the doorway and watched Detarr’s aerial retreat. The liche descended to hover above a mob of shambling corpses and skeletal warriors as they shuffled dutifully to the north. As Gorm watched, the last zombie in the group stopped at the tree line and tipped a large top hat to the tower before disappearing into the forest.
“We did it,” said Gorm, awe and relief washing over him. They’d beat b
ack a liche—and with a party that’d been shamed by a lowly scarg just weeks before! It was an achievement bards would be singing about for years to come.
His elation subsided as he was reminded of the subject of some other popular ballads. He turned back to the study. The other heroes were all wounded, weary, and staring at Jynn with varying degrees of shock and confusion.
“I … I can explain this,” said the noctomancer, his expression that of a hunted animal.
“And ye will,” said Gorm, unable to keep the menace from his voice. “At great length. But not until we’re well on our way. Everybody, take salve as ye need it, and then load up all the treasure ye can carry.”
Jynn tried to protest. “I really do think I should …”
“If I were ye, I wouldn’t be in any rush to have me find out how much ye’ve been holding out on us,” barked Gorm. “Gaist, help me get the Elven Marbles. This quest is almost done. And good bloody riddance.”
“What will you do when it is over?” Thane asked, sitting amid the ferns and needles that carpeted the pine forest floor.
“I ain’t sure. It depends,” said Gorm. “Hold still.”
Gorm knew of little that could inflict lasting harm on a Troll, but he was forced to add the Bonereaper to the list. Tusks and shards of bone protruded from Thane’s back and shoulders. Gorm grabbed a great tusk jutting from the Troll’s shoulder and wrenched it free, with some difficulty because the Troll’s flesh had regenerated around it. A gout of thick, black blood poured out after the tusk, stopping when the puncture wound closed and healed. Seconds later, hair sprouted from the new skin, and within moments there was no sign there had ever been a wound.
“What does it depend on?”
“Well, a lot of it depends on how the public sees us. Image and all that. It’s the third-biggest part of heroics, after the killing and the looting. This quest was supposed to get us back on the guild’s good side, but now … who knows? We’ve been traveling with the bloody Ur’Mayan boy the whole time.”
“Ah yes, the wizard—hurk!” The Troll grimaced as Gorm ripped a claw from its lower back. “Where is he now?”
“Skulking in his tent, I’d imagine.”
“What did you think of his side of the—ooh!—story?”
“I ain’t got the stomach to hear it. Not yet, anyway. This one’ll hurt.”
Thane growled something unintelligible as Gorm ripped a jagged bone from his back.
“Besides, I already know what he’ll say. That he didn’t know. That he left that life behind. That he was scared that we’d … we’d…”
“That you’d shun him and leave him to skulk in his tent?” The Troll spoke softly, with notes of melancholy among the gravel of his voice. “I can understand the fear.”
“I’m sure ye can, but now ye see the problem too, aye? Secrets come out, and they damage the party. Trust is broken, and there may not be time to recover from the surprise. Another big tusk here.”
“Some risks are worth—rrrrrgh—taking.”
Gorm shook his head. “Ye don’t keep secrets from the party.”
“Don’t tell me you’re reconsidering our arrangement.” Desperation twanged in the Troll’s voice. “It’s worked out well so far, hasn’t it? I mean, I know I slipped up with the Orcs, but I killed this bone monster.”
Gorm shook his head. “And I’m grateful, but that’s beside the point.”
“I’d never let any harm come to her, to any of you. And if anything threatens you—”
“This agreement ye and I have is the threat, lad. Secrets hurt. Look at the noctomancer.”
“Yes, look at him! None of you will give him more than dirty looks. The woman-mage won’t even look in his direction. And from what I can see, he’s just a Human with a bad childhood. What will they do to a Troll?”
“A bad childhood? Detarr Ur’Mayan was a necromancer, now a liche. He’s the son of a monster!”
“So am I.” The Troll jerked to attention, looking back toward the heroes’ camp. “Did you hear that?”
A voice rang out, soft and musical, calling for Gorm.
“She’s coming!” The Troll seemed on the verge of panic. “She’ll come and—do not tell her, Master Dwarf! Please! I beg you. Do not tell her!”
“All right, all right. Quiet,” hissed Gorm. “I ain’t decided anything yet. I just have to think about it.”
“Very well,” Thane conceded. “I will wait on your decision.” The Troll’s shoulders slumped, and then continued sliding as the Troll transformed into a pile of mossy granite.
Thane had barely settled into place when Kaitha stepped into the small clearing. Gorm threw himself atop the Troll-turned-stones and attempted to look casual.
It didn’t work; Dwarves never look casual, especially not when they want to.
“There you are,” said the Elf. “Niln wishes to speak with you tonight.”
