Son of a Liche Read online

  “I…” Gorm stopped for a moment, distracted by the plate of alleged food bubbling in front of him. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “We’re supposed to be out here seekin’ justice, protectin’ the weak.”

  “We still will be,” said Kaitha.

  “Just with a paycheck,” said Heraldin.

  “And maybe a warm fire to sit by,” added Burt.

  “You too, Burt?” Gorm could feel them slipping away from the mission, and if he was honest, he was slipping with them. “What about helpin’ those in danger? Defendin’ those who need it?”

  “We can still do that if we see anyone who needs help,” said Jynn.

  “We wouldn’t just walk away from people in need,” Laruna agreed. “We may become mercenaries, but we’ll always be heroes at heart.”

  “Killing people is a job. Saving innocents is a passion,” said Heraldin.

  “And we’ll still work toward helping the Orcs,” said Kaitha. “We’re not backing off.”

  “Right,” said Burt. “We’re just open to finding new ways forward.”

  Gorm stood and hefted his pack onto his shoulder. “Give me some time to think about it,” he called back to them as he headed out toward the gate.

  “What is there to think about?” he heard Jynn ask. “I don’t see a choice here.”

  “That’s what he must make peace with,” Heraldin told the wizard.

  Peace is a difficult idea for many Shadowkin. Shadowtongue has no word for it; the closest concept in the language of Orcs and Goblins is the somewhat cumbersome term dapitto’noddin appa’dad. Roughly translated, it means “a short time for rest between fights.”

  This linguistic quirk ensured that praying for peace was a long and awkward process for an Orc, but Asherzu Guz’Varda did so anyway. Within the chambers of her salt-bleached hut, the Orcess spent much of her afternoon gripping her holy symbol and whispering pleas to a Dwarven god that never spoke. Her fingers worked over the silver charm, fashioned into the shape of a glowmoth, until it was warm in her hands.

  Lambskin canvases brimming with graphs and charts lay scattered around the crude furnishings of the hut. On any other morning, they would have completely engrossed her. Today, they didn’t matter. She spent the high-sun meal in prayer, and might have missed the evening one as well had Jorruk not knocked on the rough pine column outside of her chamber.

  “A thousand pardons, but you should take food, my lady,” said the wise-one.

  “Is there news?” asked Asherzu, ignoring her mentor’s advice.

  “There is roast pig. That will have to do,” said Jorruk gently as he stepped through the curtain of beads and teeth that served as her door.

  “How can I eat when our eldest brother is in danger?” asked Asherzu.

  “You can trust in the might and power of our chieftain. Char is on his own path now. We must find our way forward.”

  “Char’s only path has been his own,” said Asherzu. Her eldest brother, the firstborn son of Chief Zurthraka daz’Guz’Varda, had long held a reputation for being headstrong and impulsive. Yet when the Lightlings razed the town of Bloodroot and killed Chief Zurthraka, Char helped gather the sacred treasures from the Orcs’ High Vault and led much of the Guz’Varda Tribe, along with many other Shadowkin, to safety.

  Through his heroism and might, Asherzu’s brother had been made chieftain. But their father’s throne had not imparted their father’s wisdom, and Char remained impetuous and overconfident. He never should have ordered the last hunt, let alone led it. A pit had opened in Asherzu’s stomach when his warband had come back through the gate without him, and that pit hadn’t closed since.

  Jorruk put a bony hand on her shoulder and tried another tactic. “Your youngest brother eats.”

  “I cannot dream of such a time that Darak would not find the will to eat,” said Asherzu. A small smile flashed her tusks despite herself. “I will not keep him waiting. Let me put on my beads.”

  “I shall await you there, lady.” Jorruk bowed and stepped away.

  Asherzu draped two necklaces of green and orange beads around her neck; her father’s favorite colors were those of truce and trade. She added a necklace of violet and yellow beads as well; her personal colors stood for wisdom and knowledge. She also took a string of blue beads over black and yellow, colors for feasting with one’s clan or tribe. Finally, she added a few red beads to her blue-black hair, both to please Char’s wise-ones and because she liked the way they looked.

