Cautiously, they peered out the tower windows. Mr. Flinn stood just below the window, smiling up at them. Brunt loomed behind him, and behind Brunt were Silver Talons as far as the eye could see.
“Hello!” said Mr. Flinn. “I’m sure you’re aware by now that the outcome of this charade is really quite certain. But sieges take time, and assaults cost men and arrows, and I’m loath to waste any of the three. So, I’m willing to overlook the considerable inconvenience you’ve caused, to say nothing of the men you killed, and re-extend my earlier offer. Surrender now, and I’ll grant you a swift and mostly painless execution.”
Laruna shot a burst of flame at the Tinderkin, but the Silver Talons’ mages were ready this time and her spell rippled harmlessly across the surface of a much stronger shield.
“Have … your way!” rumbled Brunt.
“Indeed they shall, Mr. Brunt!” said Mr. Flinn. The pounding on the door resumed.
“Spread out,” said Kaitha. “Look out the windows for some roof we can leap onto, some alley they’ve left unguarded, anything that can get us out of this situation.”
“And if we can’t find one?” asked Heraldin.
“Then we won’t be getting out of this situation,” Kaitha said grimly.
Laruna checked the back window, opposite Mr. Flinn and Mr. Brunt. Directly below the tower, the Silver Talons were beginning to surround them, all of them watching the windows with drawn crossbows. But beyond the mercenaries, in the clearing where they’d laid Zurthraka to rest, she spotted a forlorn figure, oblivious to chaos around him, stacking stones upon a cairn.
“Gorm!” she screamed.
Gorm had burned the Orcs on great pyres, in accordance with the Orcish customs that he could recall. Yet he didn’t know any Goblin rites or ceremonies, so he buried Tib’rin as a Dwarf, deep in the earth with a suitable cairn above the chest. Technically, the cairn should have been decorated with the Goblin’s weapons and armor, but Tib’rin’s had all been looted. Instead, Gorm decorated it with the doll from the street, and Zurthraka’s gaist, and the handful of beads that his friend had clutched in death.
Sweat rolled from his brow, and the smoke and ash and stench of death burned his throat and his lungs. A numbness he had never known before dulled his core, a weariness that bit to his marrow. All of his work, all of his efforts, had gained him nothing and had cost his friends everything; no, he’d cost an entire people their lives. He’d always known the system was rigged; he’d have told anyone the system was rigged a few months ago. Yet all they had to do was wave a pardon and some gold in his face, and he’d jumped in feet-first. The guild had used him, because he’d let them. And now that they’d won, and the Guz’Varda Tribe was gone, he’d outlived his purpose to anyone. There was nothing left to do but die.
“I knew ye’d come,” he said.
Mr. Flinn paused. “Well done, Mr. Ingerson. I must say, most people can’t hear me approaching when I don’t wish to be heard.”
“I said ye were expected.” Gorm didn’t even look at the mercenary; he just stared into the empty eyes of Zurthraka’s iron death mask. “I’d imagined you’d wanted to finish me yerself.”
“Well, rank has its privilege,” said Mr. Flinn. “As much as I’ve enjoyed our rivalry these past few weeks, I confess I’ll enjoy ending it much more.”
“I suppose Niln’s dead.”
“Officially, he was killed by the Orcs during the theft of the Elven Marbles.”
Gorm nodded. He’d already mourned the high scribe, along with all the rest, back when his heart still ached, before the numbness set in. “I imagine we were officially killed at the same time.”
“That will be the story, once we’ve rooted your friends out of their tower and I’ve finished with you. I’m afraid you’re much more valuable as victims than heroes,” said Mr. Flinn. The assassin was circling warily, looking for an opening in the defenses that Gorm wouldn’t bother to raise. “Though, I must admit, you played your part admirably here.”
Gorm shut his eyes. “Ye knew I’d bring the stones here?”
“Sir Johan did, yes,” beamed Mr. Flinn, the glee evident in his voice. “He was certain that you’d bring the marbles to the Orcs once he heard you were traveling with a Goblin. It’s why he insisted that you be recruited. And when you punched the Elven captain for insulting a greenskin, we all knew that he’d been right.”
“He could always count on me to do the right thing,” said Gorm, recalling Johan’s last words to him. “But why bother with all that if ye planned to kill the party in the Myrewood?”
