The thrice-cursed heroes! He could still hear the Dwarf’s roaring laughter echoing through the city. Johan predicted that Gorm Ingerson would lie down and die after the Orcs were dead, just like he tried to drink himself to death after being shamed at the dungeon of Az’Anon. The paladin’s theory had held true, right up until Gorm gave Flinn a punch the Gnome could still feel
Flinn shook off the thought. It was of no matter. There was a contingency in place, of course. There were always contingencies; that was the hallmark of good planning, after all. And the latest contingency was the greatest yet: a third battalion lying in wait just beyond the north gate. The heroes thought they had broken Flinn’s forces, but when several hundred men marched into the chaos of Bloodroot, the element of surprise would belong to the Silver Talons again.
The heroes who had ransacked Bloodroot came from the south and left south again, so the north gate was still closed and barred when Flinn reached it. It took considerable effort for the Tinderkin to lift the heavy bar, using his back to spare his mangled hand. He used his good arm and shoulder to push the door open, heaving with everything he had. When he finally stumbled through to the road beyond the gate, he stopped short.
The road and field were empty. Nothing was in place.
On second glance, parts of the army were in place. They were just in more places than they should have been, and decidedly sticky. Weapons had been dropped in the field.
Flinn stepped through the gate. “What the flaming—?”
A pile of stones shifted, and then began to stand. Lichens grew into hair, rocks became hands and fingers, and a large boulder near the front became an unpleasant-looking face that curled into a snarl. The Troll drew itself to its full height and stared at Flinn with undisguised hostility.
The situation warranted a moment of reflection. Flinn had no army, no Ogre, and crucially, no more contingencies. He was unarmed, wounded, and face-to-face with one of the most deadly beasts on Arth, a specimen that appeared to have a predilection for killing Silver Talons, no less.
As a rule, Garold Flinn never fled.
His tactical retreat back to Aberreth, however, was much more frantic than normal.
When the crimson fog finally lifted, the world was dark and wet. A quick inventory told him that he still had all of his limbs and digits, his beard was intact, and, miraculously, nothing felt worse for wear. He could have sworn he remembered cracking a rib.
Gorm Ingerson was lying in a ditch, covered in sooty mud, staring into a smoke-filled sky that was suddenly eclipsed by a pair of beady red eyes and a set of long fangs.
“Hello, Thane,” he said.
“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” said the Troll, taking a step back.
“I’d say a few more minutes yet.” Gorm winced as he laboriously pulled himself to a sitting position. His mouth tasted of soot and … something metallic. Copper, perhaps. “What happened?”
“We broke the army of the men in black armor,” said Thane, “and chased the remnants from the city.”
Gorm nodded. Scenes of the fight flitted before his eyes, flickers of memories cast in shades of crimson. “I remember the battle, I think.”
“I would hope so. From what I could hear you sounded very … enthusiastic about it.”
“I felled Brunt,” said Gorm, clutching his head as he tried to remember. “What happened to Flinn?”
“Who?”
“The Gnomish snake that always stuck by that Ogre’s side.”
Thane considered it. “A little man with a topknot and a thin beard? I saw him flee.”
“Ah, should have been the other way around, if one of them had to live. I don’t think Brunt was as bad as he was loyal. I’d be surprised if he was smart enough to understand what he was fightin’ for, anyway. But Garold Flinn helped orchestrate this whole thing. He’s a big part of the reason Bloodroot and Tib’rin …” Gorm stopped himself. The thought of the Silver Talon’s leader was enough to have him balling his hands into a fist so tight it hurt. Much more talk of him and the crimson mist would descend again.
“Where are the others?” Gorm asked.
“They’re searching the ruins for you.”
“Oh? Then what are you doing here? Won’t ye be seen?”
“They’re searching the other side of the city,” said Thane, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.
There wasn’t much Gorm could remember about the other heroes in the fight, although he had a vague recollection they’d watched him fall from a roof. Still, Gorm was a veteran of waking up in a strange place with a surplus of questions and a shortfall of memories. He wasn’t even hungover this time.
“Right.” Getting to his feet took considerable effort. “We’d best be making our way over there.”