  She stepped out of her small wooden hut, nestled with two other yurts in the shadows of the pines near the edge of town. The air was crisp and salty. Broad patches of white, pillowy snow blanketed the forest and the Orcish town, but the rocky beach nearby was kept bare and wet by the crashing waves. A persistent chill hung in the air, and she pulled her silks closer as she made her way to the great house.

  The center of the town was a monstrous nest of red canvas and beaded ropes spider-webbed between thick pine timbers. The Goblins of the Dark Raven Tribe had helped set it up and, typical of Goblin workmanship, the tent was tenuously strung together and riddled with useless additions. There were lookout towers with no stairs, balconies set just above the ground, and random banners and totems stuck everywhere. But it was large enough to serve the Guz’Varda and the members of the Red Horde they traveled with, and that was all they needed.

  Most of the village had already gone home when she stepped into the tent. The end-of-day meal was drawing to a close, and there were precious few hours between sunset and the point at which sleep would claim exhausted laborers. But near the back of the tent she saw a few Orcs scattered around a small mountain of olive flesh and raven hair. Darak.

  Her younger brother leaned against a post that may or may not have supported the roof. He glowered out the windows facing the beach, ever watchful, but his face lit up as Asherzu approached. “Ah, my flesh and blood has come!” he said, straightening as she approached.

  “Good day, lady. I see you’ve chosen to wear the beads of your old tribe,” said a thin, gap-toothed Orc in the tongue of Lightlings. His mustache and beard was short and oily, his head clean-shaven, and a multitude of crimson beads draped over his evergreen frame like poison berries on a scrawny shrub.

  “As our people have for centuries, Grignot.” Asherzu took the seat Darak offered her.

  “Times change, lady,” said Grignot. “In the Red Horde, we wear only the beads of our fellowship, as we did in the ages long past. We have no tribes.”

  “I am sorry for you, then,” said Asherzu. “I, for one, could not bear the loss of my tribe.”

  “I fear we are all lost without unity,” said Grignot with a reptilian smile.

  “Leave her be, Grignot,” said Darak. “It is only beads. Can you two not honor each other even in these troubled days?”

  “Perhaps,” said Grignot, standing. “But I imagine you two have much to discuss. I leave you to your dinner, Lady Asherzu. Farewell, mighty Darak, wise Jorruk.”

  Asherzu watched him scuttle from the tent, flanked by the warriors of the Red Horde. “There goes a snake among the reeds.”

  Jorruk nodded, but said nothing. His stern gaze told her she should keep quiet as well. She shot him a smile that said she’d take his advice under consideration.

  “Brother Char trusts him,” said Darak. “He is the highest of the chieftain’s wise-ones.”

  “I have never seen a wise-one with a beard,” Asherzu snorted.

  “Brother Char says he has the heart of a warrior,” Darak countered.

  “And the head to match it,” said Asherzu. “A pity Grignot has the body of a wise-one, then. It leaves him unworthy to be either.”

  “Your wisdom and knowledge are always sound, my sister. I will not argue with you. But a chieftain chooses whose council to take, and Char has chosen Grignot’s.” Darak shrugged. “We should not question.”

  “You always were dutiful, Little Warg,” said Asherzu, batting at one of the braids in his beard.

>   “I know my strengths, wise sister,” said Darak. He nodded to the massive warhammer set across the table.

  “But look where Grignot’s council has taken Char now,” said Asherzu. “Who knows what the Lightlings will do to our brother if the rescue fails? What if they cannot find Fulgen’s Rest? How will they return?”

  Darak shook his head. “Brother Char will not falter,” he said, despite all evidence to the contrary. “We have already lost Father, and Challu, and Derdod’zu, and Frak. And Brother Char has said this will be his last raid before he sets aside his axe. Surely the gods would not be so cruel.”

  “Surely they should not be so tempted,” said Asherzu, taking a bite of cured ham. “The Teachings of Phrek tell us to never say such things, lest we dare fate.”

  “He will not…” Darak trailed off.

  Asherzu looked at her brother’s face, a mask of shock and sorrow. She followed his gaze to the far door of the tent, where a cluster of Shadowkin had shuffled in. Grignot was among them, his usual smirk replaced with a deep frown. Asherzu paid him no mind as her eyes fell on Fradak, the leader of the rescue party. Strings of black beads dangled from his beard.