“Heroes have a habit of ruining the best of plans, and your party was no exception. You were our contingency plan, Mr. Ingerson,” laughed Mr. Flinn. “We would have preferred that a Guild Inspector find your bodies alongside some Orc corpses in the Myrewood. You escaped our ambush, but then you found the stones and gave them to the Orcs of Bloodroot. You slipped out of Haertswood before my forces could apprehend you there, yet you brought your party straight back here. Whenever your team escaped our grasp, you immediately brought them back into our hands. I’ve never met so predictable a rebel.”
Gorm shook his head. He was a rebel no more; the fight had left him. His last failure was his greatest shame, but at least he wouldn’t have to suffer it long.
“You’ve made all of this possible, Mr. Ingerson. I truly mean it when I say that we couldn’t have done it without you. And as your thanks, I’ll make your end swift.”
He could see Mr. Flinn tensing for the final strike, a shortsword readied in each hand. Behind him, snickering Silver Talons watched and waited for their leader to deliver the final blow. In truth, Gorm was waiting for the same thing.
He turned back to the cairn he’d built for Tib’rin. Zurthraka’s gaist. The forgotten doll. The nondescript granite beads. Though, now that he thought of it, the pattern he’d arranged the beads in had broken somehow. He stared at the pile quizzically.
The beads moved.
Gorm’s breath caught in his throat as the heartseeker beads rotated in unison to point northeast. Somewhere across the Ruskan landscape, an Orc was pressing the Heartstone, calling to his brothers and sisters. There could be hundreds, no, even thousands of them out there, trying to connect again.
A spark of something long forgotten awoke in Gorm. They could rebuild the tribe. They could start anew. Yet the Orcs would be branded as foes. They’d be hunted by the guild and its heroes. They’d be pariahs, with nobody to stand up for them. No one to fight with them. Nobody to take their side.
Gorm reached out and seized the spark. “Me,” he whispered
Mr. Flinn must have seen the change in Gorm, noticed the sudden glint in the Dwarf’s eye, and thought better of a frontal assault. The Gnome deftly changed course mid-charge, which was the only reason Gorm’s sudden punch didn’t break his jaw. It was still enough to send him reeling into the dust.
“Well,” said the assassin, pushing himself to his feet. “It seems that we shall—”
“Shut your trap,” said Gorm, retrieving his axe and shield. He felt the spark growing, burning, fanning flames within him that he hadn’t thought he’d ever feel again. “You’re right. I did this. I was so eager for a bloody title and some thrice-cursed loot that I let myself be blinded to the ways of the world. The blood of the Guz’Varda Tribe is on my hands.”
He pointed his Orc-crafted axe squarely at the Tinderkin. “And I’m gonna wash it off with yours.”
Mr. Flinn’s smirk gleamed like his blades. “I think you’ll find otherwise,” he said, and he lunged forward again.
The assassin moved with a fluid grace, almost gliding through the air as he swept toward his target. His swords seemed to dance in his hands as he moved, weaving hypnotic patterns of steel and death.
Gorm held nothing but contempt for such fancy shenanigans. A quick jab from his shield put the prancing Gnome off balance, and the following blow from Gorm’s axe forced an awkward dodge. Another punch with his shield caught Flinn dir
ectly in the face with a satisfying crunch. The reeling Gnome stumbled back, onto the ground.
“Did ye think I was scared of ye?” yelled Gorm, the fire growing within him. “Did ye think I joined the quest because ye’ve got a pair of short swords and ye murdered your mum? I played along because I didn’t want to pit meself against the full force of the thrice-cursed Heroes’ Guild, and spend the rest of my life fighting their thugs and enforcers.”
“They’ll still come for you,” said Mr. Flinn, trying to scramble to his feet.
“Aye! Let them come!” Gorm delivered an overhand chop that would have cloven the assassin’s head in two, had he not managed a feeble parry. He swept the Gnome’s sword aside with another shield bash. “I want to fight! I want them to know my name, and to know I’m comin’ for them!”
Mr. Flinn dove to the side and scrambled for his swords. With a guttural roar, Gorm leaped upon the Gnome, bringing his axe down with the full force of his rising fury. Flinn tried to roll out of the way, but the axe caught his hand, lopping half of it off, from the edge of his wrist to just above his thumb.