Thane lumbered alongside him. “What happens now?” he asked.
“Still figuring that out,” said Gorm. He mulled over his options as they walked through the city. Oddly enough, being marked for death by the Heroes’ Guild didn’t trouble him. If anything, there was a comfortable familiarity about it; the guild had wanted him tried and hanged well before he’d ever heard of this quest. The only difference now was that the guild would be actively seeking his downfall, and that the feeling was mutual.
“So did ye fight the mercenaries?” Gorm asked as they neared Bloodroot’s central square.
“They had a force of many men hiding to the north,” said the Troll. “I ambushed them in their hiding spot.”
“Ye took out a third battalion?”
“I felled some of them. Most ran away when they saw me.” The Troll smiled and shrugged. “I have that effect on people.”
“Some people. I find it’s handy having a Troll around. Thank ye, Thane.”
Thane’s grin was like a motley set of daggers. “I’d say our arrangement is working out rather well.”
Gorm stopped in front of the cairn he’d built, now covered in ash and dust and spattered with blood. “There ain’t no more arrangement,” he said. “I’m dissolving it.”
Panic flashed across the Troll’s face. “But, you said—”
“Your secret’s safe. I won’t tell anyone about ye until you’re ready, no matter how much I think ye should step forward and be seen for what ye are. And if ye want to continue to fight alongside us, it’s an honor and a great help. But I’ll not have your aid because you’re in my debt, or because I’m holdin’ your secrets ransom.” He lifted the heartseeker beads from Tib’rin’s grave. “And I’ll not have ye pretending to be me squire, or taking orders from me neither. I ain’t better than nobody. And I’ll not have ye act like it.”
Thane wore a small smile as he shook his head. “Gorm, I never thought you acted like you were—”
“Never again!” shouted Gorm. His eyes stung, and it wasn’t just the ash in the air. “I’ll never again have a better man than I actin’ like it’s the other way around, be they pink or green or brown or gray. You’re not me squire, me debtor, or me victim. You’re me friend, and that’s the only arrangement we’ll ever have from here on out. Understand?”
The Troll replied with a burly hug that crushed the air from Gorm’s lungs.
Duine Poldo placed his platinum pen in its small mahogany case. He snapped the lid shut and read the message engraved upon the top in bright golden letters: “Duine Poldo—100 Years of Fyne Service—Goldson & Baggs.” With a sigh, he placed it atop his other belongings in the box. Then he squared away his blotter, refilled the inkwell for his successor, and carried his box down the steps from his high desk.
The other employees avoided eye contact with Poldo in the hallway. Avoiding eye contact with a Scribkin is easy for most, as simple as not looking down. His old staff gave him apologetic nods as he passed through the room, but nobody actually dared to say goodbye. Poldo couldn’t blame them; it was best not to be any more associated with someone on the way out than you needed to be.
Laughter rang out from the executive lounge. Through the steel and glass doors, Pol
do could see Mr. Goldson and Mr. Baggs having a drink with Grandmaster Weaver Ortson of the Heroes’ Guild and Johan the Mighty. They toasted each other in celebration and laughed raucously at each other’s jokes. Poldo was staring when Johan the Mighty noticed and gave him a wink. Mr. Goldson noticed and gave Poldo a glare that sent the Scribkin scurrying on his way.
He clutched his box to his chest as he waited for the lift in the lobby. The smooth black doors opened, revealing an Elf in a scarlet and gold uniform.
Poldo sighed as the lift began to descend. He’d never thought he’d miss a Gnoll, but he had quite liked Hrurk. The old lift attendant had been loyal, easy to please, and didn’t shed much. But on the day that Poldo was given notice, Hrurk had told Poldo, in a nervous whisper, that rumors were spreading among the Shadowkin, rumors that the Orcs of Bloodroot had been framed, that no papers could really be trusted anymore. The Gnoll quit and went missing before word that the Bloodroot quest was complete even reached the top offices. Poldo could only assume the Gnoll had taken his family and fled, as had most of the NPCs Poldo knew.