  Her stomach plunged as her food dropped to the dirt floor. Jorruk was saying something, but his words fell away along with the rest of the world. She already knew the message.

  Char Guz’Varda was dead.

  “Just like that?” asked Duine Poldo. “Gone?”

  “Bought out, chopped up, sold off. Nice and neat,” said Samel Fitch, dabbing his napkin to his thick lips before brushing crumbs of spice cake from his ragged stubble. He had the bright eyes and curly hair typical of Halflings, and his fine red vest struggled to contain his unusually generous girth. “That’s business.”

  Poldo shook his head in disbelief. “But Wysdon Cheque? I saw their numbers. They had good growth, for a hedge fund.”

  “Good isn’t good enough anymore,” said Fitch with a shrug. “The market’s strong. With the Red Horde and other Shadowkin foes about, loot yields are way up. If you’re not posting amazing returns, you’re on the chopping block.”

  “Indeed,” said Poldo, feeling sweat bead on his forehead. He discreetly took out a pocket mirror to check himself. His suit was sharp and impeccable, his thick mustache waxed and shaped to perfect tips, and the gold-rimmed spectacles perched atop his bulbous nose were polished to a brilliant shine. He looked like a Scribkin in command of his own destiny, a powerful man of industry. Once he dabbed the perspiration from his brow with a violet handkerchief, anyway.

  “But you don’t need to worry about that!” said Fitch, waving his arms at the verdant garden surrounding them. “You made it! An office at Boulderfolk Commons! The big mansion for little people!”

  “Ah, yes,” said Poldo, taking a slow sip of his tea. The Terrace Cafe sat on a mosaic patio in the Commons’ largest gardens. Built by Tuld R. Boulderfolk at the end of the Sixth Age, the renovated mansion on Andarun’s eighth tier had become the city’s premiere multi-office business center.

  “Speaking of which, when do I get to see your office?” asked Fitch.

  Poldo held up a finger as he continued to drag out the single sip of tea.

  Though its architects built Boulderfolk Commons to Scribkin scale, an office on the premises was still a sign of prestige to anyone in the business community of Andarun; even Elves would overlook the inconvenience of desks that only reached their knees for the status that a Boulderfolk office afforded. Everyone wanted to work in the big mansion for little people, which was precisely why Poldo couldn’t afford to. Boulderfolk’s high rents were even more well-known than its low ceilings, and just as likely to knock a prospective tenant out flat.

  Unfortunately, a hot drink could only buy so much time. Poldo tasted the grit of the tea leaves before he cleared his throat and set the cup in its saucer. “Now, I believe we were going to discuss the outlook for Silver Guard Securities,” he said.

  “Right after you show me that office.” Fitch’s grin was unwavering.

  “Yes, of course,” said Poldo, his spirits sinking. He set a few glittering giltin on the table and stepped down. “Well, then.”

  Fitch gulped down the last of his coffee, then followed Poldo off the terrace and onto a cobblestone walkway. The Halfling stopped with some confusion as Poldo walked away from the Commons’ main house. “Where are—”

  “Right this way,” said Poldo, taking a left into a topiary maze.

  “Oh! Is the office in one of the old guest houses?” Fitch gasped the words as he struggled to keep pace.

  “Something like that.” Poldo briskly wove his way through the green walls of the maze.

  “The carriage house? The falconry? The servant’s quarters?” breathed Fitch.

  “And here we are,” said Poldo.

  Nestled between the back of the maze and the Commons’ brick wall was a small brick gardener’s shed. Poldo stepped up to the doorway, straightened a small sign on the doorpost that read “SILVER GUARD SECURITIES,” and knocked three times on the door as he fished in his pockets for the key.

  “Aw, geez, Poldo. I had no idea,” said Fitch, running a hand through his curls.

  “It’s a Boulderfolk address,” said Poldo as he opened the door. “I can conduct meetings in the Cafe, and I can access all the facilities.” He stepped onto the reed mat inside the door and turned around in place three times.

  Fitch shook his head. “Yeah, but once someone wants a tour or… wait, what are you doing?”

  “Beg pardon?” Poldo found it difficult to look casual caught mid-spin.