He jumped back to his feet. “Why? Is it Tib’rin?” The Goblin’s wounds had healed with the first drops of salve, but he had yet to regain consciousness.
“No, no, Tib’rin hasn’t changed.”
“Ah. Well, thank ye. I’ll talk to the scribe before bed. Let’s get back to camp.”
“Just a few weeks ago, we were on Andarun’s pinnacle, commiserating about how we’d been dragged into this Al’Matran business,” said Kaitha. Gorm cringed as she sat down atop Thane. “And now? Now we’ve raided a liche’s tower. We’re going to expose the return of Detarr Ur’Mayan. We recovered the Elven Marbles.”
“We aren’t done yet,” he said. “We should probably be at the camp, guardin’ them.”
The ranger looked up at the sky beyond the treetops, painted a lurid orange by the dwindling sun. “Well, yes, there’s more to go, but this is big, Gorm. This isn’t just a fetch quest anymore. This is break-out career type adventure.”
“Aye.” Gorm couldn’t decide whether it was better to stand or sit. He opted for setting one boot atop a rock, and then nearly fell over when the stones shifted uncomfortably.
“I mean, Leiry will probably want me back,” said Kaitha. “And then I’ll tell that fat hack where to stuff his offer, because he’ll be in line behind ten better agents.”
Gorm allowed himself a small smile. “Aye.”
“You could be the Pyrebeard once more.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Kaitha.” Gorm shot her a wink. “Or should I say, Jade Wind?”
“I could get used to that. Again.” The ranger wore a wide grin.
“Ye’ve earned it. Ye really turned the quest around.”
“I had help,” said Kaitha softly. “It’s been good, not drinking. Helpful. I feel like I used to. Or, at least, like I think I did. So, thank you for that.”
“T’wasn’t anything. Ye did it.”
Kaitha nodded and looked back to the treetops. “What do you think killed the Bonereaper?”
Gorm slipped and nearly fell off the stones again. “Ah, I … I thought maybe … Detarr lost control of it, on account of being so distracted. It could have been fightin’ the other undead.”
“That’s what Laruna said,” said Kaitha. “And Heraldin thought there could have been two of them, and one destroyed the other. But I think it was the King in the Wood.”
“Oh?” said Gorm. He tried to keep his eyes away from Thane and simultaneously maintain an air of indifference, but didn’t manage to do either.
Fortunately, Kaitha’s attention was elsewhere. “I keep finding the tracks of monsters that should have found us, but instead turned tail and ran. We haven’t encountered a single foe since the Myrewood, save for the Orcs, and they weren’t really hostile.”
The rocks beneath his feet twitched in a manner not unlike a knowing elbow to the arm. Gorm grimaced down at the rocky outcropping, which looked as smug as a pile of granite could. “Aye, but it’s best not to turn up your nose at good fortune, right?”
“It’s more than good fortune. I see shadows within shadows, movements from the
corner of my eye. I’ve seen something—someone—out there, through the trees. But he only moves when he believes I don’t see him, and I can never get a good look.”
“Well, the forest can play tricks.”
“Oh, tell me about the forest, Sir Dwarf,” laughed the ranger. “I know what I see. I know what I sense. I feel the same spirit that I felt in the Myrewood.” She leaned back, into a comfortable recess in the stone. “He is here. Either that, or I’m touched by the All Mother after all.”
“Or maybe both,” muttered Gorm. He didn’t know if it was stranger that a Troll was smitten with an Elf, or that she seemed to be just as lovelorn. “Come on. Let’s get back to camp.”
“You go on ahead,” Kaitha told him. “I’m going to rest here for a while.”
“Oh, I couldn’t leave ye alone in the woods—whup!” Gorm nearly fell on his face as the stone beneath his feet shifted and jostled.
“Watch your step,” said Kaitha. “And don’t worry about me. I’m not alone, remember?”
“Or maybe you’re just crazy,” muttered Gorm. Yet Thane didn’t seem to want Gorm to stay, and the Elf was clearly comfortable, so he bade her goodbye and headed back to camp.
Kaitha smiled as she watched Gorm trundle off through the pines in the last of the day’s fading light. Beneath his curmudgeonly facade was, well, yes, a genuine curmudgeon, but a curmudgeon who clearly cared for her. A famous heroine would see multitudes of agents and groupies and would-be lovers come and go over a career, but true friends, friends who offered as much help and support as they needed, were rarer and more precious than any loot. Even the persistently grouchy ones.
It made her feel all the worse for deceiving Gorm.
“I meant it,” she told the forest, after the Dwarf was well out of earshot. “I know you’re out there.”
That much had been the truth. Sometimes, she would speak to the watcher in the forest, and she would swear she heard answers whispered on the wind. She could feel the presence from the Myrewood as surely as she felt her own heartbeat, just not as pressingly as she felt the itch in her wrists.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 30