The lobby, all smooth steel and black marble, bustled with activity. Shouts of traders and plunder-fund managers washed over Poldo as he stepped out the doors of Goldson & Baggs. Poldo held his box tightly, gaping at the spectacle. Up and down the Wall, everyone was in a frenzy of buying and selling. The exodus of NPCs had turned an entire class of citizens into a commodity. Wherever the fleeing Shadowkin were found holed-up could be declared a new dungeon, a new quest, a new cache of loot for the Heroes’ Guild to harvest. As the sun set on the NPC program, a golden age of professional heroics was dawning. It was a whole new world.
A terrible new world.
The bead pivoted in Gorm’s palm, reorienting its tapered end to point north by northwest. He closed his fist around it and looked toward the northern pine forests, black against the late-afternoon sky. The sun would set soon. “They’re in the Pinefells,” he said. “They’ve started to head west.”
Kaitha followed his gaze. “Are we going to follow them?”
“If ye was an Orc of Bloodroot and we came knocking on your doorstep, what would ye do?”
“I’d have our heads on pikes,” said Laruna.
“Aye. Far as they can see, we’re probably the worst professional heroes of the lot.”
“So what will we do?” asked Jynn.
“We’re alone out here, with limited gear and no healing potions,” said Kaitha.
“Yes, we know the healing potions went missing,” said Heraldin.
“Well, it’s important!” snapped the Elf.
“We’ll reach out to other Shadowkin, make our case to them,” said Gorm. “Gather evidence against the guild. Whatever we can to convince the Guz’Varda that we aren’t who they think we are. Then we’ll find them.”
“I don’t know about you,” said Heraldin. “But I’m hearing a lot of ‘we’ here. Some of us might prefer to return to Andarun and straighten this out with the guild.”
“Don’t be daft. The guild’s way of straightening this out would be to put a sword through you and dump your corpse in the river,” said Jynn.
“Ah. Good point,” said the bard. “Then we could petition King Handor for a pardon.”
“The same king who set us up on this phony quest?” said Kaitha. “Do you think an army of Silver Talons killed poor Niln and tried to do the same to us without Handor’s blessing?”
“Well, then, we could seek sanctuary at a temple.” Heraldin was starting to sound desperate.
“What temple will shelter you from the Champion of Tandos?” asked Laruna. “Johan the Mighty had his hand in the scheme.”
“But … but …” Heraldin looked around for some hope of escape, some alternate path. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked up to see the weaponsmaster.
Gaist shook his head.
“You’re right, my friend,” sighed Heraldin. “I’m sorry.”
“Look around ye,” Gorm told the other adventurers. “We’re all we got. So we stick together. There’s no guild, no kingdom, no temple for us. This is as much home as ye’ll have until this ends, one way or another, because as far as Andarun is concerned, we’re FOEs. Villains. Outlaws.”
“A criminal after all,” sighed Heraldin. “Benny Hookhand will be wearing my skin for this.”
“I’d say you’ve got bigger problems than Benny Hookhand,” said Jynn.
“Then I’d say you’ve clearly never crossed paths with Benny Hookhand.”
“The sun is setting,” said Laruna.
Gorm nodded. “It’s time.”
The heroes gathered around a small triangle made from three pine branches set atop a stone cairn, just outside the gates of Bloodroot. The memorial was covered in small tokens. Falcon feathers were holy to Al’Matra, but as no falcons could be found, a few hawk feathers had to suffice. Kaitha had contributed one of her arrows. The mages had each dropped off arcane-looking gems, and Heraldin and Gaist had found some torn silks to hang from the triangle’s peak.
Gorm had found a silver and gold icon of a glowmoth amid the charred rubble, an emblem of Fulgen, the Silent God. Why the Orcs had an icon of the Dwarven God of Light remained a mystery. Still, a holy symbol was a holy symbol, and it seemed appropriate that a high scribe’s memorial would have some sacred object or another. Besides, Fulgen was said to be a friend to anyone in need. Perhaps the Light in the Darkness would guide Niln’s spirit wherever it was meant to go.