The assassin sprang to his feet and tried to run, clutching his mangled hand. “Mr. Brunt, some assistance!” he screamed.
“Burn your bloody guild!” Gorm roared, charging after the fleeing Gnome. The fire within had become a roaring inferno. The rest of the world melted away, leaving only Gorm and his axe and the objects of his vengeance. “Burn your markets, and hang your king! Johan the Mighty is going to taste my axe! You’re all on borrowed time!”
“Mr. Brunt!” screeched Mr. Flinn.
Suddenly, Brunt charged onto the battlefield, roaring with a volume to match Gorm’s. The Dwarf got his shield up in time, but the force of the Ogre’s punch still lifted him high into the air and sent him flying over the burning rubble. He felt a crack as he hit the wall, and then the world went crimson.
Chapter 19
Kaitha watched Brunt hit Gorm like a runaway carriage. The mercenaries below laughed and hooted as the Dwarf flew through the air, tumbling head over feet. The heroes collectively winced as he slammed into the wall of a burned-out factory with an unpleasant crunching noise. Their spirits sank as the warrior slid down the wall, a cloud of ash billowing from the flaming ruins where he landed.
Mr. Flinn turned back to the cheering Silver Talons, his face locked in a determined sneer as he clutched the stub of his hand. “One down, as they say. Right, Mr. Brunt?”
Then they heard the laughter, a rib-rattling cackle that echoed from the depths of the grave. All eyes turned to the ruins where Gorm had landed. A figure was emerging from the ash and flames: a Dwarf-shaped apparition that barely resembled the warrior Kaitha knew. He seemed a demon wrought from soot and sweat, his beard glowing blood red in the firelight, his eyes like burning coals. With every step, he banged his axe on his shield, a slow and purposeful rhythm beneath the horrible laughter.
Several of the Silver Talons backed away from the advancing Dwarf. Mr. Flinn took a cautious step behind Mr. Brunt, although the Ogre seemed just as unsettled. Even the flames around the warrior writhed and parted as he walked, as if trying to get out of his way.
“What’s happening right now?” asked Heraldin.
Kaitha knew. The handful of berserkers she had encountered throughout her career were impressive and terrifying all at once, and they’d never achieved anywhere near the level of renown that Gorm Ingerson had once commanded.
“Pyrebeard,” Kaitha whispered.
He ran toward the Ogre now, his axe hammering on his shield with every step, a bestial roar in his throat. Brunt responded with a bellow of his own and lumbered forward.
“This is madness,” said Jynn.
“Yes,” agreed Kaitha as the combatants met. “Brunt should have run.”
Gorm was a whirlwind with a manic grin, ducking and weaving and striking around the bellowing Ogre. Kaitha couldn’t actually see the Dwarf moving, but Brunt jerked and shuddered like a broken marionette under the onslaught. He staggered from an axe blow to the shoulder, reeled from a shield bash to the nose, doubled over at a strike to the kidneys, and was knocked back by a steel-toed boot to the face.
The assembled mercenaries fell silent when Gorm finally landed, still howling like a madman. A moment later, Brunt toppled into the dust behind him.
“That was unexpected,” said Jynn.
“Flinn seems to have predicted it well enough,” said Heraldin. “Look.”
Gaist pointed. Kaitha saw the Gnome pressing through the lines of Silver Talons, headed for the city gates. A moment later, Gorm hit the ranks of mercenaries like a cannonball, sending men and their dismembered components scattering into the air. The impact signaled the start of a race; Flinn pushed through the panicked crowd of soldiers, and Gorm carved a path in hot pursuit.
“He’s winning a brawl with an army,” said Laruna.
“For now,” said Jynn. “But it’s only a matter of time before the Silver Talons collect themselves, or he slips.”
Kaitha sent an arrow out the window and into the throat of a Silver Talon. “Well then,” she said with a determined grin. “Let’s go even the odds.”
It was as smooth and professional an operation as Kaitha had ever participated in. A sudden eruption of sorcerous flame blew the trap door off the tower and onto the unfortunate soldiers below. The heroes rolled down the steps and across the courtyard. Laruna dispersed crowds of mercenaries with great spouts of flame. Kaitha and Jynn covered her flanks, sending arrows or blasts of magic to put down any resistance the Silver Talons mustered. Heraldin and Gaist ran around the group, striking at groups of archers as they attempted to rally. They scythed through the crowd of soldiers with mechanical precision, like a Gnomish harvest engine through a field of wheat.