  “Are you spinning because of Domovoy?” Fitch’s eyes grew wide as he pointed. “You’ve got Wood Gnomes, don’t you?”

  The Gnomes are the most disparate race of Man. A Scribkin looked as far from a Halfling or a Tinderkin as a Dwarf looked from an Elf. But among all of the Gnomish clans, none was more different or odd than Clan Fengeld, the Wood Gnomes.

  Most legends said the gods cursed Clan Fengeld with tiny stature back in the First Age. Wood Gnome lore held that the gods actually cursed all of the other peoples of the world to be giant monsters, but as they usually spoke in their own bizarre tongue, nobody paid much attention to their perspective. Regardless of their origins, the Wood Gnomes had stood no taller than a Human’s thumb for as long as the Agekeepers had records. They were widely known for a tenacious work ethic and supernatural efficiency. Unfortunately, they were also well-known for moving into offices and living spaces uninvited, where they set about modifying the premises to their own liking.

  Worse, Wood Gnomes insisted that their co-inhabitants adhere to strange customs. Any neighbor of Clan Fengeld was expected to knock three times at the door, turn around in three full circles upon entering a room, and leave a bowl of milk at night, among other rituals. Those that failed to observe the rituals quickly discovered that Wood Gnomes have an outsized capacity for property damage.

  Wood Gnomes’ habit of showing up unannounced, the wanton vandalism they committed whenever anyone violated their social mores, and the tenacity with which they remained entrenched on a property earned them the pejorative name “Domovoy,” which was Ruskan for “rat men.” Most people considered them to be a horrible nuisance, and it wasn’t until almost halfway through the Seventh Age that the Wood Gnome Defense League successfully petitioned to have them removed from the Heroes’ Guild’s official list of designated Forces of Evil, or F.O.E.s.

  “It’s just a small tribe of them,” said Poldo, trying to hide his embarrassment. “But I keep up with the customs well enough, so they shouldn’t—”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure, I’m sure it’s fine,” said Fitch. “Listen, I’ve seen enough, Poldo.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Fitch,” said Poldo, rising panic sweeping away his shame. “You haven’t looked at the numbers.” He held up his briefcase as an acolyte presents a supplication to an angry idol.

  “You don’t want me to look at the numbers. And you don’t want me to write a report on y
ou,” said Fitch, nodding for Poldo to follow. “Come on.”

  Poldo hurried after the Halfling, his hands shaking as he locked the door behind him. “Oh, but I do, Mr. Fitch. Without your endorsement, I’m going to have a hard time finding buyers for my funds. I was hoping you could do me a favor…”

  “Yeah, exactly,” said Fitch, stepping back into the topiary maze. “Anybody else, I’d be going home and writing a review that says their hedge fund is literally in a hedge, and their office is actually a Domovoy-riddled garden shack!” He stopped and looked between two paths, confused.

  Poldo guided him to the left. “But if you’d just look at the numbers—”

  Fitch cut him off with a firm grip on his shoulder. “Look, I’m sure the numbers are fine. Good even. The asset blend is probably solid. And you’ve got a degree from Hardvaark and a Goldson Baggs pedigree, which is going to look great for any fund you manage. Even with a Domovoy-infested dump for an office, I could probably give you a good review,” said Fitch. “But listen, Poldo, with the market rolling hot, good isn’t good enough, all right? Good is the new awful. A good report is going to get Silver Guard Securities bought out, chopped up, and sold off.”

  “Ah.” Poldo’s shoulders sagged. “Nice and neat.”

  “Right,” said Fitch. “Which is why, as a friend, I’m going to give you some friendly advice and say you don’t want a report from me unless it’s amazing. And if you can’t afford an office that isn’t used to store garden equipment, it’s not going to be amazing. Trust me.”

  Poldo sighed. Halflings and Scribkin seldom worked together, mostly because Halflings seldom worked at all by Scribkin standards, but over his career Poldo had found a friend and confidant in Fitch. Besides, he knew his old associate was right.

  “Look.” Fitch glanced around. “I’ll tell my friends that the sandwich from the cafe didn’t agree with my stomach. It’s not that much of a stretch—those Imperial flame olives are murder. I shouldn’t order them, but they’re never in season anymore. Anyway, that’s why we canceled today’s evaluation, right?”