Heraldin sang. Kaitha blessed the high scribe’s spirit. The mages conjured globes of light to dance over the ceremony. Gaist put his hand upon the memorial, eyes closed, reverent. Tears were shed and memories shared.
“Ye were the least hero among us, and yet ye were the best of us,” Gorm told Niln’s memorial. “And ye accomplished something. Ye mattered, and not just to those of us that loved ye. Ye changed our world, Niln. And we’re going to change everybody else’s, for ye.”
Then the heroes said their goodbyes, and started off down the road.
Gorm lingered for a moment. “And I’ll read your books,” he whispered to Niln, patting the satchel that held Niln’s scriptures and notes. “Not because I believe in the Dark Prince or the Seventh Hero or any of that nonsense, but just because I’m your friend, and I need to believe ye still know that somehow.”
“Come on, Gorm!” shouted Laruna.
“Aye!” He hurried after them, and caught up at the first bend in the road.
“It’s going to feel strange,” Kaitha said. “Not being heroes anymore.”
“What are ye talkin’ about. I’m still a hero,” said Gorm.
“Not as far as the Heroes’ Guild is concerned,” said Jynn.
“Burn the guild. Everybody’s hero is someone else’s villain, aye? And the other way around. We’ll be a hero to those who don’t have many of them.”
Gaist nodded.
“Right,” said Heraldin. “But we’re no longer professionals.”
“Why? Ye get another job?” asked Gorm. “Is this a hobby now?”
“I suppose we didn’t really lose our jobs at all,” said Kaitha. “We’re just working pro bono now.”
“That’s even worse,” said Heraldin.
Gaist patted him on the back.
“No, my friend, don’t try to cheer me up. Look at me. A traveling bard, siding with the Orcs, working for free. Who would have thought I’d wind up this way?”
“We’ll call it progress,” said Gorm.
The heroes laughed together as they made their way down the road.
The fires of Bloodroot had all but burned out. Hissing coals lingered here and there, glowing orange in the cool twilight, but the smoke was clearing and the ash had settled. The rats and crows had yet to brave the ruins and partake of their morbid buffet of strewn Silver Talons. The city was empty.
Almost.
The Ogre’s breathing was slow and labored. Blood and ash caked his skin. His eyes were glazed and vacant, much more so than norm
al.
He didn’t even look at the figure approaching him. “Getting … old … for this … stuff …” Brunt rumbled weakly.
“I heard you only fought because it was your job,” said the Troll.
“Was gonna … retire … two weeks,” lamented the Ogre. Every word took intense concentration and fortitude, much more so than normal.
“But why did you fight with the mercenaries? Why did you help kill all of these Orcs?” asked Thane.
“Brunt … fight … for justice …”
“And is this justice?”
Brunt said nothing.
“Is it?” the Troll asked.
“No,” whispered the Ogre. He closed his eyes, and the fight drained out of him.
Thane reached into his pouches. “I didn’t steal these,” he said. “I’m just watching them for … for my friends. So they don’t get misused.” He produced a small amber vial. “I’m like the party healer, if you really think about it. After all, I healed Gorm when I found him in the ditch.”
Brunt opened one eye, but said nothing.
“The point is that having these potions is a big responsibility. But I don’t think the others would mind giving one helping to a good man.”
“Brunt … bad.”
“You were,” said the Troll, unstoppering the vial. The amber liquid sparkled in the twilight as the Troll poured it into the prone Ogre’s mouth. “But you don’t have to be.” And he walked away, following the path the heroes had left in the fallen ash.
Brunt lay in ponderous silence for a long time. Then he sat up, heaved himself to his feet, and shuffled into the night.
Epilogue
The carriage rumbled through the woods, kicking up mud and splashing through puddles as it went. Jalana watched the trees fly by the window with little interest; she’d seen nothing but verdant forest since the carriage had entered the Green Span early that morning. As a Wood Elf—and Wood Elf nobility, no less—Jalana was expected to have a certain affinity for the trees. Perhaps she had, once, but she’d found the woods remarkably dull for at least three centuries. It was the primary reason she’d originally requested to be House Tyrieth’s ambassador to Andarun.
Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1) Page 36