The problem with mercenaries, from an employer’s perspective anyway, is that while it is relatively easy to find a man who will fight for money, it’s much less common to find those willing to die for a paycheck. Seeing Brunt fall diminished the resolve of the soldiers; getting caught between five heroes and a Dwarf-shaped ball of rage and death demolished it. The rank and file began to evaporate. A few self-preserving individuals broke away from the rear of the battalion, and the formations nearest the heroes began to fall apart as mercenaries scrambled to avoid them. Soon, almost the entire army was running for one gate or another.
There were still pockets of resistance amid the chaos. A squad of dagger-wielding assassins rushed to attack the heroes’ rear, but stopped short when their leader began to bubble and smoke. The man twitched and shrieked as his skin burned away, his body shriveled and black beneath it.
“Do you have to kill them so … messily?” Kaitha said, making a face.
“Noctomancy is effective, not aesthetic,” said Jynn, deftly weaving a death spell around the mercenary. “Besides, I think fear is a more efficient way to win the day.” He nodded to the rest of the squad, who were backing away from the withered husk of their squad leader.
“Fair enough,” said Kaitha, dropping another assassin with an arrow to the eye. The rest of the squad turned and fled.
“Magic shield,” said Laruna.
Ahead of them, a group of mages had conjured a sorcerous barrier, shimmering in the hazy air, and ranks of archers were gathering behind it. The archers wound their crossbows, took aim at the advancing heroes, and shrieked in dismay as several clouds of greenish smoke engulfed the squad of mercenaries.
“The bannerman’s gambit!” Heraldin called, bounding into the cloud from the mage’s right flank as Gaist sprang into the opposite side of the cloud.
Kaitha couldn’t see into the noxious cloud, but if the screams and cringe-inducing crunches that emanated from it were any indication, the bannerman’s gambit was decidedly unpleasant. The bard and weaponsmaster bounded back into view a moment later.
“Let’s choose another route,” said Heraldin, directing them down a different street. “When that smoke clears, it’s not going to be pretty in there. E
ven Gaist wouldn’t want to see it.”
Gaist nodded.
As they fought, they caught only glimpses of Gorm—a murderous, screaming phantom amid the destruction. Kaitha saw him burst through the wall of a charred hut to pounce on a terrified mage. Heraldin pointed out the Dwarf chasing a pack of mercenaries atop the roof of one of the ruined factories; Gorm caught them as they all went over the edge. Jynn swore he saw the berserker riding on the shoulders of a fleeing Silver Talon, laughing and waving his axe as he went.
Despite herself, Kaitha was smiling as well. On the one hand, her career was officially dead, and the guild would prefer it if she was as well; on the other hand, the exhausting pursuit of success had ended. She’d caught it once, it got away, and now she was free. There would be no more loot, no ranks, no agents, no vying to get into the most prestigious parties or the biggest jobs.
She felt like a new Elf. On this side of the guild, being a ranger meant what it was always supposed to: self-sufficiency, defending the weak, and the pursuit of justice. There was a purity, a simplicity, to the idea. It was like being in the garden in the Myrewood, or sitting with the King in the Wood, as she imagined him anyway. She couldn’t be sure if she was regaining some part of herself that she had lost, or finding the person she always wished to be, but it was what she had always yearned for.
“Perhaps I missed what I never had,” she said.
“What?” asked Laruna.
“Nothing,” said Kaitha, and she put an arrow through a charging mercenary’s throat. It did sound a little mad when she said it aloud. Perhaps she was touched by the All Mother after all.
She didn’t care if she was.
Garold Flinn, as a rule, never fled. He was not fleeing as he dashed northward, clutching the remnants of his ruined hand; he was making a tactical retreat, which stood in contrast to the common soldiers desperately running through the streets. Flinn had a plan, and a destination, whereas the rabble making a mass exit around him had no goals beyond existing another hour or so. Flinn paid them no mind. Silver Talon deserters were dead to him, and they’d be dead to everyone else as well shortly after this business with the heroes was settled.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 35